Freed at last from his obligations, Tristan Dudley slipped out of the bedroom and padded along the dark landing to his study. He closed himself in, went over to his vintage globe drinks cabinet and with great anticipation lifted out a crystal brandy glass and his very best Darroze Grand Assemblage Armagnac. Sixty years old and seven hundred quid a bottle, and worth every drop on an occasion like this. Oh, yes. We are most definitely celebrating tonight.

Now that he no longer had to hide the smile that kept wanting to spread all over his face, he settled happily in a leather armchair to savour the splendid aroma of the Darroze. He raised his glass in a toast to dear, sweet Annie, who had on so many occasions threatened to become his downfall, and had now generously provided him with one of the best turns of events of his entire career. His Pandemonium Club friends were pleased with him. The Grand Master himself had praised him for his loyalty to the Order. He would be seeing his brothers again very soon, and he was looking forward to it. Good things were set to happen in the near future, his prospects had never looked so rosy and poor old Annie, may God take her rotten soul and do whatever He desired with it, was now fast becoming just a bad memory. Good riddance! Dudley had not the slightest glimmer of a regret, even though he could turn on the crocodile tears all day long for the media if that’s what was expected of him. Which it would be, over the next few weeks, but he’d breeze through it. His refusal to take time off would only make him appear all the more heroic.

Clarissa was the only real blot on Tristan’s landscape at this moment. The stupid bitch was taking it even worse than he’d expected. Trust her to dote on a worthless slut like Annie. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, on reflection. Wasn’t as though he’d married her for her brains. But she’d get over it soon enough. Especially once he was made Prime Minister.

After a few glasses of Armagnac, Dudley decided he was in the mood for a little something extra. He got up and went over to the cigar humidor that sat on his desk, opened its heavy lid and selected one of his longest, fattest and most indulgent Havanas, as befitted this happy moment. He clipped the end with his cigar cutter and was about to light it when it occurred to him that he mustn’t let Clarissa smell the smoke. Even though she’d be zonked out on drugs for hours, she’d be bound to detect the lingering aroma when she woke up. She knew he only smoked a cigar when he was celebrating some political victory or other. Who celebrates the loss of a child?