We stood outside some shit stripper bar just before six as the dirty-mac brigade was heading home for dinner. I had checked with Kailash. Of course she knew the owners of every strip joint and sex shop in London. My darling mother assured me that all I had to do was mention her name and the underbelly of the East End would crawl out of its way to help me. Joe marched in and paid for two. The interior was dim. Uplighters shone out of the red carpet, showing us the way to the bar and to booth seats centred round the stage. I settled down on the upholstered leather, and Joe went to the bar. The man in the next booth, with his anorak across his lap, leered at me before turning his eyes back to the stage as the next act came on. I leaned back against the leather and stared up at the ornate crystal chandelier, waiting for Joe.

Some rip-off Peggy Lee was singing and her smoky voice actually relaxed me a bit. I started to think about Joe. Was he the love of my life? Lavender maintained he was and that you only got one chance. Joe and I had our chance and he blew it by loving me too much. The pain of losing him was so bad I couldn’t go through it again, so I had always treated him badly in the hope that he would get the message. Maybe it was my turn to listen to him. Joe placed a bucket of ice with champagne chilling in it on the small table; he had two flutes between his fingers.

‘You mentioned Kailash’s name didn’t you?’ I accused him.

‘Too bloody right I did! I don’t mind paying their rip-off prices–you’ll let me claim it back on expenses, I suppose–but I do object to drinking watered-down booze.’ Joe filled my glass and handed it to me before taking off his jacket. His T-shirt was muscle fit, tight across his chest. He kissed my nose and pulled me close; his body was lean and hard, and I felt myself go weak. My hormones stirred against my better judgement–but God, he was gorgeous.

A small thin man in a blue Lurex tuxedo, white shirt and country-and-western tie came onto the stage, breaking my thoughts. His black hair was slicked straight back from his forehead into a shiny cap, and a pencil-thin moustache graced his top lip. It was cliché city here tonight.

‘Ladies and gentlemen…’ There was a drum roll. I sat up and he continued, ‘Put your hands together for the star of our show, the lovely Lola d’Amour!’