Tommy's eyes were serious now. "If he was my son, and I knew he pretty much had the world at his feet anyway, I'd be advocating this. What did Hugo say?"

"Hugo would let him do whatever he liked."

We loyally tried not to exchange a look, but we did, nonetheless. Tommy shrugged.

"Well, that's Hugo. And I'm not saying he's right, because personally I think a degree of direction helps at this age, and I'm not saying you're totally wrong, Flora. I do know not many kids would, or should, turn a place like this down. But in Peter's case, it might be right."

I took a very deep breath. Let it out shakily. Knew I was scared. "It's such a lottery. Places there . . .” I said in a small voice.

"Life is a lottery. And life isn't fair, either."

I blinked at him. “My dad used to say that."

“So did mine." We paused. He took a minute. “So, what would your dad say if he was here now?"

I opened my mouth to state categorically that Dad would tell him not to be a fool. To take his place, and go to Oxford in October, but suddenly . . . I couldn't. Because it struck me that he might not. He might say quite a lot of what Tommy had just said. Tommy's eyes were blue and intense as he looked at me. He'd set his cap on his head at a jaunty angle. ‘The Hamptons Country Club’, it read. His arms were linked around his knees which flopped loosely to either side in front of him. I held his gaze for a bit then looked away. Out at sea. Tried to breathe. Tried to think. A small white boat was zipping across the horizon, against the blue sky and the turquoise sea. A speedboat. Behind it, a girl, with flowing blonde hair was waterskiing. A girl in a yellow bikini. Tommy saw it, too, I guess, because I heard him give a low chuckle.

“That's my girl."

I wondered if he wished she was his girl. I mean, she had been once, but I found myself wondering if he wished this funny, headstrong, likeable girl, who clearly picked up captains of strange speedboats on the beach and cajoled them into letting her have a ski — except I don't imagine there was much cajoling — was still his.

"We fought like cat and dog," he told me, as if reading my thoughts. His eyes were still on the boat. “She's too tricky for me. Got a bit of baggage."

"Who hasn't," I said softly. We watched the boat slow down, the engine cut, and saw her sink gracefully down into the water. The boat circled to pick her up.

"Oh sure. But some people make an effort to unpack it and put it tidily away in the closet. At least, that's what I was taught. And some people don't."