‘I have to tell you,’ Bleulance said, ‘I have people who work all these things out.’

‘But you sign off on them?’

‘No, not often.’ He paused to wave a hand at his paintings. ‘This is what I love doing best.’

Cavalier leant forward to devour some of his food. ‘Best gnocchi I have ever tasted!’ he said.

‘I shall tell the chef, thank you. I trust you will write accordingly regarding your nourishment today.’

Cavalier smiled but did not respond. He leant back in his chair and savoured the wine. He examined the bottle’s label, and smiled before he said, ‘You have an obsession with oil, or should I say, energy.’

Bleulance was now uncomfortable. Cavalier went on. ‘You have, by my calculations, more control over the world’s oil and gas reserves than any other individual. Would you agree?’

Bleulance sipped his wine but did not meet Cavalier’s inquisitive gaze.

‘That’s way off the mark,’ he said, with a dismissive wave of the hand.

‘Really?’

‘You have strayed away from my food interests and art acquisitions, don’t you think?’ Bleulance replied, with a stern schoolmasterly look.

‘You are right.’ Cavalier nodded with an apologetic smile. ‘I must say I am fascinated, like all people who have little, in the rich and powerful.’

‘Rupert owns your magazine, doesn’t he?’

‘You mean Murdoch? I’m not sure.’

‘Do you write for other magazines?’ Bleulance asked, deflecting the conversation.

‘The Sunday Times occasionally; on art, and cricket.’

Bleulance grunted cynically. ‘That stupid game! You know the French created it.’

‘Not sure about that. I don’t think the French have ever beaten the English at it, have they?’

Bleulance gave a dismissive Gallic pout and wave.

‘Do you know Rupert?’ Bleulance asked.

‘Not personally, no.’

‘Have you done business with him?’

‘Not quite. I suggested a documentary series on the art world to him in the 1980s. He had acolytes in England give me a good hearing. In the end, he didn’t go for it.’

Bleulance winced a smile.

‘I have shares in Rupert’s company.’

‘How fortunate.’

‘I also have quite a few shares in the magazine you’re writing this article for.’

Bleulance met his eyes again with the steel that Cavalier had heard about but not before experienced. He was pleased he had drawn out Bleulance’s manipulative and threatening side in a couple of responses. The oil baron baron had wanted to imply that he could kill his journalistic outlets, if he wished.

Bleulance reached for a phone diary and wrote out five phone numbers.

‘Get in touch with these people,’ he said, ‘they have a far greater comprehension of my father.’ He ripped off the page and handed it to Cavalier. ‘Now, what would you like to know about my art?’

‘You paint too?’ Cavalier asked in mock surprise.

‘My art acquisitions,’ Bleulance said, gritting his teeth.

*