I’m just summoning up my name on Google for the billionth time, when the door opens and in walk Dad and Tarkie. No, in lurch Dad and Tarkie. They’re arm in arm, and Dad bumps into the table and Tarkie bursts out laughing, and then he trips up on a chair.

I goggle at them in astonishment. They’re drunk? My father and Tarquin have gone out and got drunk? Why didn’t Suze stop them?

‘Where’s Suze?’ I demand. ‘Dad, what happened today? Did you meet Brent?’

‘I have no idea where my wife is,’ says Tarkie, talking with elaborate carefulness. ‘I have my friends and that is all I need.’ He claps Dad on the back. ‘Your father is a very, very, very …’ He seems to run out of steam for a moment. ‘Very interesting man,’ he resumes. ‘Wise. He understands. Nobody else understands.’

Dad lifts a finger as though he’s about to make a speech. ‘“The time has come,” the walrus said, “to talk of many things.”’

‘But Dad, where did you go? Is everything OK?’

‘“Of shoes – and ships – and sealing wax” …’ continues Dad, totally ignoring me.

Oh God, surely he’s not going to recite the whole of Alice in Wonderland, or whatever it is.

‘Fab!’ I say brightly. ‘Good idea. Would you like some coffee, Dad?’

‘“Of cabbages – and kings”.’ Tarkie nods gravely.

‘We know where the secrets are buried.’ Dad abandons Lewis Carroll and suddenly looks serious.

‘We know where the bodies are buried,’ chimes in Tarkie.

‘And the secrets.’ Dad turns to face Tarkie and taps his nose with his finger.

‘And the bodies.’ Tarkie is nodding earnestly.

Honestly, I can’t follow a word they’re saying. Dad gives a sudden gurgle of laughter, and Tarkie joins in. They look like two small boys playing truant from school.

‘Coffee,’ I say briskly. ‘Sit down.’ I head over to the kettle, and reach for our strongest espresso blend. I can’t believe I’m trying to sober up my dad. What is going on? Mum would be livid.

As I’m pouring hot water into the French press, I can hear Dad and Tarkie murmuring to each other behind me. I turn sharply, but they don’t even notice me. I hear Tarkie saying, ‘Bryce,’ and Dad saying, ‘Yes, yes. Yes. He’s the man. Bryce’s the man.’

‘Here you are!’ I put the cups down sharply, trying to shock them into sense.

‘Oh, Becky.’ As Dad looks up, his face is wreathed in fondness. ‘My little girl, a star in Hollywood. I’m so proud of you, Becky, my love.’

‘You’re famous,’ chimes in Tarkie. ‘Famous! We were in a bar and you came on the TV. We said, “We know her!” Your father said, “That’s my daughter!”’

‘I did.’ Dad nods drunkenly.

‘He did.’ Tarkie regards me solemnly. ‘What does it feel like, being famous, Becky? Fame!’ he suddenly sings loudly. For a dreadful moment I think he’s going to start singing the Fame song and dancing on the table, but he clearly doesn’t know the rest, so he just sings ‘Fame!’ again.