The commercial truth, by the same token, is that paranoia sells—especially sophisticated and atmospheric paranoia with an attractive lead character—and sell it we did. We sold not only games and subscriptions but merchandise. We put my sketches and my paintings on T-shirts and mugs and key rings. We sold a board game, movie rights, a novelisation, and we made...well. More money than I knew what to do with, to be honest. Real money, of the kind that erases debts and creates dynasties in their place. And of course, all my old work was suddenly very sought-after and expensive. A few paintings I had shut away in the cool attic of our warehouse in Royston were abruptly worth millions, more than all the business we would do for five years. Inevitably, at that point, someone asked me to paint a new collection. Greek billionaires bought a dozen canvases at a time, with who knew what mad money. I went on Radio 4 with Colson, Newsnight Review with Annie, and we talked a lot of nonsense about the zeitgeist and our unique creative pathway. It was heady and enjoyable not least because I had no need for any of it, no driving urge. I was a happy passenger on my own success, and my greatest pleasure lay in seeing the success of those I loved. Michael was pleased with me: proud and amused as much as bemused—though Lord knows, his daughter becoming a multimillionaire in her twenties must have been a little startling.