We spend the journey discussing the apartment Malo and his girlfriend want to buy. His girlfriend’s name is Clemenza, Clem for short, and they’ve been together now for a couple of years. She’s the daughter of a wealthy Colombian businessman, beautiful, gifted, funny and unswervingly loyal. She drives a big Harley Davidson, currently works for a TV production company, and fronts a band in pubs in west London. For a small girl she has a big voice, husky, dark, occasionally wistful, and her weekend gigs attract a substantial following. There’s no way that my wayward son deserves a partner like this, and on good days he knows it. See them together, as I often do, and they could be the perfect couple. This, as I’ve often told Malo, is a tribute to his luck and her patience. Beware, I warn him. Things only last if you take very great care of them.

On the motorway, heading south, Malo wants to know what I’ve told H about the apartment. This is important because Malo’s natural father will be putting up half the money, and Malo knows already that everything will depend on me. H and I go back two decades now. We’ve only slept together once, and the result was Malo, but recently we’ve built a friendship that has proved commendably resilient. H owes his wealth to the drugs biz. He was a gifted cocaine dealer back in the day, but his feel for the property market is less certain. Hence his reliance on my verdict.

‘So, what do you think, Mum?’

‘It’s wildly over-priced.’

‘A mil? You really think so?’

I do. It’s a seventh-floor apartment off Ranelagh Gardens. It has two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and views of the Thames. It’s a nice enough perch, especially if someone else is footing the bill, but thanks to the wonders of the internet, I know that the current owner bought it for £395,000 just eighteen years ago. Now, he’s after a million pounds. Even these days, a profit of £33,000 a year for doing nothing is near obscene.

‘It’s the market, Mum. You can’t argue with it. No one can. It’s what people will pay. Plus, it’s got really fast broadband.’

‘What about Mateo? What does he think?’ Mateo, Clem’s father, is evidently putting in the rest of the money.

‘He hasn’t seen it yet. Clem’s taking him and her mum round tomorrow morning.’

‘And the neighbours?’

‘Old. They need new blood. We met the bloke next door a couple of days ago. He was ancient enough to be Clem’s grandad, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. It’s perfect, Mum. You know it is. That’s all you have to say. That’s all Dad needs to know.’ He shoots me a look. ‘Yeah?’