‘I haven’t waited thirty-seven years to meet the woman of my dreams so that I can sit at home by myself while you’re on location in Huddersfield or somewhere, miles away,’ he told her. To prove it, he gave her things: a topaz ring the size of a throat lozenge, an open-topped car.

‘But I can’t drive!’ she laughed, when he took her outside and showed her.

‘You can take lessons, now that you’re going to be living with me.’

This was his way of inducing her to move in with him. It was irresistible, the force of his personality. Or the force of his will, which only later did Georgie come to understand was essentially the same thing. She’d moved into his Kensington mews house within weeks of meeting him. She became pregnant before they’d been together for six months and they were married three weeks before Jake was born. Georgie had looked incredible at the registry office, where a jumble of hair-pieces and a heavy hand with the mascara wand had lent her a close resemblance to the singer Bobbie Gentry. And had the desired effect of taking people’s eyes off her tummy. Celia had got drunk and insulted the other guests.

‘Who are all these ghastly people?’ she’d demanded, before Nick took her back to the hotel room their new son-in-law had paid for.

Celia did not approve. Advertising wasn’t art, it was commerce; and coercive commerce at that. It was no accident that people like Duncan were doing well under the frightful Mrs Thatcher. The fact that it called upon the techniques of real art – photography, film – made it all the more shoddy. Celia had been brought up to believe that to call someone ‘ambitious’ was scathing, but Georgie only laughed when her mother applied it to her husband. Yes, Duncan was ambitious and she celebrated this in him.