‘It’s complicated, as you know. We need to settle my father’s estate. Amanda’s across that, but probate is going to take a few months, maybe as many as eight. In theory, Simon’s probably got as much right as anyone. And we need to know what Fleur wants. You have use of your cottage, as you know.’

‘A friend rang to say she had seen some reports in the Standard about us.’

‘Yes. There has been something pretty silly. But it’s under control. The less said the better at the moment. Thanks, Estelle.’

Estelle stands up. She knows when she is being dismissed. His father was a master of the art of cutting a conversation he didn’t want to pursue. He had even been known to stand up and shake someone’s hand while propelling him towards the door and, at the same time, showering him with farewells. She leaves, trailing that distinctive scent. It’s Yardley English Lavender. His mother wore it.

‘Estelle,’ he calls after her. She pauses, turns expectantly and dramatically like an actress in an old film.

‘It’s wonderful to have you here in Bread Street again. I feel strangely reassured.’

‘Oh, thank you.’

He thinks that under stress he’s instinctively taking on his father’s habits. His secretary gives him the name of the group that owns the Cornish newspaper and the name of the CEO in London and some briefing notes. Like most newspaper groups, the note reports, it is making substantial losses. He phones Cy and gives him the information. He’s using an encrypted phone. He can’t email Cy or ask his secretary to send anything to him.

‘Great. I’ll get someone on to them. Keep your nerve, my boy.’

‘I am. Don’t worry. I’m seeing Olly tonight.’

Keep your noive, keep your noive.

Julian thinks he exaggerates his accent. His migraine is beginning to recede. Kim has left him a message about the school play tomorrow. He says to tell her he will go straight to the school. It’s a performance of Thomas the Tank Engine with Sam in a big role. As what, a train?

Melissa and the editor meet in the early evening in the car park behind the jobcentre. The car is becoming increasingly cluttered with the evidence of the editor’s late-night habits – greasy papers lying on the floor alongside cans of Diet Coke. His cigarette butts fill the ashtrays and overflow.