Samir opened the door and all heads turned in their direction as they made their way across the concourse, although George kept his bowed, hoping that the protestors might not recognize him. But, within a few seconds, a cry went up and they rushed in his direction, surrounding him with animalistic expressions on their faces. Once they had him trapped within a circle, he stared around anxiously but offered them his most ingratiating smile. They might all be pretending to hate him, he knew, but they’d also love the opportunity to spend a few minutes in the warm glow of celebrity.

‘Please, everyone,’ shouted Samir. ‘You need to step away. If you don’t—’

‘No, it’s all right, honestly,’ said George, touching his arm and turning to the mob. ‘Actually, I think what you’re all doing here is commendable and I’m happy to answer your questions. This whole thing, you see, has been an enormous misunderstanding. Let’s cool the temperature a little, though and, oh, by the way,’ he added, looking at one of placards that a young woman was holding, ‘there’s an e before the last letter of my surname. Your sign says Fuck George Cleverly, but it should say Fuck George Cleverley.’

The woman looked up at the sign that she’d painted earlier.

‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry,’ she said. ‘You don’t have a Sharpie on you, do you?’

‘I don’t, I’m afraid,’ replied George. ‘And it’s perfectly fine. No apology needed. It’s actually quite a common mistake. Joan Plowright gets it wrong on her Christmas-card envelope every year and we’ve known each other for decades. Funny story, as it happens. It was Larry Olivier who—’

‘Do you feel no shame?’ shouted a man who was dressed a bit like Joseph from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat but lacked the athletic body that actors in that role usually displayed.

‘I feel a great deal of shame,’ said George. ‘But perhaps you could narrow down what I’m supposed to feel ashamed about?’

‘Your racism, man!’

‘But I’m not a racist! I’m genuinely not. I have plenty of black friends.’

‘That’s such a racist thing to say!’

‘Well, what would you have me say?’ asked George. ‘That I don’t have any? That I exclude them from my social circle? The fact is, I do. And I see them regularly. If I was a racist, I wouldn’t do that, would I? I’d … I don’t know … I’d poison them when they came for dinner. I’d put arsenic in the bouillabaisse.’

‘Name some!’ asked a woman standing to his left.

‘Well, there’s Trevor McDonald,’ he said, thinking about it. ‘And Moira Stuart. She’s a lovely woman. Lenny Henry. Ian Wright. I’m quite friendly with James Cleverly, the Conservative Party chairman, although he’s no relation. And, interestingly, he doesn’t have a third e in his surname.’

‘They’re all famous black people,’ said Joseph. ‘Don’t you have any not-famous black friends?’

‘Alan Gillingham,’ said George. ‘And his wife, Rose. Deborah Carlyle. Steven MacDaid.’