‘Well in that case I’ll see you at my funeral.’ He puts the phone down. It nags at me for the rest of the day, so I call him back.

‘What’s the big crisis, then?’

‘Oh, it’s over. You’re too late. Don’t worry.’

‘Jonathan, what are you talking about?’

‘You’re interested now, aren’t you? Well don’t bother. I’ve decided to face the music alone.’

It turns out that he was arrested back in June for possession with intent to supply class A drugs, and was bailed until tomorrow, when he has to turn himself in at Kennington Police Station. He never mentioned this to anyone because he thought it might ‘blow over’, and knowing Jonathan he has ignored or recycled a number of letters reminding him of his date with destiny.

I’m angry with him, but I say, ‘Of course I’ll come with you,’ because that’s what friends do.

‘Oh don’t force yourself, dear,’ he says. ‘I can take care of myself You’ve obviously got something much more important on.’

Then, stupidly, I tell him that I’ve got a date.

‘What?’ He sounds furious. ‘Who with?’

‘Simon. From work.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘The New Boy.’

Silence.

‘You are not serious.’

‘Yes. Why not?’

‘The one you said was so naff that he buys his clothes at … where was it?’

‘Next.’

‘You must be desperate.’

‘I was wrong.’

‘What, you mean he gets his shirts from Asda?’

‘No. You wouldn’t understand.’

‘You’re right there,’ says Jonathan, ‘I wouldn’t.’

When I get home it occurs to me that I don’t know Simon’s number, so I can’t call him or text him to cancel our date. It will have to wait till the morning.

There’s a ring at the doorbell. What fresh hell is this?

It’s Stephen, and it looks as if he’s been drinking. His shirt collar is askew, one wing sticking up over his jacket, and – or is this just my imagination? – his wig looks crooked. I’ve always assumed it’s a wig, anyway.

‘You’re not dead, then.’

‘Not quite.’

‘Then why the fuck aren’t you answering my letters?’

It’s true. He’s sent me a few terse notes insisting that we need to talk. ‘I’ve been so busy at work, Stephen. I’m sorry. Come in.’

‘Hmm.’ He walks into the living room. ‘Yes, I’ll have a G&T, ta very much.’

I haven’t offered him anything, and it looks like he’s had enough. ‘I haven’t got any gin. Or tonic, for that matter.’

‘My God, what is the world coming to? No gin? Call yourself queer?’

‘I can open a bottle of wine.’

‘Oh, I fucking hate wine,’ he says, then interrupts before I have a chance to offer anything soft, ‘but on this occasion I’m willing to make sacrifices. Just make it a large one.’

I hand him the best part of a pint of wine, and we sit opposite each other, the coffee table between us. He’s looking around.

‘Where is it?’

‘What?’

‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’ I do. ‘It was in here.’ He points to the corner, where Michael’s boxes were stacked up last time Stephen paid a call. ‘Tell me … Oh God, tell me you haven’t thrown it away. I told him not to trust you with it. I told him. Oh God, Robert, say it hasn’t gone.’