Peter and I had even argued about it. “Move on, Mum it was fifteen years ago! You might even meet someone there."

"I do meet people. And anyway, there's Tim and Rupert—"

"You hide behind Tim and Rupert. Tim's a friend and he's always been just that, and Rupert is fun but too weird to have a relationship with, you told me that."

Where had I heard all this before? Ah yes, Celia. I'd been tight-lipped. Said nothing.

As we crested the brow of the hill now and swept into the front drive, I stopped the car on the far side of the fountain, away from the front door. I turned and gave him a wide smile.

"I'm going to drop you here, darling. See you later."

"Yeah, yeah, good plan." Excited eyes were on the house now, delighted to be here, on a beautiful day. The sea was glistening enticingly and he was itching to get in it. He leaned across and gave me a fleeting kiss, then got out and went round to the trunk for his bag. As he went to go inside, though, he remembered. Turned.

"Oh – Granny A sends her love."

"Oh Peter!" I chided him.

He grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, sorry, I forgot. I had lunch with her the other day."

"What a time to tell me! Forty minutes in the car!"

The front door had already opened, been flung wide, and Granny B – you can imagine how that went down, hence it staying Peter's and my private joke – was already hastening down the steps in another floaty floral number, arms outstretched. “Darling!"

Peter grinned and slouched towards her, submitting to his grandmother's embrace. But as she hugged him, over his shoulder, she had the grace to lift her hand in greeting. I raised mine back. Then they went inside and I drove away. Strangely, I felt happier than I had done for some considerable time.

Chapter 12

Supper that evening was redolent of an al fresco Mediterranean affair, certainly in respect of the balmy temperature and the setting, if not the detail. Outside on the terrace a long table had been beautifully laid with white linen, crystal and silver. No IKEA cutlery and cork mats for Belinda; everything was always done properly. Too properly, Babs would say.