‘Do. I’d love to meet her. Seriously …’ She gives my hand a little squeeze. ‘Can you fix that?’

‘Of course. My pleasure.’

The other stranger in front of the fire gets up to introduce himself.

‘Nathan Kline.’ He looks me up and down.

‘Golfer extraordinaire.’ Bill is circulating with a bottle of Château d’Auzanet, as solicitous as ever. ‘We’d be lost without him. A treasure beyond compare.’

I think I sense irony in this comment but, if I’m right, it’s lost on Nathan. He’s taken his seat again. He wants to know whether I play at all.

‘You mean golf?’

‘Of course. Is there any other game? Any mention of bloody croquet, and I’ll have Sir William throw you out.’

I tell him I’ve never played golf in my life, and probably never will. Beth and Presley nod in agreement and exchange glances. At first sight, this tiny gathering seems a strange assortment of people – different generations, different dress codes, different tribal markings – and as we get deeper into the evening, I start to wonder what on earth possessed our host to bring us all together.

Around Bill’s magnificent antique dining table, which looks to me like rosewood, Nathan holds forth about the current state of the legal system. He spent most of his working life in and out of court, mainly in London, and as an ex-QC he considers himself more than qualified to pass judgement on a succession of recent justice ministers. These people, he tells us, are dwarfs compared to previous holders of the office, and he’s shocked at the way a Tory government has allowed the system to fall apart. These days, he says gravely, you can get away with murder. The police, both of them, are otherwise engaged. The law courts are overwhelmed. The prisons are run by the inmates. And the probation service has been sold off to some bloody corporation. The result? Anarchy.

Beth mimes applause. She quite likes the idea of anarchy, though she’s not entirely sure it’ll catch on. Too foreign-sounding, she murmurs, too hard to spell. Beth’s wit comes as a relief after Nathan’s bombast, and I get up to help Bill clear the table for the cheese course. Our host has readied an impressive selection in the big kitchen and tells me where to find the bottle of port he’s been saving.

‘For what? Am I allowed to ask?’

‘For tonight, my dear. I knew it had to happen. I just didn’t expect it so soon.’

So soon? I follow Bill back to the dining room. The port is a Quinta do Noval vintage, and wins qualified approval from Nathan. He studies the label, sniffs the cork, then looks up at Bill.

‘I had some of this last year in LA. Picked up a bottle at the airport on the way home. North of a hundred dollars? Am I getting warm?’