I’m back in Holland Park by late afternoon, fully expecting to find Malo still in bed. Fumbling for my key, I think I can hear voices inside the apartment. I’m right. Malo, fully dressed, is pouring a cup of tea for a suited figure sitting at the kitchen table. This stranger has his back to the door but there’s something familiar about the almost seigneurial way he’s pushed the chair back and crossed one leg over the other, and the moment he turns to look at me, I know I’m not wrong. Sir William’s wayward son.

‘Sylvester.’ I dump my bag. ‘What on earth brings you here?’

‘Pa had a book he meant to give you.’ He gestures at a Waitrose bag on the table. ‘I got your address from Evelyn and volunteered to drop by and let you have it. Your son’s been the soul of hospitality. Not just tea but biscuits, too.’

I sense at once that this story of his is wildly improbable, and a glance at the book confirms it. Why on earth would I want to read a novel by Nevil Shute?

Malo has found another cup. He even remembers that I prefer lemon to milk.

‘Sylvester’s come up for a meeting, Mum,’ he says. ‘The Twilight Fund? Why on earth didn’t you tell me? It’s a brilliant idea. Genius.’

Twilight Fund? I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about.

Sylvester is on his feet now, offering me his chair. Half an hour ago, I was braced for another round of post-adolescent angst. Now this.

‘It’s Pa’s fault.’ Sylvester nods at the book. ‘He got me reading it a while ago, said it was one of his all-time favourites. I took it to New York, finished it on the flight over. He was right. Shute wrote it yonks ago but it’s un-put-down-able, especially now.’

‘And this is your father’s copy?’

‘No, it’s mine. But he wants you to read it.’

I’m looking at the cover, then at the synopsis on the back. A nuclear war has ravaged the northern hemisphere and a giant cloud of radioactivity is making its way towards Australia. A US Navy submarine captain is among many of the refugees seeking shelter and awaiting the inevitable, while he falls in love with a local woman. Then comes a faint radio transmission from the US. After all the carnage, there may be survivors. The captain’s wife and family are on the eastern seaboard. And so, he must go back.

‘They turned it into a movie, of course. 1959. Gregory Peck and Ava Gardner. Pa thinks you could act her off the screen.’

‘In a remake, you mean?’

‘Of course.’

I nod. This man is a born salesman, I think, a judgement obviously shared by my son.