Art and I once went for dinner with an American pop star who Art had shot album artwork for. He was passing through London, as American pop stars do. Ray Brazier. We had dinner at a swish place off the Strand. I dressed up, course I did. I even wore Spanx under my satin dress – god knows what possessed me, I never usually subjected myself to such things, but I must have felt the occasion called for it. I was misguided. They cut into my thighs viciously, and the hems kept poking out when I sat down. I was conscious of them, especially when Ray Brazier decanted himself into the restaurant (late) wearing nothing but a sly smile and a loose purple kaftan. He stank of weed. The really famous didn’t have to try – I knew that from doing celebrity profiles; from Art’s slow but sure slide into huffy, comprehensive self-acceptance. Makes sense, really. They’ve done their trying, haven’t they? And there’s nothing – nothing – a famous person loves more than another famous person (ideally, another famous person who is slightly more famous than them). I stood out like a sore thigh.

‘Oh, hal-lew,’ Ray drawled – soooo satisfyingly Californian. He sat down and raised an eyebrow. ‘Look at you tew.’

Art was wearing a suit. Nevertheless, he didn’t flinch. He gracefully straddled worlds – the high and the low, the smart and the casual – talking about his latest shoot with a band in the mountains, and another he was doing for an Icelandic film director. Ray chuckled and marvelled and proffered his own latest stories, amongst the olives and breads and butters (Would you like some water, for the table? the waiter asked. I almost said, Yes – and some accolades. Bring some more over, would you? We don’t have nearly enough over here …). Instead, I sat there, quiet – too scared to speak in case I sounded stupid, or worse, mundane – discreetly (not discreetly) yanking my Spanx periodically back under my dress. They asked the waiter’s name and visibly committed it to memory and then used it at every opportunity like Good Famous People, who acknowledged the little men. I caught them, both of them, having a moment as they perused the menus (Ray had the duck, since you ask) and they sighed in time, laughed and shrugged at each other. They were both in the New York Times and here they were, together, in the flesh. It was so … pleasing. They could hardly believe it themselves.

NO photos, Art had said before we left the house. He was quite strict about it.