But doesn’t she realize that Mikeis interested in me? That things have changed? I’m going to have to leave the subject, but I wish she’d been there. You know, to see that he was all over me.

That I wasn’t just imagining it.

“I’m sorry, Candy, I didn’t mean it, really. Of course I’m going out with David, and I’m completely over Mike—you know that. It’s not my fault if he calls, though, is it?”

I give her a smile, but am disconcerted to see that there are tears in her eyes. God, what have I done?

“Candy, honestly, forget it, it’s nothing,” I say hurriedly. “Look, I’m sorry I even brought it up.

You haven’t even told me when the baby’s due or about names or anything! We could go to Mothercare or something!”

But it’s too late. Candy is gathering up her things. “Candy?” I look at her in alarm. Is she really that upset? Can pregnancy hormones make you that temperamental?

“Look, I’m really sorry, George, I’ve got to go now,” says Candy, sniffing. “I . . . I’m just a bit emotional, you know. It was nice seeing you, and I’ll give you a call. Okay?” She gets up and starts walking out of the coffee shop very quickly.

“Look after yourself!” I manage to yell after her.

I look around the shop convinced that people are staring at me. This is awful. I haven’t seen Candy for about two years, and within an hour or so I’ve managed to upset her so much that she’s actually walked out on me.

Of course, if I’d really thought about it I’d have seen this coming. Candy always thought Mike was bad news where I was concerned. I mean, the two of them do get on very well—they’ve known each other for years—but she warned me from the start not to take things seriously with him, told me that I shouldn’t get too involved because he was a heartbreaker. Not that I had listened to her then, or later, when she told me again and again to leave him while I still had my dignity intact. She probably thought that now, finally, I’d have stopped going on and on about what a shithead he was, only to find that the first thing I talk about is Mike again. I suppose she has a point. To be honest, I’m not exactly proud of myself for thinking about Mike still. But the important point that she has completely missed is that it ishim chasingme . I am the one in control here, and I don’t even like him anymore. Well, not as much as I did.

I take a final gulp of coffee, but it’s gone cold. I can’t decide what to do. Now that I’ve come all the way into Oxford Street I don’t want to go back home, but I’m not really in the mood to go shopping either. I could try calling Candy, attempt to persuade her that I can talk about the weather or anything else she wants to discuss, but I’m not sure it would work. And anyway, the only reason I really wanted to see Candy was so I could brag about Mike. If I can’t do that, then what’s the point?

I consider buying a chocolate brownie and another latte, but my stomach is full of butterflies.

The sad truth is that I need to talk to someone properly about Mike. I need someone who will delve into every bit of conversation with me, say that based on the evidence it is highly likely that Mike does indeed fancy me like mad, and congratulate me on finally getting my own back. I know it’s wrong, and I know it’s probably very boring to anyone other than me, but surely that’s what friends are for? The whole time I was going out with Mike everyone kept giving me little looks and having “chats” with me that basically consisted of them saying “It’s never going to last, why don’t you cut your losses and go.” And then when he dumped me I got sympathetic looks and lots of “I told you so” little chats. Now, Mike is chasing after me. Now, girls in bars are talking about us getting married. I can’t contain this for another minute.

There’s only one thing for it: I’m going to have to see my mother.

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James is reading theFT ’s “How to Spend It” supplement and is staring at an advert for a large four-by-four car.

“This is what you should be driving,” he says to my mother, who is making tea in the kitchen.

“Not that ridiculous little thing that could break down at any minute.”

“We are not spending thousands of pounds on a new car,” my mother says firmly, bringing a tray into the dining room. On it are two cups of normal tea and one cup of green . . . well, I’m assuming it’s some sort of tea, though it looks utterly vile. She has poured the milk into the real cups of tea already, but has brought a separate bowl for the sugar. She always does this so that she can look at James and me reproachfully when we heap our teaspoonfuls and stir it into our tea. Sugar is enemy number one, according to my mother, worse than cocaine, even. Not that she knows the slightest thing about cocaine.

