He was faintly scary. Very serious. Withdrawn. Preoccupied. Similar, perhaps, to how I was when I painted. Certainly it was a side to Tommy I'd never seen. All at once, I caught a glimpse of him at work in Manhattan. In a high-rise office overlooking the city, on the phone, making powerful executive decisions: chairing meetings, giving instructions involving probably millions of dollars. Suddenly a seventeen-year-old boy's love life and university choices seemed rather irrelevant. A bit ridiculous.

“Of course,” I said humbly. But he'd already swung round in his chair and gone back to the screen.

I shut the door softly. Walked quietly back down the corridor, problems somewhat in perspective. And anyway, I couldn't complain, could I? I'd gleaned a tiny morsel. Peter had apparently said he was thinking about it. Not as good as I was sure Ted could do, but better than nothing. Should I leave Ted in place? In the Mariners? Or would Peter feel besieged? Regard it as a pincer movement and smell a rat? Yes. Definitely. I sent a text to Ted to stand him down and he replied immediately: no problem, he wouldn't mention it. I thanked him and walked on back to the cottage, wondering, as I went, why on earth more mothers didn't go into politics, when lobbying for support, doing secret deals, and watching carefully for that special moment when they can negotiate from a position of strength, was all part of the remit.

As I neared home I realized I was dog tired, but then I hadn't had the best of nights. Tossing aside the local guide book Celia had thrust at me and which I could have written myself, I'd stretched out on the swing seat in the garden. Eventually, covered in cushions of the slippery, solid, uncongenial outdoor variety, I must have nodded off. I'd awoken, cold and uncomfortable, and looked at my watch. One in the morning. Since all was quiet upstairs, I'd decided it really was fine for me to go to bed, in my own room, in my own cottage. In fact, I'd jolly nearly banged my bedroom door shut in irritation, but had just managed to catch it.

When I'd come down this morning, Celia and Edward had been having breakfast on the terrace, bathed in a rosy glow. They were holding hands over a pile of pancakes Celia had made and gazing radiantly into each other's eyes, mission clearly accomplished. They'd barely seen me approach, but then Celia was all unctuous accommodation. She'd leaped up and pulled out a chair. Then she'd insisted on getting me a plate from inside.

“We didn't hear you come in last night,” she'd trilled, avoiding my eye as she came back out with the plate. “Were you late?”

“About two o’clock,” I told her, adding an hour for good measure.

“Wow, you must have been having a good time.” She flashed me a guilty look.