She was glad of the diversion, the good grace with which he had withdrawn the question he had been about to ask. Was it about her and Mikey? He had retreated from an inevitable interrogation, the aftermath of which could not be foretold. Some day, the subject would have to be broached – but not today, not this perfect, cloudless day, this hour of pleasant promise, of chilled white wine and laughter, of light, inconsequential banter between old friends. The weighty problem of morality, the deviancy of an older woman having fucked the young son of a friend, would have to wait.

When the time came, she would have to convince him that it had been random, that she had not chosen Mikey because he was Silas's son. She had convinced herself, and that had been difficult enough. All her life, she had been taught to face problems, get them behind her and out of the way, never to leave matters unresolved, especially something as personal as a sexual relationship. Now she hoped that dealing with this ‘loose end’ could be postponed for a long time, until today's sensational revelation would have become yesterday's mildly shocking gossip. She hoped she would never have to discuss the issue with Silas, certainly not alone. She had never realized before how difficult it was to tell the truth, to confess, to say, ‘I have…’

But her fate, her reputation, her relationships with her daughter Ferial, with her lover Janine, with Silas and Julian, all these good people, these fucking good people, depended on Mikey. She was his loose end, his discarded little ‘bit on the side’ . What a fall from grace, having to pursue a mere boy, waiting for him at the gates of the university, seeing him stop dead in his tracks, then retreat, disappearing into the crowd with such an obvious, evasive swerve of his body!

There was a time when she had called him on the phone endlessly, knowing that Silas was away on business and Lydia was busy preparing for her new job. The young swine refused to answer the phone. As she sat in her car outside his home, with the cellphone pressed to her ear, he would watch her from a window, and let the phone ring urgently deep inside the house. What were his thoughts as he looked down upon her taut features, the hateful, exasperated look of an older lover spurned? Indifference, scorn, detestation, did he have any feelings at all? He had used her, then dumped her, this young bastard with his beautiful eyes and his deadly body. It was all over and done with.