“Not for the moment,” Chavasse told him, “and stop calling me Sir Paul. We’ve been together too long.”

“I’ll do my best.” Earl Jackson smiled. “But you’ll be wasting your time with Lucy. She just loves it,” and he turned out onto the main road and picked up speed.

The porter at The Garrick, that most exclusive of London clubs, greeted him with a smile and took his coat.

“Nice to see you, Sir Paul.” He came out with the title as if he’d been doing it all his life.

Chavasse gave up and mounted the majestic staircase, with its stunning collection of oil paintings, and went into the bar. A couple of ageing gentlemen sat in the corner talking quietly, but otherwise the place was empty.

“Good evening, Sir Paul,” the barman said. There it was again. “Your usual?”

“Why not?”

Chavasse went and sat in a corner, took out his old silver case and lit a cigarette while the barman brought a bottle of Bollinger RD Champagne, opened it and poured. Chavasse tried it, nodded his satisfaction and the barman topped up the glass and retreated.

Chavasse toasted himself. “Well, here’s to you, old stick,” he murmured. “But what comes next, that’s the thing.”

He emptied the glass rather quickly, refilled it and sat back. At that moment a young man entered, paused, glancing around, then approached him.

“Sir Paul Chavasse? Terry Williams of the prime minister’s office.”

“You must be new,” Chavasse said. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Very new, sir. We were trying to get hold of you and your housekeeper told us you would be here.”

“Sounds urgent,” Chavasse said.

“The prime minister wanted a word, that’s the thing.”

Chavasse frowned. “Do you know what it’s about?”

“I’m afraid not.” Williams smiled cheerfully. “But I’m sure he’ll tell you himself. He’s on the way up.”

A moment later John Major, the British prime minister, entered the bar.