I barely recognized her when I first saw her; she had on a sheath dress of blue silk, and she wore her hair down, with all the grease washed out of it. Jessica had branded her for the evening with her own advice and direction. It softened her pretty face, and neat lipstick and eye shadow changed her completely. It was not that make-up made her seem more feminine, though this was certainly true; it was the idea that she wanted people to think her pretty. Only her quick brown eyes told tales on her, and because I knew where to look I saw the tactician watching through them, camouflaged in that innocent beauty like a big cat watching from the cover of the sun-dappled jungle. When the wine waiter came around I put my hand lightly over Francis’s glass. No one noticed but Jessica, and she laughed at me. I understood the joke. She had clocked Francis’s state as soon as he came through the door. Putting my hand over the glass was like raising an umbrella over the sea.

Right the way through the starter and the main course, Francis was mercifully silent. This suited Lord Soulford, who wished to be seen in his company but not necessarily to share in it. Silver service was in force, so he did not even have to pass food to the other guests. From the shaking hands that held his knife and fork I doubted whether he could have managed it. I could barely eat, as diplomatic pressure bore down on me. I had to maintain not only the relationship, but also the appearance of the relationship between father and son. The photographers had mercifully left after the embrace, but several other people around the table appeared to be conducting impromptu interviews. Lisa and Jessica valiantly distracted their neighbours, mobilizing their most charming selves, protecting Francis from anything like an attempt at conversation, but no one could reach the woman on his father’s left. As the disembodied arms of the staff deftly lifted away the chicken in a mushroom sauce, she leant over her host to ask Francis what he had thought of the debate.

‘It was unmissable,’ he replied earnestly.

Lord Soulford toyed uncomfortably with his napkin.

‘Unmissable?’ she asked.

‘I mean it was excellent.’

When she went to the toilet, Lord Soulford turned to his son and hissed, ‘Why the hell weren’t you at the debate?’

‘I’m sorry, Papa,’ Francis said with great dignity. ‘I was sick.’

‘You look it. Pull yourself together.’

When the lady returned from the toilet she picked up where she had left off. ‘Do you think the subject of immigration has any relevance to your son or his friends? Don’t you worry that ideas of national identity are the sole preserve of the old?’

‘I think the younger generation are even more willing to address this issue than we are,’ Lord Soulford said, turning to face the three of us, ‘as they’re not bound by the fetters of prejudice. This terrible paranoia that grips the government when discussing these issues, the fear that they will be labelled racist or xenophobic, these boys and girls don’t feel it, and it leaves them free to address the real issues behind the rhetoric, the pressure on our health-care system, on education, on the police—’