At first, he reacted as if my behavior were certifiable. Now, he’s come to accept that life is much sweeter if he sticks to the rules. He’s still a long way from perfect. For example, being color-blind, he’s got a tendency to bring home little gifts like a scarlet vase that clashes hideously with my sage green, peach and magnolia decor. Or black sweatshirts promoting bands I’ve never heard of because black’s fashionable, in spite of the fact that I’ve told him a dozen times that black makes me look like a candidate for the terminal ward. Now, I simply banish them to his home and thank him sweetly for his thoughtfulness. But he’s getting better, I swear he’s getting better. Or so I told myself as the desire to strangle him rose at the thought of the evening ahead.

Reluctantly abandoning the idea of murder, I returned to my bedroom and thought about an outfit for the evening. I weighed up what would be expected of me. It didn’t matter a damn what I wore to the concert. I’d be lost in the thousands of yelling fans desperate to welcome Jett back in triumph to his home town. The party afterwards was more of a problem. Much as I hated having to ask, I called through to Richard, “What’s the party going to be like, clothes-wise?”

He appeared in the doorway, looking like a puppy that’s astonished to have been forgiven so easily for the mess on the kitchen floor. His own outfit was hardly a clue. He was wearing a wideshouldered baggy electric blue double-breasted suit, a black shirt and a silk tie with a swirled pattern of neon colors that looked like a sixties’ psychedelic album cover. He shrugged and gave that smile

That was the problem. I didn’t. I’d met the man once, about three months before. He’d turned up on our table for ten at a charity dinner and had sat very quiet, almost morose, except when discussing football with Richard. Manchester United, those two words that are recognized in any language from Santiago to Stockholm, had unlocked Jett as if with a magic key. He’d sprung to the defense of his beloved Manchester City with the ardor of an Italian whose mother’s honor has been impugned. The only fashion hint I’d had from that encounter was that I should wear a City strip. “No, Richard, I don’t know Jett,” I explained patiently. “What kind of party will it be?”