“That's what women do, hon. They see me, they take their clothes off, they throw them all over me. Happens all the time." He shook the T-shirt and shorts off his arms. "Often I get panties, too, but I guess—"

“Tommy, please. Don't joke about this. I must find Janey."

He yawned widely and implacably in my face. Smacked his lips languidly. Then he frowned. "Why so?"

I told him: being as considered and reasonable as I could. Not just detailing the affair, but Oxford as well. The whole story. And using words like ‘inappropriate’ a lot – albeit putting ‘bloody’ in front of it. I also used words like 'tragedy’ and 'scheming witch’, and unfortunately, I did not have complete control of my voice, or as much as I would have liked, at all times.

He regarded me in wonder as I ranted on. He waited until I'd finished and then stared some more, in disbelief. Suddenly he started to laugh. It started as a chuckle at the back of his throat, but then it got louder. His mirth became more and more riotous, until he was howling. He was roaring, now, in my face, mouth wide. Finally, he flopped theatrically over on to his side in the sand, gasping for air. At length he sat up. Wiped his eyes, which were streaming.

I watched in horror. "What is so funny?"

"You are. Oh you are, lady."

I gaped at him. He shrugged despairingly. Spread the palms of his hands wide. “Where's the harm?" he yelped. "A boy of seventeen gets his rocks off with a fit, savvy, beautiful woman of thirty-six – who's a real piece of work in the sack, incidentally – and who's gonna show him all the moves and more, and you call it a tragedy? The real tragedy is it never happened to me. Geez, I could have done with a girl like Janey before I went to college. Reckon my daddy might even have paid some broad to do it."

"Your daddy would have done nothing of the kind and you know it. He was a decent, respectable man and this is a seedy, tacky, indecent act of impropriety, that's what it is."

“Act of improp— Oh!” He was off again, flopping sideways into the sand, holding himself, convulsed with mirth. I fumed silently beside him.

Finally he sat up. Composed himself. "Flora, honey, this is no big story. This is no breaking news. And frankly, if it was good enough for the President of the Republic of—"

"If you mention Emmanuel Macron I will slap you."

He gave a rather Gallic shrug. "I'm just illustrating that as career moves go, it's not the worst."

“Well, a fat lot of help you've been,” I stormed. “As usual. Thank you for that, Tommy. Thank you very much for your help.” I got to my feet, fuming. “I’ll go and find her myself.”