‘There’s not one of them would even fit inside the Tardis. I don’t care how big it is. But look, how am I supposed to get inside the building with all those fools screaming for my blood? I have a meeting with the top brass, and I don’t want to get murdered before I get fired. I’d lose out on my pay-off.’

Samir sucked in his breath and shook his head. ‘There’s not much for it, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘You’ll just have to make a run for it, that’s all. I’ll come with you, to keep you safe. And maybe the driver …?’

‘You can leave me out of it,’ came the reply from the front seat. ‘I drive. I don’t walk.’

‘Then just the two of us,’ said Samir. ‘Come on, Mr Cleverley. We’ll go quickly so you won’t get hurt.’

‘All right,’ said George with a sigh, paying the cab driver his fare and adding a five-pound tip. ‘Let’s do it.’

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—’