Eddie looked doubtful. ‘But it hasn’t got a kitchen, Dad. You said so. No kitchen.’

William took this in his stride. ‘It has a kitchen space, Eddie. People see past an actual kitchen these days. Didn’t you know that?’

But Eddie was not to be moved. ‘It’s kind of you, Dad. I appreciate the offer, but I think it’s premature. I’m actually quite comfortable living at home. And it’s greener, isn’t it? Sharing. It makes our carbon footprint much smaller.’

And so William found himself living with his twenty-four-year-old son. Wine dealer, he thought, would like his son to meet a lively woman with view to his moving in with her. Permanently. Any area.

He turned away from the bathroom mirror and stooped down to run his morning bath. It was a Friday, which meant that he would open the business half an hour late, at ten-thirty rather than ten. This meant that he could have his bath and then his breakfast in a more leisurely way, lingering over his boiled egg and newspaper before setting off; a small treat, but a valued one.

There was a knocking on the door, soft at first and then more insistent.

‘You’re taking ages, Dad. What are you doing in there?’

He did not reply.

‘Dad? Would you mind hurrying up? Or do you want me to be late?’

William turned and faced the door. He stuck out his tongue.

‘Don’t be so childish,’ came the voice from the other side of the door.

Childish? thought William. Well, you’ve got a little surprise coming your way, Eddie, my boy.

2. Corduroy Matters

The flat occupied by William and Eddie was on the top floor of the four-storey building in Pimlico known as Corduroy Mansions. It was not a typical London mansion block. The name had been coined - in jest, yet with a considerable measure of condescension - by a previous tenant, but Corduroy Mansions had stuck, and a disparaging nickname had become a fond one.