‘Okay, I get it,’ said Ben. ‘You’re having intimations of mortality brought on by reaching a landmark birthday. It’s something we could do a show on, I suppose. We don’t do enough themed shows. Let’s see who else is turning sixty this year.’ He picked up his iPad and returned to his digital symphony. ‘George Clooney,’ he said, brightening up. ‘Boy George. Oh, both Georges like you! Maybe we could do something on that? Barack Obama. He’d be good. Ghislaine Maxwell. Well, perhaps not her.’

George stared gloomily up at the balloon, which continued to press its case against the ceiling.

‘How many children do you have?’ he asked after a moment.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Children,’ he repeated. ‘You’re a father, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Ben.

‘How many do you have?’

‘Two,’ he replied, pushing his spectacles along his nose. ‘Harry and Bess.’

‘Houdini or Truman?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Did you name them for Houdini or Truman? I assume you know that both Harry Houdini and Harry Truman were married to women named Bess and that your choice of names is not a mere coincidence. Oh wait, let me guess. You don’t know who they are either.’

‘Sorry,’ said Ben with a shrug.

‘Cambridge, wasn’t it?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘Where you took your degree.’

‘My undergraduate degree, yes. But I went to Harvard for my masters.’

George felt like laughing hysterically.

‘How old are you?’ he asked.

‘Twenty-six.’

‘And Mark? How old is he?’

‘Who’s Mark?’

‘Your husband.’

‘My husband’s name is Matthew.’

‘Well, how old is Matthew, then?’

‘Thirty-one.’

‘When you get home tonight, ask him whether or not he’s ever heard of Harry Houdini or Harry Truman. If the answer is no, then I congratulate you. You’re in for a long and happy life together.’

He stood up and made his way to the window, looking down over Portland Place, an uninspiring view that somehow continued to entrance him, despite the decades he’d spent there. Following widespread public outrage over the culling of a popular voice actress from The Archers – her character had been kicked to death by a concupiscent bull – a security cordon had been erected that morning, requiring everyone who approached the building to display their staff badges to one of the guards on duty, and it was causing delays. He made a point of never wearing his own lanyard, assuming that everyone would or should recognize him. A black limousine pulled up now and he watched as a liveried chauffeur jumped out to open the back door. A Russian oligarch who had recently been cleared of murdering his fiancée stepped out and looked up towards the heavens with an expression on his face that suggested he was considering getting one of his henchmen to do something about the weather.

‘How did you do it, if it’s not too personal a question?’ he asked, turning around again and looking at Ben.

‘How did I do what?’

‘You and Mark. How did you get your children? Did you adopt them or employ a surrogate?’