‘He is blackmailing the government, and the country, by threatening to abdicate if he cannot marry Mrs Simpson.’

‘I concur, sir.’

‘Can he not do what his forbears have done for generations and set her up in a country house where they could get up to whatever they liked, in private? He cannot give up the throne.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Can you talk to him?’

‘He is expecting me now, sir.’

‘Good. Let me know if he is sober.’

Seventeen minutes later, Tommy was ushered into the King’s presence. The King was relaxing in an armchair, smoking. Mrs Simpson was pacing by the window with a cocktail in hand.

‘Ah, Tommy.’ The King waved at the paper on the table by his side. ‘Have you read that?’

‘Yes, sir. I have.’

‘What are we going to do about it?’

‘What do you want to do about it?’

Mrs Simpson snapped, ‘Oh, for Christ’s sakes. Stop them writing about me!’

Tommy inclined his head. ‘Unfortunately, that is rather, as we Brits say, shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted.’

She fixed her flinty eyes on Tommy. ‘Listen to me. When I fell in love with David, I had no idea that it would be anything like this. It is not just that they are attacking me, or their King. They are attacking their own monarchy.’

‘Yes indeed.’ Tommy couldn’t bear this sort of woolly patriotism, especially when it came from an American. ‘But, you see, Mrs Simpson, we do have rules and protocol to follow. Blame Henry VIII. He broke with Rome, created the Church of England and called himself Defender of the Faith who had the divine right of Kings. In effect, the church would tolerate divorce but frown on remarriage, and—’

‘I don’t need a damn lesson in British history. I need you to stop them attacking me.’ Mrs Simpson threw the newspaper at him. He stood respectfully as the pages showered down around him like very large snowflakes.

‘Oh, darling!’ cried the King. ‘Poor Tommy.’

She ran from the room.

The King looked sorrowfully after her, then rang the bell, presumably for another cocktail. ‘So, Tommy, the thing is,’ he said, ‘we have a problem. Wallis and I love each other and wish to be married. If the archaic rules of old Henry remain, I shall abdicate.’

‘Ah, sir,’ Tommy replied. ‘I think that is rather what the PM is worried about.’

The King set his jaw. ‘Bloody Baldwin can go and boil his bloody head. You can tell him that. You may go.’

Tommy did go. Straight back to his office to do what he always did in crisis: write to his wife.

Dear Joan,

God, how I long to be home with you. How is the garden looking? Have you lifted the dahlias yet?

Rather larger problems here. The King is insistent that he wishes to plant Mrs Simpson at the centre of the monarchy by marrying her. He’s mad with love, apparently. Why does he have to marry her? Why not keep her as a mistress? He’s had enough practice. I suppose she wants to be Queen, but I cannot see the country swallowing that.