Don, in his uniform, was chatting to an elderly gentleman with a pink, cherubic face. Stephen followed my eyes.

‘Lovely, isn’t he? Even with his clothes on. Well, he was a penniless merchant seaman before he caught Lady T’s eye one night at the A&B.; Now he’s practically living here, he drives his girlfriends around in the Bentley, he gets taken on holidays to the Caribbean.’

‘And what does he do in return?’

Stephen rolled his eyes. ‘Give a little, get a lot. That’s the rule in this game. Officially he’s Templeton’s secretary, but, well, you know …’

I looked over to the piano, where Mervyn was being presented to a group of wealthy looking men of Templeton’s age. ‘And are they real? Or are they just after you know what?’

‘Oh, they’re real, all right. Men of affairs. That one, with the spotted cravat, is a very famous West End theatre producer. And that one next to him, the one with the terrible sweater, is, or at least was, Terence Rattigan’s boyfriend, he still keeps him in a bijou little lattie in Cornwall Gardens.’

‘And who’s that, with the awful wig?’

‘Oh dear. Has he got it on backwards, do you think? Well, one must allow these little eccentricities to members of the peerage, especially when they are just mad about the movies.’

He prattled on in this vein, detailing who had done what to whom and for how much.

‘You seem to know everyone’s business, Stephen.’

‘Of course, dear. I’m like the spider in the centre of the web.’

Mervyn returned, somewhat the worse for drink, his eyes sparkling. ‘Hey, Michael! They want me to do a screen test!’

‘I bet they do,’ said Stephen, rolling his eyes.

‘A proper screen test, out at Pinewood.’

‘That’s wonderful, Mervyn. Congratulations.’

‘This is where it begins, Mikey! The long climb up the ladder to success.’

‘It’s the snakes you want to watch, dear,’ said Stephen. ‘You may have to slide down a few. Oh, I say.’ He had spotted a particularly brutish looking creature in a black T-shirt and biker boots. ‘Isn’t that my new husband?’

‘So what do you think?’ Mervyn was dancing on the balls of his feet, like he did in the ring. ‘Should I do it?’

‘Why not? It’s better than washing dishes.’

‘He says he’ll put me on at Mr Universe.’

‘What? You’re joking.’

‘Not in the competition, like. As a featured artist.’

‘Doing what, exactly?’

‘Dunno.’ He frowned, then grinned. ‘Just poncing around in my underwear I suppose.’

‘Nothing too demanding there, then.’

‘But, I mean, Mr Universe. Fucking Mr fucking Universe. The Yanks come over for that. They’re going to laugh at me. I’m underweight. I look like a fucking plucked chicken.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘Why would he want me to get up there and make a fool of myself?’

‘I’m sure he doesn’t …’

‘He says he’ll get me into films. But they all say that, don’t they?’

He carried on like this for a while, blowing hot and cold with alternate breaths. The party got busy, and loud, and unbearably hot. Stephen was nowhere to be seen, neither was his new husband. Every time we tried to leave, Mervyn was accosted by yet another elderly admirer.