‘Philip. How the hell are you?’ It was a familiar voice, and one he’d been hoping to hear tonight. Christopher Slater was a rarity: an ex-CEO who people actually liked. Sometimes he was mistaken for a civil servant, something that encouraged his wrath. In his eyes, there was nothing worse. He was a non-executive adviser for DEFRA, he told people, not a civil servant. Philip had learned this early on in their friendship.

‘Christopher, how good to see you. I trust the old girl is in good spirits.’ Philip always referred to the Permanent Under-Secretary for DEFRA in the same way. It was irreverent and rude, and that was the point. Philip went back a long way with Robyn Hastings and disliked her intensely. She was one of the breed of female senior civil servants, like Dame Charlotte Cross from the Department of Health, who strutted about the halls once dominated by men, decrying the sins of their male counterparts while at the same time sticking fingers into as many illicit pies as possible. It was the ultimate ruse: the new wave of female power politicians could be trusted like none other, couldn’t they?

‘Chugging along like a vintage locomotive, all piss and wind.’

Both men chuckled.

‘Drink?’ Christopher asked.

‘Absolutely. I’ll have a pint. I managed to get a room here tonight, so I have a free pass from Lady Tooting.’

Christopher raised his eyebrows in knowing approval. ‘She doesn’t know you’re here.’

Philip only had time for two pints before the bell rang for guests to take their seats for dinner. As always, he was sitting with Christopher, and they made their way to their usual table. The Colonel was already there, sporting a red nose, glass of claret in hand, and telling his neighbour a long but no doubt very entertaining anecdote. Sure enough, the man laughed out loud at the punchline and the Colonel was able to turn to greet his old friends. Journeys, accommodation and the weather were discussed. The latter was an apt talking point because London was heating up to record levels for June, and they were all thankful for the air conditioning.

The clamour of voices from the bar stilled to a steady chatter as men took their seats and shook more hands, recognising faces from adjacent tables. Menus were perused; the Montague Club never let them down. The head chef knew that tonight’s gathering required meat in all its guises, and plenty of it, alongside gutsy sides and artery-clogging desserts. The bar staff were also aware that this was one of the busiest events of the year (excepting the military officers’ reunions), and they stood ready to pour wine and take bar orders.