‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘So I have to do favours for you now, do I? I’m your daughter, you know, not your best friend.’

‘Still, it would be much appreciated.’

‘Fine!’ shouted Elizabeth, standing up and marching towards the door. ‘I’ll think about it. And in the meantime, if anyone is looking for me, I’ll be upstairs. Writing poetry.’

RUM AND COKE

At a corner table of the Churchill Arms in Kensington, Jeremy Arlo, six weeks short of his fifty-first birthday, was seated at a table, pretending to read the Evening Standard. He was of average height, with thinning grey hair, and had chosen to wear a pair of chinos that were too tight around the waist. An ill-advised check shirt, also a size too small, made his stomach swell, parting the fabric at his navel to reveal an unappetizing glimpse of furry skin. He glanced at his watch and wondered whether he had time to run down to the high street to buy something more appropriate to his girth, but it was already three minutes past seven, and the shops were probably closed by now.

Before he could decide for sure, however, the door swung open and Achilles Cleverley stepped inside with a bemused expression on his face. Achilles had never seen a bar so bedecked with Union Jacks before. He caught his own reflection in a mirror – jeans, Sex Pistols T-shirt, biceps freshly pumped – and felt out of place, an anachronistic figure brought back from the future to tell the drinkers gathered there that the world they cherished would one day come to an end, their empire would crumble, and this would be its last remaining outpost.

He glanced around and spotted Jeremy instantly. A new victim was always easy to identify. He’d be the one person who looked absolutely terrified to be there.

‘Mr Arlo?’ he asked tentatively, approaching the table and feigning shyness as he brushed his blond hair away from his forehead in imitation of a young Leonardo DiCaprio, an actor that Achilles was frequently compared to in terms of looks and physique. Jeremy stood up immediately, almost upsetting the half-empty glass on his table.

‘Nick,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘It’s good to meet you. You found the place all right?’

‘Yes, no problem.’

‘Oh good.’

They stood there smiling at each other, saying nothing, and when things got awkward, Achilles asked whether they might sit down.

‘Of course, of course,’ said Jeremy, indicating the seat opposite him.

‘To be honest, I wasn’t sure whether you’d show up,’ said Achilles. ‘You probably have a lot better things to do with your evenings than meet random strangers.’

‘Not at all,’ replied Jeremy with an anxious smile. ‘Well, I mean, yes, naturally, I have a busy life. I do have, you know, friends and so on. But I was so looking forward to talking with you in person. There’s only so much that one can say over text messages.’