‘“You don’t have to put on the red light . . .”’ Francis sang quietly.

Lord Soulford looked at him with barely concealed rage.

‘What was that?’ said the journalist quickly.

‘You know,’ Francis said. ‘The Police. “Rooooxanne”.’

Jessica kicked me under the table.

‘I think the real issue for politics and the young,’ I said, ‘is apathy. I think the point Francis is satirically trying to make is that we’d rather listen to pop music than discuss current issues.’

Jessica had to put her hand over her mouth to conceal a spontaneous fit of giggles, and managed to convert the gesture into a smoothing of her long blonde hair. Lisa cast a glance in our direction, though she did not risk turning towards us. Her main aim was to hold the attention of the people further down the table, damming their gaze. Lord Soulford turned in his chair, partially concealing a semi-lucid Francis from the reporter, and resumed the trajectory of his monologue, making minor adjustments for the interruption.

‘Apathy is a real issue. And if we can get just a few more people interested in the debate by offering the public less anodyne opinions and solutions on immigration, rather than the bland lies this government feeds the British people—’

‘Who are these British people?’ Francis demanded loudly.

‘You and me, dear boy.’

‘Not me,’ Francis said, ‘I’m from Zimbabwe. You are only resident, not normally resident, I had a peek at your accounts and saw your tax declaration. Jessica over there is a starchild, and Lisa is Jewish, and James, he’s terribly British but he doesn’t want to be. How about you, miss, are you British?’

It was horribly funny. I could not make the seriousness of what was at stake correspond to the farcical situation. The journalist gazed at him, then dropped her chin and smiled from under her brows. I realized with relief that she thought she was being mocked. She took Francis’s drugs-induced babble as a challenge to her intelligence. She raised her glass to her lips, and took a long draught of white wine to show that she wasn’t fazed. How wonderfully lucky we are, I thought, to have got such an egotist, someone who assumes the joke must be for their benefit.

‘I’m Brixtonian,’ she said with the sarcastic air of someone who gets the gag.

When Lord Soulford spoke, his voice was quiet. ‘Francis, may I speak with you in private?’

‘No, no, I don’t think so,’ he replied gaily. ‘But if my friends can come we can speak outside.’

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Shall we?’ He let the ladies go first, and we all trooped out into an ante-room at the side. The mass exodus drew some looks, but conversations were in full swing and the wine was flowing, so no one paid much attention. The waiters had begun to serve profiteroles. Jeremy, who seemed utterly lost when not standing next to his father, saw us leaving and followed without invitation.