‘People who don’t bother finding the facts for themselves and rely on a daily fix of news are lazy, Fabian. Give them the faults first, then show them the philanthropy behind it, and forgiveness follows very quickly. Besides, it was your father who might have made a few mistakes. His heir isn’t going to be like him. Give him a chance. Forgive past blunders. That’s what people love to do. Let them lambast the dead, what does it matter? We know who your father was and that’s all that deserves our energy. The shares will be back up by this afternoon, you watch.’

He smiled. ‘I hate them talking about Dad like he was some kind of heartless hustler.’

‘I know. But there is so much worse they could be saying about him. You should feel sorry for the family of Lord Reilly. Now there’s a family who is about to fall spectacularly from grace. He’s being demolished in the press, and he might survive to read it all. He’ll lose his job, his credibility, and possibly his family.’

She took the newspaper and opened it at another page. One that he’d missed in his vision of red mist that had skewed his every thought. He hadn’t seen the article on Lord Reilly. She gave it to him.

‘Hypocrite has to go.’ He scanned the article. It was a damning diatribe on Lord Reilly’s track record of accepting perks from private Tory investors, like his father. When he came across his father’s name, he winced, but he forced himself to finish it. ‘How can he remain the face of tackling climate change when in private, he’s in bed with the biggest producers of fossil fuels?’

‘It’s called survival, darling. Damage limitation is just that: you have to accept a little bit of water in the lifeboat, and it’s worrying and annoying, but what you need is to make sure not too much gets in to sink it. Then you sail off and start again.’

His mother had always spoken in analogies, allegories and stories. It was her style. When he was a kid, he’d thought her poetic and goddess-like. She had a way of making even his shittest days at boarding school seem manageable, and it was as if he grew up in a fantasy world with the friends and legends she’d created in his mind. Now, though, as an adult, he saw her for what she really was: a ruthless fucking bitch who always won. Maybe that was why she stayed in bed all day, like a vampire, preserving her energy for her next kill.

‘And did you have a little chat to Quentin about this article too, Mother?’ he asked.

‘Of course, darling. And there’s plenty more where that came from, should the noise around your father not subside quite as quickly as I’d like.’