I turn to go, but he’s not finished. ‘For the avoidance of any doubt, you are to do precisely no work until the docs say you are fit and healthy to come back. And when you return, you will go nowhere near Kendall, and you will do no reporting that has anything to do with Media Corp, or Jimmy Breitner, or anything else that is looming large in your feverish and distressed imagination. If you are working again before the first of May, you will concentrate exclusively on conventional politics.’ He opens the door for me. ‘Understood?’

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Monday, 21 April – 10 days until Election Day

‘YOU’VE HAD A TOUGH TIME and we’re here to help you get back on track. But in the end, only you can take control of your life. It is all about your choices.’

Penelope McGovern, the Minster’s senior addiction specialist, has a voice that is calm and soothing. There’s a faint trace of a Scottish accent, but the posh Edinburgh kind that soothes like freshly harvested honey. She’s in her early fifties and immaculately groomed: no white coat, thank goodness, just a simple cashmere rollneck and greyish-blue plaid skirt whose lack of ostentation is seriously pricey. The combination of her knee-length black, soft leather boots, wide mouth and perfectly sheared shoulder-length grey hair is prompting an inappropriate fantasy. I fight it off. Stop it, stop it, stop it.

We are sitting in her airy office in the Minster’s famous Edwardian manor house, somewhere in the greenbelt between London and the M25. Although the mock-Tudor ceiling mouldings remain intact, everything else about the décor is inoffensively modern. I am on a deep-cushioned, rectangular beige sofa. Dr McGovern sits opposite on the matching armchair. On the wall are the kind of primary colour expressionist screen prints that can be acquired by the dozen from Cork Street dealers. It’s light, shirt-sleeves warm, and scrupulously inoffensive.

Through tall windows to our right I can see manicured lawns and sculpted hedges. There are a couple of tennis courts behind a walled garden. This therapeutic clinic masquerading as a country house is frequently featured in tabloid spreads as one tired and emotional celebrity after another checks in for a rest cure. I think I can see Baz from the 1980s thrash metal group Jizzelica taking a stroll; and a children’s TV presenter, who recently starred in a double-page spread in the Globe, sniffing coke off the breasts of a glamorous escort. I wonder whether I’ll be able to win his confidence and extract information I can use in future trades with Wilkinson.

My mind is wandering.

‘Gil?’ This is the third day we’ve met and Penelope seems increasingly frustrated that I am not wholly engaged. ‘I wonder if we could chat about Clare again.’