The truth was, and Camille knew it, that since being promoted as minister in a surprise reshuffle, Seb was overworked and under-supported; he didn’t have a mentor in Parliament; he didn’t have a friend outside the House from whom to seek guidance; his wife hated his work; his children missed him. He missed them. But because he was a man, he couldn’t admit this to anyone. Ministerial life was itself an assault on all the things he liked best about being an adult, all the simple bon vivant pleasures of dining, partying, boozing – cooking bouillabaisse for Camille, choosing the perfect dance tracks for parties, inventing new entertainments for his noisy group of friends from school and college. Nowadays he socialised non-stop – but in a debased, corrupted way. He had long ago perfected the art of small talk, and at first it had been exhilarating to exercise the skill in office. This was how the wheels of state were oiled: by parties such as those which Sebastian attended every night, instead of getting home to Highgate. He learnt to talk on the rosy side of the party line. To listen; look fascinated-sceptical about what he was being told, depending on who was doing the telling – and never to speak the truth unless truth was medically certified in advance as a pure undefiled country virgin. In which case you spoke about her all the time. You quoted her every word, you dragged her with you on constituency visits, during statements to the House, on to television for routine scraps and policy scuffles. You tried not to notice how weary Truth became after some weeks on the job; you squinted and ignored the bruises which appeared on her arms, the dark shadows which had begun to line her eyes, the less-than-respectful looks she gave you when she heard you speaking about her with a passion only just this side of decent. You tried not to envisage too closely the ramifications of the legislation you were drafting, which was surely going to de-virginate any Truth remaining. You tried to remember how Truth had appeared once, before you inveigled her; and not to see her as she was now, smoking on the pavement, her cheeks made pink with rouge; and once her dirty work was done, not to notice how peremptorily she was dispatched by your minion back to where she came from, with a pat on the bottom and some money for the fare.

JUDGE: Is it your opinion that Eva had a strong aversion to British political life?

CAMILLE: Absolutely. We both did.

Of course it was easier for Seb, entering politics in the wake of his father. Even though they belonged to different parties – and these days the parties weren’t that far apart – Sebastian was familiar with the etiquette, which in Camille’s opinion was largely what it came down to; and the expectations people had. People felt they knew him; he had a history there; he fitted in. She thought of the Machiavelli she had read at school: for it is sufficient only not to transgress the customs of his ancestors, and to deal prudently with the circumstances as they arise, for a prince of average powers to maintain himself in his state.