I begin to get my National Theatre feeling again, that something bad is going to happen and carry on happening, because one thing I know from my limited experience of being a journalist is that one thing City people hate, and will not tolerate from anyone, least of all a member of the loathed, financially illiterate press, is comment or criticism.

‘Andrew, as you are a former editor of a national newspaper, I respect your views on many things,’ Max says tautly, ‘but business is not one of them.’

Andrew tries to goad him further, describing how people laughed and chortled at the newspaper deal Max had just done, and then says something like ‘Never has such a small fish been caught with such a big hook,’ which is clearly an insult. I think for a second that Max is going to ask Andrew to step outside, but then he laughs, and I’m finally able to get a word in.

‘I can’t think why on earth Granville asked you two,’ I say, batting my eyelids at Andrew, who was very powerful in his day, not to mention a soldier, and still carried that martial bearing about him. ‘All you do is talk about money, all the time. You’re just lucky I’m not a business reporter from the Sunday Times and I can’t understand a word you’re saying.’ The two men start eating very quickly, taking advantage of the fact that I am talking to shovel food into their mouths. ‘But that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re both horrible. I can’t understand why hunting wild animals is banned by law but factory farming and breeding birds to shoot them is positively encouraged. Just as I can’t understand why the government allows cruelty to animals on an industrial scale and predatory pricing between producers and suppliers but simultaneously introduced an Act of Parliament to protect the fox.’

‘My darling girl,’ Andrew purrs, to my delight, as I love it when men, especially masterly ones like Andrew, call me girl, or darling, ‘shooting’s a Klondike economy, it’s the new Gold Rush. Tell me how many shoots opened around here last year.’

‘Four?’ I say.

‘Seventy!’ corrects Andrew.

‘Nooooo!’ I breathe.

‘Now tell me how Davey Wood in Godminster has managed to buy himself a new Jag and a villa on the Costa Brava.’

‘I can’t,’ I whimper.

‘Because he buys all the game from the shoots on the cheap, processes it and sells it to France and Belgium to be made into terrine for the baron and Jacqueline over there. So many pheasants are being shot, the keepers can’t bury ’em fast enough.’