'Baklava,' said Israel.

'Ba-whatter?' said Ted.

'Baklava,' repeated Israel.

'Aye. Right. What is it?'

'It's pastry, with pistachios,' said Israel.

'No,' said Ari. 'It's not pistachios. It's almonds.'

'I always thought it was pistachios,' said Israel.

'You can have either almond or pistachio,' said Deborah.

'I've had walnut, actually,' said Ari.

'Sounds lovely,' said Israel's mother.

'Walnut?' said Israel.

'Uh-huh.'

'I've never had walnut,' said Israel. 'And I've had a lot of baklava.'

'It's filo pastry,' said Deborah, explaining to Ted.

'Aye. Nice.'

'It was on a business trip to New York I had the walnut baklava,' said Ari.

'And the sticky stuff is-what's the sticky stuff, Mother?' said Deborah.

'Orange-blossom water.'

'Ah, that's right.'

'Are you sure it was walnut?' said Israel.

'Of course I'm sure.'

'What?' said Ted.

'It's lovely baklava, Mum,' said Israel. 'Did you make it?'

'Israel!' said Deborah.

'What?'

'You never ask a lady if she's made a dish.'

'Do you not?'

'No.'

'Do I look like I have time to make baklava?' said Israel's mother.

'Erm.' Israel looked at his mother's French-polished nails. 'So where's it from?'

'Israel!' said Deborah.

'It's from Israel?' said Ted.

'It's from Jacob's, on the High Street, where we've been buying our baklava for thirty years,' said Israel's mother.

'Oh,' said Israel. 'Of course. I was only asking.'

Soon after the baklava Ari and Deborah had to go: Ari had a big presentation the next day.

'Big presentation,' he said, slipping into his suit jacket, Israel's mother holding it out for him, like a personal valet. 'You know what it's like, Eva.'

'Hardly!' said Israel's mother, twittering.

'Ted, it's been a pleasure,' said Ari.

'Aye,' said Ted.

Ted and Israel and his mother cleared the remaining dishes and then sat around drinking coffee. There was still no sign of Gloria. Israel texted her again.

'Still no sign of Gloria then?' said Israel's mother.

'No,' said Israel.

'Surprise, surprise.'

'It's fine. She's probably…'

'You can always stay here tonight.'

'Well, I'll…'

'Your room's all made up.'

'Well…'

'Good. That's settled then,' said Israel's mother, opening another bottle of wine.

'Now,' she said, turning her attention to Ted. 'Did you say you were from Dublin?'

'Mother!' said Israel. 'I told you. He's from Northern Ireland.'

'I'm from Antrim,' said Ted.

'My late husband was from Dublin,' said Israel's mother dreamily.

'In Ireland doth fair Dublin stand,' said Ted. 'The city chief therein; and it is said by many more, the city chief of sin.'

'Oh!' said Israel's mother. 'That's very good. Did you make that up?'

'Ach, no,' said Ted.

'I have a couple of Van Morrison albums somewhere,' said Israel's mother, getting up.

'Aye, he's a Belfast lad,' said Ted.

'It's like name the famous Belgian, isn't it?' said Israel's mother, who'd gone over to the cupboard where Israel's dad had kept his records. 'Van Morrison. George Best. He's from your neck of the woods, isn't he?'

'Aye,' said Ted.

'Terrible waste,' said Israel's mother.

'D'ye know the joke?' said Ted.

'Which joke?' said Israel's mother.

'So,' said Ted. 'George Best is in the Ritz Hotel in bed with Miss World.'

'Right,' said Israel's mother, facing Ted, hand on hip, wineglass in the other.

'And the bed is covered with money-fifty pound notes. The waiter comes in with room service-another bottle of champagne.'

'Uh-huh,' said Israel's mother.

'And the waiter takes in the scene and shakes his head and he says, "Where did it all go wrong, George?"'

'Oh, that's very funny!' said Israel's mother, her face creasing up with laughter. 'That's very funny! Isn't it, Israel?'

Israel frowned. Ted had told him the joke several dozen times before.

'Yes,' said Israel.

'I don't think I know any other famous Northern Irishmen,' said Israel's mother.

'Wayne McCullough?' said Ted.

'Is he a singer?'

'He's a boxer,' said Ted.

'The Corrs?' said Israel's mother.

'They're from down south,' said Ted.

'Oh.'

'Liam Neeson,' said Ted.

'Really?' said Israel's mother. 'Oh, I like him. Did you ever see him in Schindler's List?'

'I don't think so,' said Ted.

'No? We've probably got it on video somewhere if you'd like to see it. Although you'd be better seeing it in a cinema really. We have wonderful cinemas here. I prefer the theatre myself.'

'Mother! You never go the theatre!'

'I went to see Les Misérables with my book group. And Mary Poppins-that wasn't awfully good actually; not nearly as good as the film. Do you remember the film, Israel? We used to watch it when you were children. We had that on video too. I don't know where all the videos are now. Anyway, how many have we got then, Ted, Northern Irishmen. Five?'

'Not far off,' said Ted.

'Israel?' said his mother.

'What?' said Israel, who was staring at his mobile phone, willing Gloria to ring.

'Famous Northern Irishmen?'

'Or women,' said Ted.

'Yes, of course,' said Israel's mother, who'd returned to rifling through the old LPs. 'We don't want to forget the women.'

'Certainly not,' said Ted. 'Mary Peters,' he added.

'Ah!' said Israel's mother, standing up triumphantly with a copy of Moondance. 'Who did you say, Ted?'

'Mary Peters.'

'Ah, yes. That dates us a little bit, though, doesn't it?'

'Who's Mary Peters?' said Israel.

'She was in the Olympics, wasn't she?' said Israel's mother.

'She was,' said Ted.

Israel's mother was fiddling around with the turntable.

'I can never get this right. Ted, would you mind?' she said.

Ted went over and stood beside her, taking the record from her hands.

'You just need to bring this over here, and put this here,' said Ted.

'Ah!' said Israel's mother. 'Yes, of course, I'd forgotten. My husband used to do all the…'

Israel's mother allowed Ted to reach right round her and lift the stylus.

Israel coughed loudly, but no one seemed to hear him.

'Do you like folk music, Ted?' he heard his mother saying, rather breathily, he thought.

'No. I can't say I do, to be frank with ye, Mrs Armstrong.'

'Do call me Eva,' said Israel's mother.

'Sorry, Eva,' said Ted.

'Good,' said Israel's mother. 'My late husband liked folk music. But I feel there's enough misery in the world already.'

'Aye. I'm more of a Frankie Laine and Nat King Cole kind of a man meself.'

'Oh, how lovely. I went to see the Drifters a while back, with some friends; they were fantastic.'

'The original Drifters?'

'I'm not sure,' said Israel's mother. 'It was in Croydon.'

'Were they good?'

'Oh, they were fabulous! They did-oooh, what did they do?-"Under the Boardwalk" and "Saturday Night at the Movies". And "You're More Than a Number in My Little Red Book".'

At which point-to Israel's utter horror-his mother started actually singing, and-worse!-Ted joined in, and suddenly they were duetting: 'You're more than a number in my little red book, you're more than a one night stand.'

'Anyway,' said Israel, coughing much louder. 'Anyway!'

'Sorry?' said Israel's mother, turning away from Ted and towards him.

'Hello?' said Israel, as the opening bars of 'And It Stoned Me' came from the speakers. 'I could sit here all night listening to you talk about music and discussing famous Northern Irishmen-'

'And women,' said his mother, who'd sat back down at the table.

'And women,' said Israel, 'all night long. But-'