"You did like him."
"I did not like him," I said indignantly.
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Mum turned to me with raised eyebrows and a knowing look.
"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed. "He was gorgeous! I liked him myself. If I was twenty years younger I'd give him a run for his money."
I said nothing. I was feeling a bit upset.
"And what's more," Mum continued, "he liked you. No wonder Helen's nose is out of joint."
"That's crap!" I protested loudly.
"It's not," said Mum calmly. "It was obvious that he liked you. Although, then again," she continued doubtfully, "I thought he liked me too. Maybe he's just one of those men who make every women feel beautiful."
Now I was feeling very confused indeed.
"But Mum," I tried to explain, "I'm married to James and I love him and I want to fix my marriage."
"I know that," she said. "But maybe a little fling is exactly what you need. To get your self-confidence back. And to get your feelings for James in perspective."
I stared at Mum in horror. What was she talking about? This was my mother, for God's sake. What on earth was she doing encouraging me to have a fling, and me a married woman? And with my younger sister's boyfriend, of all people.
"Mum!" I said. "Get a grip. You're scaring me. I mean, I'm not eighteen anymore. I no longer think that the best way to get over one man is to get under another!"
Too late, I realized what I had said. I could have bitten my tongue off.
Mum looked at me with narrowed eyes.
"I don't know where you heard a vulgar expression like that," she hissed. "But it certainly wasn't in this house. Is that the way they talk in London?"
"Sorry, Mum," I mumbled, feeling mortified and ashamed but at least back on familiar territory.
I sat on the couch beside her feeling awful.
"Well," she said after a while in a more conciliatory tone, "we'll say no more about what you just said."
"Okay," I said, feeling relieved.
Thank God! I was just about to start packing my bags for my move back to London.
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"Anyway," she said, "he's twenty-four."
"How do you know?" I asked her, amazed.
"Aha." She winked at me, touching her nose. "I have my sources."
"You mean you asked him," I said. I knew my mother of old.
"I might have," she said coyly, giving nothing away.
"So you see," she continued, "he's not too young for you at all."
"Mum," I wailed in anguish. "What's this all about? Anyway, I'm nearly thirty and he's only twenty-four. So he's still far too young for me."
"Nonsense," said Mum briskly. "Look at Britt Ekland, always being photographed with that fellow who's young enough to be her grandson. Although maybe he is her grandson. And that other floozy, the one who goes around with no clothes on, what's her name?"
"Madonna?" I ventured cautiously.
"No, no, not her. You know the one. She has a tattoo on her backside."
"Oh, you mean Cher," I told her.
"Yes, that's the one," said Mum. "I mean, she must be my age if she's a day and look at the way she carries on. None of them a day over sixteen. I suppose Ike must have been the last man she was with who was older than her."
"Ike?" I asked her, my head swimming slightly.
"Yes, Ike. Her husband," said Mum impatiently.
"No Mum, I don't think Cher was married to Ike. Cher was married to Sonny. Ike was married to Tina," I told her.
"Who's Tina?" she asked me, sounding baffled.
"Tina Turner," I gently explained.
"What's she got to do with anything?" said Mum, sounding outraged, looking at me as if I'd gone completely crazy.
"Nothing at all," I tried to explain, feeling that I was fast losing any grip on this conversation. "It's just that you said that Cher and Ike...Oh, never mind, never mind. Just forget it."
Mum sulkily muttered to herself that she didn't have to forget anything. That I was the one who had brought Tina Turner into the conversation.
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"Stop being angry, Mum," I told her in a placatory fashion. "I get your point. I see what you're saying. Adam isn't too young for me."
I glanced nervously at the door as soon as I had said this. I half expected Helen to come bursting through and shout, "I knew you fancied him, you horrible old lady." And then attempt to strangle me.
She didn't. But the fear still lingered.
"But anyway, Mum," I continued, "the age question aside, aren't you forgetting a couple of other vital points? Like the small fact that Adam is Helen's boyfriend."
"Aha!" she said, holding up her index finger and going all sagelike and wise-old-womanly on me. She practically put on a black headscarf and developed a squint, "but is he?"
"Well, why else was he here?" I asked, reasonably, I thought.
"To help her to write her essay," said Mum.
"And why would he do that if he's not her boyfriend? Or at least if he's not making a damn good attempt to be," I asked again, reasonably, I thought.
"Because he's a nice person?" said Mum. But she sounded a bit doubtful.
"Anyway," I said, "it was obvious that he really liked her."
"Was it?" she said, sounding genuinely surprised.
"Yes," I said, quite emphatically.
"But even if he is her boyfriend, he won't be for long," predicted Mum.
"Why do you say that?" I asked, wondering what other information she had gleaned from the beautiful Adam.
"Because of the way Helen is," said Mum. "Helen just wants to make him fall for her. Then she'll torment him for a while. And then she'll discard him," said Mum. "She was always like that. Even as a child. For months before Christmas she'd be pestering us for this doll and that bike. And the turkey wouldn't be even eaten before she had broken every single thing that Santa brought her. She wasn't happy until she had destroyed everything. Dolls' heads and legs and bicycle chains and saddles all over the place. You'd break your neck on them."