“Lovely.” James takes a big gulp of tea and puts the car advert in front of my mother.

“Look how much more comfortable you’d be. And it can give you directions, too. It’s got a TV

screen in the front that has maps and information, and it’s all voice-activated. Camilla, why don’t we get you one?”

My mother looks at James sternly.

“We have discussed this a thousand times already, James. I do not need a new car, and that’s that.”

James is in property. At least he used to be. I’m not sure what, if anything, he does now apart from playing golf. I approve of James’s outlook thoroughly. His philosophy on life is to lie back and enjoy it. He never lets the little things worry him, which is why, I suppose, he manages to live with my mother so contentedly.

“Okay, what if I buy another car for myself and I just let you drive it all the time?”

“I knew it!”

“What?”

“I knew you didn’t want a new car because of the Mini being unsafe. It’s because you just want the excitement of buying a new car!”

“I give up,” says James and mooches off into the sitting room with his newspaper and cup of tea.

My mother sits down at the table.

“So, what happened to your exciting afternoon out with Candy? I thought you were too busy to see your boring mother?”

“Mum, don’t be silly. I met Candy, we just didn’t spend as long shopping as I thought we would.”

“Darling, you look drained.”

“Drained? No, I’m fine, really. Maybe a bit tired, but nothing serious.”

My mother is peering at me for clues.

“Are you suffering from executive stress?”

“What?”

“Well, I was reading an article the other day on young women like you with stressful jobs, who can’t keep their friendships going because they don’t have anything of themselves to give. It all gets zapped at work. I think it might have something to do with sick building syndrome.”

“Mum, what are you talking about?” My mother, when faced with a new syndrome or complaint that she cannot possibly say she has, will generally try and convince me or James that we have it.

That way, next time she’s discussing it with her friends at the Club, she has a real life example to bring up.

“I do not have executive stress. And I can keep my friendships going. I just . . .”

“Yes?”

Having waited so long to tell someone about Mike, I now can’t quite find the words. Somehow telling Mum that my ex-boyfriend fancies me doesn’t sound like a particularly compelling story.

“Do you remember Mike?” I ask tentatively. You never know, she might say something like

“Oh, the one who left you so foolishly?” and I can tell her triumphantly that he’s seen the error of his ways now.

“Of course I remember Mike. Very cheeky, I always thought. Perfect charmer. Why?”

Why? Good question.

“He’s just been in touch, that’s all.”

“I see. And does David know?”

“Not really. I mean, you know, it’s not really important.”

“If this is the level of your conversational skill, darling, I’m not surprised you don’t have any friends. Really, you are barely stringing sentences together.”

Don’t have any friends? I come and see my mother, taking time out of my busy day to spend time with her, and she starts jumping to conclusions about the number of friends I have. No wonder I don’t come here more often.

“I do have a wide social circle, actually,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as anything. I can’t help wondering why I have resorted to spending Saturday afternoon with my mother.

“It’s just that Candy’s pregnant and she’s all emotional so she went home early,” I continue.

“Anyway, the point is I bumped into him. Mike, I mean. And he’s finally got himself together, you know, he’s actually successful and running a proper business and stuff. And he’s been emailing me, we had lunch, we . . .”

“Yes . . . ?” My mother is doing a crossword. Will no one listen to me?

“Mum, do you think David was a rebound? Do you think that I could still be in love with Mike?

I never thought we could really be serious before, but he’s really changed and I think he wants me back. Mum, I don’t know what to do.”

As I listen to myself I am surprised by my words. Am I really saying that I’m still in love with Mike after all this time? And that lovely, sweet David was just a rebound? Do I seriously think Mike is trying to get me back rather than just indulging in some innocent flirting? And more to the point, am I actually considering it as an option? These thoughts may have been vaguely circling around my mind for the past week, but I certainly haven’t admitted as much even to myself. I thought I just wanted to brag a bit about having a gorgeous man chasing me around.

But I now realize that the situation is far more serious. And I have no idea what to do.

I fold my arms on the table and rest my head on them.