He climbed into bed, fully clothed, and held me so tight I thought my ribs would break. He was shaking. I badly needed to piss, and I was conscious that my breath stank of booze, but he would not let me go. When he was finally able to speak, he said, ‘I love you, Michael, oh God I’m so sorry, I love you, I love you,’ and started kissing me on the mouth, the neck, the chest.

After we’d finished, he took a shower, I had a long piss, then joined him under the hot water. We washed each other’s backs, kissed, dried each other, and shaved together at the sink. I was so relieved to have him back that I swallowed the recriminations that kept rising in my throat, and waited to hear what he had to say.

In the event, it wasn’t much. Trivia from the studios. The latest verdict on the screenplay. Setbacks and achievements at the gym. No clue as to where he’d been living, who he’d been fucking and what had prompted the tears and protestations of love. Knowing Wright as I do, it must have been something very bad. He is not the crying kind.

We had breakfast, and he chaffed me about the empty bottles and dirty crockery in the sink. ‘You can’t cope without me, can you?’ he said, adjusting my tie as I tried to leave for work. He was still dressed in nothing but his underwear, his body catching the rays of the sun that poured through the huge east-facing living-room window.

‘Not really, no. I can’t.’

‘Off you go, tiger. You’ll be late.’

‘Will you be here when I get back?’

‘Course.’

And will you be entertaining in my absence, I wanted to ask, but instead I squeezed his arse and walked to the bus stop with a lighter tread than I’ve had for some time.

When I got home, he was drunk.

‘Fucking bastard Templeton, fucking cunting bastard, who the fuck does he think he is?’

The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and with the fug of Wright’s anger. I went round opening windows, taking off my tie, my shoes, pouring myself a drink.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Calls me up today saying he wants me to drive him out to Pinewood. Me!’

‘What’s so wrong with that? You always said you wanted to get your hands on his cars.’

‘Because I’m not a fucking chauffeur!’

‘Calm down. It’s not the end of the …’

‘And then when we get there he tells me to wait in the car because he’ll need me later.’

‘So?’

‘I’m supposed to be an actor, aren’t I? Not some fucking flunkey.’

‘Has something happened?’

‘Then he says there’s been another setback with the movie, some fucking crap about raising the money, always the same fucking story about co-production bollocks and I don’t know what. So I ask him how long it’s going to take to sort it out and he says he can’t tell, they’ve got a full slate of movies to make for next year and we’ll just have to see.’