I made to go, wondering where on earth a girl in a yellow bikini and absolutely nothing else could have disappeared to, when he flicked out a hand and grabbed my ankle.

“Sit down. At the risk of getting sand in my eyes, sit down. I'll be serious with you just as soon as I've recovered my breath. It's just . . . boy, you English girls. You crack me up."

“And I'm sure you know many, Tommy. And no doubt we have different standards and it takes some getting used to. But it's not all Sex and the City over here, you know.”

He looked about to dissolve again, but contained himself, with difficulty. His mouth twitched. “Sit."

I hesitated. Then obeyed. I swallowed hard as I waited for him to speak.

"OK. First off, the sex isn't a problem and you know it. And I know he says he's in love with her, but you and I know he's not really. Agreed? And Janey's a nice girl, and she won't have encouraged that. Agreed?"

My pulse came down a bit. "I would have thought so, but it helps to have you say it."

"OK, well take it from me, she wouldn't. So relax on that front. And now I'll help some more. You say Peter originally wanted a year out, but they said no, right?"

"Right, but—"

“So perhaps he still wants one?"

"Yes, but you don't understand—"

"I do understand. I went there, hon. But Harvard or Yale would have been just as hot."

Harvard or Yale. In America.

He shrugged. "I don't know. I'm just thinking outside the box. Or Edinburgh or Bristol or wherever. I'm just saying, even if he doesn't get in, he's clearly a super bright boy so it's not the end of the world. And frankly, Flora, he's a lovely boy, but he is quite young. I think he needs a year."

"What d'you mean?" I bristled as I always did when anyone even vaguely criticized my perfect child.

"He's a delight, don't get me wrong, but as far as I recall he's a summer birthday?"

"August," I admitted.

“So he's not even eighteen. And not just that, he's polite and a bit shy. And so like Hugo at that age, and not a bit like me.”

“No.” I remembered Tommy. Swearing at his friends out hunting, his face red and heated. A very angry young man. “What's wrong with him being like Hugo?”

“Well, he was kind of wet behind the ears. A bit mothered.” He caught my eye. “Peter is a bit, too.”

“No. I won't have that. I've tried so hard not to–”

“And you've done a remarkable job,” he interrupted. “But take it from me, he could do with a year in New York. It'll make a man of him.”

I wanted to say I didn't want a man. I wanted a boy. My Peter.