I sat, dumbfounded and dazed. Stared blankly down the garden to the dunes beyond. A seagull, taking advantage of my inertia, hopped on to the other side of the table. He put his head on one side and looked speculatively at the crab sandwiches, then at me. At length, he waddled across and pecked at one. I didn't stir. Didn't shoo him away, this rodent of the skies; just watched as another joined him, then another. Snatching, flying away, coming back for more, bringing their friends with them. Not even bothering to fly away now, just eating at the table. One was on my plate. Beady black eyes still darted my way, but they clearly thought I was dead. I felt dead.

My darling boy. My easy, only child. Who was destined to sail off to Oxford in two months’ time, then on to a brilliant career, hopefully with a lovely, clever, beautiful girl who he'd met at university — not too blue stocking, of course, I'd always hoped: not too terrifying. Not one who used words like ‘empirically’, like Peter, but could talk handbags and shoes and who maybe read, um, History of Art, or something accessible, not Chinese or Greats. Whatever they were. But instead — instead, Janey. What did she think she was doing, taking advantage of a young boy like this, and I'd liked her so, but then . . . I didn't really know her, did I? And she was from New York. Sex and the City. Cougar Woman territory. They were probably all at it. This was nothing to her. Small beer. A roll in the hay with a lithe young lad, the only high point in an otherwise stiflingly dull, middle-aged house party. And she was unattached, so why not?

I tried to make myself breathe from my diaphragm as Celia had taught me, but it was all up in my chest, making me feel a bit light-headed. Why not? Why not? Oh, she'd soon see why not. I'd tell her. Anger — fury, actually replaced the numbness and rushed into my heart. I was so enraged I could hardly see straight. I flew back into the house, swapped my espadrilles for some trainers; tied the laces with trembling fingers. Then I ran out of the back and down the garden without bothering to close the French windows. On I raced, not towards the dunes and the beach, but to the cliff path beyond.