The receptionist returned now with a cup of coffee, having not offered to bring him one, and took her seat again, and George felt a burst of resentment building inside him. Who the hell did she think she was to condescend to him like this? He was George Cleverley, after all. The fourth-highest-paid presenter on the BBC. One of the few television personalities over the age of fifty without a criminal record.

‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ he said, leaning forward and glaring at her. ‘Nor do I wish to labour the point, but I can categorically tell you that a chap named Aidan had your job before you.’

‘Aidan never existed,’ repeated the receptionist, and this time his irritation blew up into a full-blown rage.

‘No, of course you’re right,’ he said, throwing his hands in the air. ‘I’m making it all up. There never was an Aidan. I’ve completely invented him. And the Berlin Wall is still standing too. As is the USSR. And Al Gore won the presidency.’

The receptionist frowned. ‘What’s the Berlin Wall?’ she asked. ‘And who’s Al Gore?’

He sighed and sat back in his seat. This was ridiculous. He wasn’t going to continue engaging with her if she was going to be so obtuse. It was a waste of everyone’s time. Fortunately, at that same moment, Jeremy appeared from behind a glass door and George rose from his seat with some difficulty and rather a lot of indecorous grunting.

‘Finally,’ said George, feeling petulant now as he shook the solicitor’s hand.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Jeremy. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you look a little peaky.’

‘I’m fine,’ he replied. ‘Let’s go to your office. We’ll talk there. And you,’ he added, turning to the young woman. ‘Well, I don’t know what to say to you. But I assure you that I am right, and you are wrong, and that’s the end of the matter. Also, the water out of that machine is tepid. If it has a blue tap and a red tap, then the blue should be cold. Otherwise, it’s false advertising, and this is a firm of solicitors, after all. You wouldn’t want to get sued.’

ARCHIBALD ORMSBY-GORE