Wilkes had chosen to devote himself to social media in the hope that someone, somewhere, would listen to him. He’d always longed to have a voice in the world, to feel special, but his previous attempts at creating a public persona had ended in abject failure. He’d tried being a singer/songwriter, hoping this would give him the attention he craved, but it turned out he hadn’t a note in his head, so he had a go at stand-up comedy instead, to the eternal embarrassment of his friends, who knew that his sense of humour was on a par with Hitler’s. Having been laughed off a stage at an open-mic night, and not for the right reasons, he accepted that he simply wasn’t funny and spent four days writing a novel in his local library. The book remained on his hard drive, a testament to his genius, but publishing houses across London, Europe, America and the Far East had all declined the opportunity to add his name to their list. Finally, feeling depressed and misunderstood, he set up a Twitter account, and the rest, for him, was history. At last, he had discovered a place where people would listen to the magical thoughts that ran through his mind. Almost 1,800 people, in fact. Two or three of whom occasionally liked something he posted.

Despite her general indifference to a life of philanthropy, Elizabeth had spent a lot of time doing Good Works recently, and at least it filled her days, stopping her parents from asking when she would get a real job, for since graduating with what she called ‘a strong third’ in sociology, she’d been living under George and Beverley’s roof and was showing no interest whatsoever in pursuing a career of her own.

‘When I was your age,’ Beverley pointed out later that evening as they sat around the kitchen island eating dinner, ‘I was working for the Department of Education.’

‘And I was a rookie journalist,’ added George.

‘Yes, we know the story of your terrible, early struggles,’ said Elizabeth, pushing her bouillabaisse around her bowl with a spoon. ‘You don’t have to repeat it for the zillionth time.’ Wilkes had recently been discussing the idea of both of them going vegan, and she wondered whether she should stockpile meat in the freezer in case that day ever arrived. Although there was a McDonald’s near by that she could always slip out to in case of emergencies.

‘I’m just saying that we were both gainfully employed,’ said Beverley. ‘No one handed us anything on a platter.’

‘Your father left you an inheritance of about five million pounds,’ said Elizabeth, looking at her mother. ‘And you, Dad, went to Eton and Oxford and immediately got a job at the BBC. So let’s not pretend that you’re a couple of working-class kids made good.’