With a great sense of dread I walked back towards the college up Bene’t Street. I fixed my bowtie in a dark shop window, and put in my cufflinks. I was shown by the porters through into Old Court, and directed up the staircase to the Senior Common Room. I was standing outside the door, deliberating over a wide range of possible excuses, when Francis appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He was sweating despite the cold. His bowtie dangled around his neck.

‘Francis, where the fuck have you been?’

‘I’ve . . . I went out, out to see some friends,’ he slurred.

‘Jesus . . . are you drunk?’

He came up the stairs leaning heavily against the wall. All the lightness was gone from his step. He dragged his feet as if through water. ‘You see . . . you see, I’m such a coward. So I made certain to fuck it up. I made it certain this time, you see, there’s no going back, I couldn’t behave tonight in a million years, not in all the millions of years.’

‘Francis, what have you taken?’

He reached the landing at the top and stood in front of me. I held his face in my hands and looked into his eyes. His skin was soft and warm. I tried to remember what chemicals he currently had stashed in his bedside cabinet. I guessed maybe ecstasy and ketamine, or lithium. His pupils were wide, the brilliant whites cloudy and opaque. Deep in the chestnut shade, his sober self was standing, afraid of what he was about to do, afraid to come out of the shadows and take responsibility, or lazy maybe, like a worker lounging in siesta, dodging the midday moment. Inside, his father was waiting with the members of the press, and the men and women in evening wear, and the cameras. I tied his bowtie for him the way he had taught me. I knew that this was the time, the time that would seal me forever in the golden light of his affections like an insect trapped in amber, if only I could think of some way of averting disaster. But I could not. With an inexorable logic, Francis moved towards the door. He stumbled a little, and had to catch on to the handle to steady himself. I moved with despair into the candlelit interior. Lord Soulford saw us and stood up, roaring with hearty delight (and considerable relief), ‘My son! Come and sit beside me!’ Francis wandered into the barrage of greetings like a shell-shocked soldier. Several camera bulbs flashed as he hugged his father, and he screwed up his eyes to blink them away. On Lord Soulford’s part it was a perfect display of masculine affection. When he clapped his son’s back I was afraid Francis was going to vomit like a baby over the shoulder of his dinner jacket, so I broke in to say my own hellos.

Francis and I were seated on Lord Soulford’s right. On his left was an attractive female journalist from The Times. Jeremy, Francis’s half-brother, was sitting near the head of the table. At eighteen he looked like a child who had been invited to dine with the grown-ups, and he kept fiddling with his collar, which was too tight and made a little ring of flesh well up around his neck, sealing his torso inside his dress shirt. Jessica was opposite, across the broad mahogany leaves and an intimidating array of gleaming cutlery, and Lisa was sat one down from her.