A part of him wondered whether his old school friend had done it on purpose, as a way of boosting ratings for his radio show. Now he actually thought about it, they had never been that close. In fact, Heathcote vaguely remembered taking a swing at him during the traditional initiation into their House during the broadcaster’s first week at Eton. But even if it had been deliberate, the damage was done. This was every politician’s worst nightmare: throwaway comments made when he’d believed himself off-air, exposing him as a liar and a hypocrite.

In the front seat, John, the driver, discreetly turned off the radio.

‘Where to, Mr Heathcote?’

‘Westminster.’ There was no point in burying his head in the sand. He would have to ride it out. Perhaps he could pass it off as a tasteless joke. Romily Dawson would have to handle it. It was her fault he’d agreed to the fucking interview in the first place.

He called his wife and warned her to expect a bumpy twenty-four hours. Heathcote was not some wet-behind-the-ears politics graduate. He understood he was at the mercy of the news agenda, that events could escalate beyond his control or defuse, like smoke. Breaking stories were like jigsaw puzzles. If all the pieces slotted into place, the resulting bigger picture led to widespread coverage. If there were gaps that couldn’t be filled, the same stories were quickly forgotten. All he had to do now was hold steady, keep quiet and not make things worse. With a bit of luck, the whole mess would blow over by tomorrow night.

13

‘Christ alive, Brinley, what the hell happened to you?’

He looks me up and down as if I’m nothing but the sum of my body, as if I haven’t sweetened the bitterness of his absence in the only way I know how, drowning in secret wrappers and too much sugar. As if he hadn’t buggered off two decades ago when I needed him most.

‘Still the same old Dad,’ I say.

He has the grace to look sheepish.

There are so many questions I want to ask him, like why are they living in our house when I thought he’d sold it years ago and moved to Spain, and where is the rest of my mother’s jewellery, and why hasn’t he been in touch?

But I don’t say any of it. Because I look at the arms I’d remembered as muscular and strong, and see that they are withered. I notice the way his mouth turns downwards, and the reek of discontent, and realize I don’t feel a thing. All I can think of is Aunt Peg, stroking my hair as I cried for my mother, helping me with my homework and cooking stew and dumplings from scratch.