I remembered a night in Blackpool, a dingy room, a single overhead bulb.

He stood for a moment at ease, the weight on his left leg, his right leg slightly bent, like a Greek statue. And then, in time with the roll of a drum, he flexed. His fists met in front of his waist. His legs sprang to life, the thighs huge and striated, his torso a relief map of ridges and valleys. The audience gasped, and Mervyn scowled, holding the pose, exaggerating it until the veins popped out on his arms. And then the lights changed, the follow spot hit him from the balcony and he smiled. The crowd roared as he paraded the footlights like a star taking an ovation. Up in the box, Jayne’s white head leaned towards her husband, whispering in his ear.

Mervyn made the most of his three-minute spot. Naturally, he overran. The orchestra finished, the compere came back on but Mervyn did not want to leave, nor did the audience want to let him. He played them like a pro, cupping a hand behind his ear to make them shout louder and then, when the compere tried to edge him off, doing an elaborate pantomime of dismay. Finally, when the compere was glancing into the wings for backup, Mervyn did a perfect handstand and left the stage upside down. It took a good minute to quell the applause.

‘Did you get pictures?’

‘Of course I did.’

‘Did she see me?’

‘I think so.’

‘Pinch me, Mike. Harder! I’m not dreaming, am I? Ouch!’ He rubbed his upper arm. ‘Not that fucking hard. Cunt.’ He threw his arms around me. ‘I’ve got you to thank for all this,’ he said, gesturing to the stage, the audience. ‘Come here.’ He pushed me into the darkness of the backstage corridors and kissed me.

Templeton’s house was blazing with light and bursting with people. There were flambeaux on either side of the door, and uniformed footmen (recruited from the Wellington barracks, said Stephen) to hand the ladies from their cabs. Waiters circulated with drinks and canapés. It was well after midnight when we arrived; this party would keep swinging well into Sunday.

Mervyn, Stephen and I ascended the steps together. Templeton put a proprietorial arm round Mervyn’s shoulders and whisked him away.

There was a jazz trio playing in the reception room, vases of red roses on every surface, the twinkle of diamonds around the ladies’ throats competing with the crystal drops of the chandeliers. The men of affairs had brought their wives or, if they weren’t the marrying type, had rustled up a lady friend. Half the male contestants from the Palladium were crammed into that room. The air was redolent of baby oil.

We drank and ate and Stephen bitched and drank too much.

Mervyn made an entrance half an hour later, freshly groomed, wearing on his arm a carbon copy of Jayne Mansfield. Flashbulbs popped, and he swept her up in his arms. She shrieked, threw her head back and kicked off a shoe. I wondered if this had been rehearsed downstairs.