The music was good, if you didn’t have to try to talk against it.

I closed my eyes through ‘Try a Little Tenderness’, then opened them for long enough to get my glass refilled.

By the time I have downed this one, after a couple more songs, my arms and legs feel as though their wiring has been severed. My spine loosens and I lean back, hitching my elbows on the bar and watching the musicians. I try to cut Jerry out of the picture, and find that I can do this surprisingly well by closing one eye and moving my head, then doing the same with the other eye. He leaves a Jerry-shaped cartoon space at centre stage. Mr Rainbird and the trombonist play their good meaty brass section, and tonight there is even a pair of girl vocalists who press their red lips close to the mike.

The music and the heat wash over me in big, lavish waves. I am smiling and clapping along with everyone else.

By the time the set ends I have finished my third icy drink. The band plays ‘Wait ’til the Midnight Hour’ for the encore and I am sorry when we have clapped and stamped our way to the final bars. The bar staff are calling time and the pub doors stand wide open as bouncers try to funnel people out into the street. A faint breath of cooler air just fans my face.

Then Mr Rainbird is standing right in front of me. ‘Shall we go?’ he says.

We are walking down the street together. He puts one arm round my shoulders. His trumpet case is in the other hand.

It feels so cool out here, after the heat of the bar. Sweat dries under my arms and in the small of my back. I feel light-footed and light-headed as we walk along together. The pavements under our feet are sticky. I can hear and feel the faint suction as well as the click of my heels and the soft padding of his rubber soles.

It’s nice, walking like this, in step and with the music still in our heads. We are humming the same tune and just moving together, in no particular direction and in no hurry. Even the noise of the traffic seems muted. The trees are limes dripping sap, and wide horse-chestnuts, and London planes with their fantastically patched and mottled bark that makes me think of maps of exotic lands. Under one of these Mr Rainbird stops and puts down his trumpet case. He stands in front of me and a street lamp throws his shadow across my face.

He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks down at me. Then he kisses me, and after a minute I lock my arms round his neck, holding him close, tipping my head back and opening my mouth to his.

When we move apart we do so very reluctantly.