He looks at me and smiles. “Because he’s gay and I’m a vicar?” I nod, and he laughs. It’s Jesse’s laugh. Warm and familiar. “I’m a man of God, Zebadiah, but my God is a loving one. I tell my congregation that when Jesus came to Earth to save mankind, he entered into a great compact with man. He went over everything that was wrong and needed to be fixed.” He smiles at me. “He never mentioned homosexuality once. That’s like Alan Sugar’s lawyers forgetting to mention how much he’s selling a business for. No, we are all created in God’s image, Zeb. My son is as loved by him as anyone else. God doesn’t make mistakes.” He nudges me. “Besides, I wouldn’t like to be him if he snubbed my son, and my wife got hold of him.”

I laugh and follow him through the late evening sunshine. He comes to a stop by the huge curved wooden door. “Well, this is me,” he says lightly. “You’ll find my son round the back. Let him bring you down to the house for supper. Gianna is making her lasagna. It’s not to be missed. Nor is your imminent interrogation by my wife.” He winks. “I’m looking forward to both.”

I laugh. “Thank you. I’d like that very much.”

He vanishes into the church, and I follow the path around the building to a long graveyard. It’s a peaceful spot. Ancient-looking trees hover over the gravestones, some of which lean to one side drunkenly. They’re covered in lichen like a blanket for the dead. The smell of cut grass is heavy on the air.

I spot him immediately. He’s sitting under an old, twisted chestnut tree. He’s shirtless, dressed in faded blue shorts and wearing ratty-looking trainers that are covered in green smears. His T-shirt is a puddle of fabric at his side and sweat glistens on his soft chest hair.

I swallow hard. I’ve never in my life seen a more beautiful man than Jesse. Even though his mouth is drawn tight and a frown plays on that high-boned face, he’s still stunning.

I walk softly across the grass. Someone in a house nearby is playing “Lucky Man” by The Verve and I hope it’s an omen. The beautiful song drifts around us, mingling with the sound of birdsong.

“I like this one,” I say nervously, and his head shoots up. Astonishment and gladness are there for a brief wonderful moment before he shutters them, and his face becomes a mask.

“Mrs Simpson likes them,” he says coolly. “She went to all the festivals in the nineties and was in love with Richard Ashcroft. She always said that if he’d met her he’d have been writing happy love songs.”

I stare at him. “Do you think that’s true?”