‘No. I am a civil servant. Leave me alone.’

Mervyn wore a tight-fitting cream shirt with short sleeves and a huge collar that he bought at Vince’s in Newburgh Street; he’d saved up for it for weeks, and could still only afford it with a little help from me. His hair was brilliantined to a high gloss, his trousers like a second skin. Stephen looked him up and down, walked around him, brushed off the odd speck of dust and said, ‘You’ll do. Just don’t sit down.’

We mounted the steps to the pillared porch, the front door flanked by clipped bay trees in brass pots. Mervyn whistled. ‘Blimey, there’s money in this racket.’

‘Oh, he doesn’t make his money from the photo business, dear. That’s just a hobby. He’s in the movies.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘I’m not. They own a chain of news cinemas, and they make films. That got you interested, didn’t it? Oh yes, very powerful man is our Teddy Templeton. Very powerful and very wicked. You want to watch your back.’

‘I know all about that,’ said Mervyn, slapping his arse loudly.

‘So I hear, dear.’

The door was opened by a handsome, crop-haired young man in what looked like a chauffeur’s uniform. Stephen whispered ‘That’s … him. From the magazines.’

‘I know.’

‘All right, Don,’ said Mervyn, shaking hands. ‘These are my mates, Michael, Stephen. This is Don. We know each other from the gym, don’t we?’

‘Go up, lads,’ said Don, with a wink. ‘He’s expecting you.’

At the top of the sweeping staircase stood a sturdy housekeeper with a tray of champagne, her face completely impassive.

‘Bottoms up!’ said Stephen, getting his nose in the glass.

The main reception room was huge, stretching from French windows at the front to French windows at the back, both sets giving on to a small wrought-iron balcony. There were about forty men in the room, but it didn’t look full. Someone was playing show tunes on the white baby grand.

‘Fuckin’ ’ell,’ said Mervyn, under his breath, as forty pairs of eyes gave us the once-over, ‘every fucking poof in London.’

‘Ah!’ said a cultivated voice behind me, ‘my guest of honour!’ A tanned hand shot out, followed by a dazzling white cuff, a navy blue sleeve with gold buttons. Mervyn took it and shook it.

‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’ He sounded nervous. Templeton turned to me. He was a tall, handsome man in his fifties, maybe sixties, his grey hair well cut, his clothes beautifully tailored. I felt very shabby. ‘And this must be Mr Medway. I’ve heard all about you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘A very talented photographer, I gather. I shall have to keep an eye on you, young man. Now, Mervyn.’ He laid a hand on Mervyn’s elbow. ‘There are people you need to meet. Come with me.’

He steered him away.

‘Hello, am I invisible all of a sudden?’ hissed Stephen. ‘She didn’t even say hello! After all the times I’ve put her bloody pictures in the magazine. I mean, I’m the one she knows!’ He took another drink from a passing tray. ‘Oh well, I’ll still drink her liquor.’ He mimicked Templeton’s public school accent. ‘Here’s how.’