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the weekend about your Tom. Did you see it?’
    I sighed. ‘No.’
    If ever a reference to my ex-husband should appear in the national press, my father can be guaranteed to spot it and to comment. And although eight years have passed since we were man and wife, he always speaks of him as ‘your Tom’.
    ‘It said how he was political editor of his paper right now, but top favourite for the overall editor’s job when the present man retires in twelve months. Your Tom’s done so well. Extremely well.’
    ‘He has,’ I agreed.
    At the time of our separation, my mother’s criticism of Tom was vitriolic and she had continued to badmouth him – out of her granddaughter’s hearing – until she died. Although he had once basked in her favour, he had never been forgiven for ‘running off with that floozie.’ ‘I think she ran off with him,’ I had said, but my mother would make no concession. ‘Then he should have resisted.’
    My father, however, was not so hostile. He had enjoyed having a son-in-law whom he described as ‘a top-notch journalist with his finger on the political pulse’. He had loved it when Tom had told him about conversations he’d had with various Prime Ministers and given him the low-down on M.P.s. Even now, it wouldn’t surprise me if he still boasts about Tom.
    And Tom was not all bad. Maybe it was to assuage his guilt, but when we divorced he’d been generous; splitting the proceeds from the sale of our Kensington apartment straight down the middle and then contributing extra cash to enable me to buy a house outright, furnish it and equip it with microwave, television, tumble-dryer – the essentials. He also keeps in regular touch with Lynn, our daughter, and, still, gives her sizeable cheques.
    My dad boasts about me, too. I’ve squirmed with embarrassment when he’s described me to other Bridgemont residents, in my presence, as ‘an outstanding writer and a caring and loving girl’. But then, when we’re alone, he spoils it by talking about other people’s daughters who, according to him, are constantly arriving with home-made cakes and casseroles, who take their parents on expensive foreign holidays, whose Father’s Day gifts stretch to Rolex watches – which beats a bottle of cheap gin from Sainsbury’s hollow.
    The clock was inspected again. ‘Don’t want to rush you, pet, but –’
    ‘I’ll go.’ I took a last drink of tea. ‘Dad, don’t you think you should be careful about your friendships with these women?’ I suggested.
    He may not be able to get them pregnant, but I could foresee other kinds of trouble; catfights on the stairs, laxative in his morning coffee, accusations of sexual harassment.
    ‘Why? I’m enjoying playing the field. And that’s what you should do.’
    I groaned. My father has spent the last eight years hoping that I would either marry again – to someone of status and thus provide him with a second son-in-law he could boast about – or produce a string of classy boyfriends. I had failed miserably on both counts. He’s even daydreamed about Tom and me getting together again, regardless of the doting slick chick and their two sons. Mind you, I have to confess there was a time when I harboured idiotic yearnings in that direction myself, too.
    ‘Or you should find yourself a special fellow,’ he went on, as we walked to the door. ‘Time’s passing and you’re not getting any younger. What do they call it – drinking at the Last Chance Saloon?’
    ‘Thanks! And what about you?’
    ‘It’s different for men,’ he said smugly. ‘But you need to get a move on.’
    Should I invent a boyfriend? I wondered. Should I claim to be seeing someone? But while it would get him off my back, it would also have him asking a thousand probing questions. About the boyfriend’s job and salary, value of his house, if he owns any ISA’s and how much he’s paying into his pension fund. My father would’ve adored Russell. If he had known I’d met him