‘You can come up here,’ Camilla said, against her better judgment.

She gave him the address and poured herself a vodka over ice, gulping it down in one swallow. When the bell rang she opened the door and motioned him inside, and then she sat down on the sofa and indicated an armchair. He chose to remain standing, his back to the window, hands thrust into his pockets.

‘George is very depressed,’ he said without preamble. ‘You must have noticed the change in him. He doesn’t eat, drinks a little too much. He’s spending all his time brooding, grieving in advance, blaming himself for your mother’s illness. He’s convinced it was partly brought on by the unhappiness he caused her. He’s almost dying with her. He won’t go anywhere, see anyone.’

‘I suppose you mean that he won’t see you,’ Camilla said coldly.

‘I mean exactly what I say,’ Giles said with impatience. ‘Your father is in a bad way. He has spent most of his life trying to be what everyone else wanted him to be. Laws and rules and hypocrisy forced him into that, made him ashamed of what he is. And now he’s decided to leave London and go to Africa, because he’s afraid of what you might think if he stays here. With me. But the truth is that you don’t think about him at all.’

‘Don’t you dare talk to me about my feelings for my father, or about what I think,’ she said, anger burning in her throat.

‘Oh for God’s sake, listen to me. You have a life. Everyone wants to know you, be seen with you. You don’t have enough hours in the day for your admirers and sycophants, and you certainly don’t put any of them aside for him. He needs someone to help him through this. Someone who genuinely cares about him. He deserves to be loved and accepted for who he is.’

‘And who is he, in your expert opinion?’

‘He’s an outstanding human being. Full of integrity and dignity. He’s the finest person I will ever meet. But he’s cooped up, constrained by your prejudices. You’re angry because he’s queer. But I’ve seen you in clubs, eating and drinking and dancing with men who have their boyfriends in tow. You’re not so picky then, it seems, but you have another set of rules for your father. He’s devastated by your disdain. So I’m asking you to give him a chance, give him a hand, some encouragement to get on with his life.’

‘We’re talking about his life with you, I suppose?’ she said. ‘Is that what you want? That I should tell my father that it’s OK by me if he’s shacked up with some pretty boy who fancies him of a Thursday afternoon?’