She takes a swig and grimaces. ‘How did you piss her off?’

‘What makes you think it was my fault?’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘Erm, an educated guess.’

I stare at the wall. I have never talked about this, but since Clare died I’ve been haunted by guilt. I’m only here to escape it.

‘Don’t you have to be at work?’

‘I’ve got a few minutes,’ she says, without checking her watch.

‘I’ll have that drink, then.’

She pours the wine. It burns, but I sink it.

‘Fuck. It was about three years ago now. A family lunch.’ For years we had a routine – Mum, Dad, Clare and me – of gathering at my dad’s favourite Chinese restaurant at 1.30 on Sundays. Crispy duck with plum sauce and pancakes. Singapore Rice Noodles. Shredded crispy beef. Always the same dishes.

‘At the time I was the FC’s business correspondent and Clare was soaring up through Whitehall: she had been seconded from the Treasury to the Prime Minister’s office in Downing Street.’ Clare regaled us with a story that had us in stitches – the PM had asked to have a meeting with Daniel Williamson, the Noble Prize-winning economist, but somehow the private office misunderstood and invited Dan Williamson the rugby player. Who actually turned up. Ramsey, being such a decent sort, sat through twenty excruciating minutes with him, pretending to be interested in the fortunes of the England team, when actually he hates rugby. ‘I’d never heard anything quite so funny,’ I say.

Marilyn peers at me over the rim of her glass. ‘I remember. It was all over the tabloids. The columnists went to town on it being the perfect metaphor for a chaotic government.’ Then her eyes widen. ‘Oh my God! You didn’t?’

I hang my head. ‘Bottom of the front page, in the “Fancy That” slot.’

‘Jesus. You turned over your sister for a byline? What an arsehole.’

‘It wasn’t a state secret or anything.’

‘My God, are you still trying to justify it? You treated family lunch like a press briefing.’

I sigh.

‘So why didn’t you just apologise and promise not to do it again?’

I don’t feel like explaining there’s more to it than that. ‘It wasn’t that simple.’

‘You never apologised? Christ, you really are a wanker.’

I can’t look at her. This confession isn’t really helping me feel better about myself.

‘God, Gil, I thought I had a complicated relationship with my family.’

‘Look. I was the perennial fuck-up. She was always the golden child. That’s how it was. Now it’s too late to sort out.’

I feel the threat of tears. Marilyn strokes my hand. ‘Sorry. I don’t want to make you feel bad,’ she says. ‘If it’s any consolation, it’s no easier being the golden child.’