My mother said: ‘I’ll tell you about the time she won first prize at the swimming gala. A red ribbon for front crawl. She dived in and tore down the pool, light years ahead of the rest. You should have seen her go! Like a jigsaw through a sheet of metal. Dukdukdukdukduk!’

Art smiled.

My mother continued: ‘But the reason she won was because she didn’t breathe! The whole length she just stayed under and held her breath and went like the clappers!’

‘She’s saying I didn’t do it properly,’ I said. ‘That I didn’t deserve it.’

‘No,’ my mother said, ‘that’s not what I’m saying at all.’

Art went to the toilet.

My mother said: ‘I have a very good feeling about him. A very good vibe.’

‘It’s early days.’

‘But you must discuss why, for him, the fear is often greater than the love. You must discuss that, because that might become … problematic for you down the line. He lost someone recently, didn’t he?’

‘Just … please. Stop it.’

‘Do you want my opinion?’

‘Do I want some hackneyed psycho-babble instead of what I know? No thanks.’

‘I thought you wanted my opinion. I thought that’s why you invited me.’

Her question terrorised me then. Why had I invited her? To please Art? Or was there some old lizard part of me still seeking my mother’s approval? Either way, it was primitive.

Art came back. She and I paid the bill. When Art tried to leave a tip, my mother leaned forward, brandy in hand, and said: ‘You’re going to hurt my daughter.’

‘Right-oh,’ I said, ‘we’re off.’

Art stared at her. He didn’t try and move. ‘I love your daughter,’ he said.

‘Who passed recently in your family?’ my mother said.

‘Mother,’ I said.

‘My uncle,’ Art said. ‘Last year, just before I met Jenny. My mother’s brother.’

‘Your mother, Deborah, who Jenny tells me is quite a woman. Quite the cultured Londoner.’

‘She is,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Art. ‘My uncle and I were very close. I’m named after him.’

I looked at him. ‘You never mentioned an uncle.’

‘Love does not advance by weddings; love advances by funerals,’ my mother said, and took a long, satisfied sip of her brandy.

‘What does that mean?’ Art said.

‘She always says that,’ I said. ‘It means precisely nothing.’

‘It means that fear drives love,’ my mother said.

‘Do you believe that?’ Art said, to me.

‘No,’ I said, to my mother, who was looking at Art.

Art smiled. ‘I’m sure you taught Jenny a lot about love.’

‘She did,’ I said. ‘She taught me you should never go to bed on an argument. You should STAY UP ALL NIGHT ARGUING.’

Art laughed.

‘Pisces?’ my mother said.

‘Oh dear sweet Jesus,’ I said.

Art nodded, amazed.

‘Mm,’ said my mother. ‘Indecisive. Slippery. I knew one of those.’

‘Hometime!’ I said.