A month since his elevation to the cabinet, he was still adjusting to the spotlight. As an opposition politician, he’d received a certain amount of attention. He’d grown used to local radio looking for his views on everything from the new hanging baskets in Templemorris to the future of the European Union. Now it felt as if everybody wanted his opinion on every matter imaginable. Sometimes he had no opinion to give. Following the shooting in the Avondhu Hotel, he’d been inundated with calls from journalists who wanted to write about his friendship with the injured guard and the guard’s famous stepsister. TV and radio programmes had also put in requests. Although Tom was keen, he knew Conor wouldn’t like the publicity. And Tess didn’t do that sort of thing any more. Since she’d retired from modelling, she’d retreated from public life. ‘Who wants to see me?’ she’d say. ‘Let the young ones have their time in the limelight.’

For the past week, Tom and another minister had been engaged in a noisy spat over spending. When he wasn’t arguing with Simon Forrester, he was grappling with his other responsibilities. He had a huge office in his department’s headquarters beside the Grand Canal. He also had a driver, a press officer, an adviser and a small army of civil servants. But every second of every day was accounted for. He had no time to think. And while many of the meetings and functions he was forced to attend were a waste of time, he was powerless to say no. If he didn’t go, somebody would tell Twitter or Facebook that he was an arrogant opportunist who wouldn’t listen to the plain people of Ireland. In no time, scores of others would pile in, adding him to their list of useless and corrupt politicians.

Opposition hadn’t prepared him for the endless bile of online critics. As they saw it, entering government was a sell-out and he deserved to be reminded of this on an hourly basis. For some, no jibe was too low, no insult too snide. What had Tom done wrong? What hadn’t he done wrong? Homeless children? Crooked banks? Hospital waiting lists? His fault. One or two would have blamed him for the weather if they could.

Not that these onslaughts caused him to question what he was doing. His doubts came from within.

Small wonder he was looking forward to a quiet pint with Conor. In recent weeks, they’d met just once, their chat truncated by a late vote in the House. Tom hoped Conor understood that his life was no longer his own.