He’s sitting bolt upright, looking wild.

‘It’s okay,’ I say, ‘it’s perfectly safe.’ But it might not be. I haven’t checked the bin store for weeks. For all I know, it’s been taken away, or flooded, or eaten by mice.

Stephen jumps to his feet, eyes blazing. ‘Then where?’ His hands are clenched like claws.

‘Calm down! I’ll show you.’

‘Oh fuck,’ he spits when I take him out to the bin store, ‘is that what you really think of us? Just rubbish? Just a load of smelly old rubbish that you can chuck out when it suits you? Is it?’

That’s pretty much exactly what I’m thinking at the moment, because Stephen does smell – of liquor – and I would love to chuck him out.

‘Okay, okay,’ I say, lugging the first box off the top of the pile. ‘I’ll bring them back in, if it means that much to you.’

He watches me with folded arms, hiccupping occasionally, as I carry all four boxes from the bin store along the landing and into my living room. When he’s satisfied that everything is there, he snaps his fingers and points to his empty glass, which I refill. Only then does he sit down, drink and sigh.

‘I apologise for the language,’ he says. ‘A lady should never resort to swearing. It’s a very bad habit I picked up in the Air Force.’

I can’t picture Stephen in the forces, and he reads my look.

‘Oh yes, dear, I was in the RAF, albeit briefly. There’s no need to look quite so surprised. Where do you think I met Michael?’

‘I don’t know … I suppose I thought you just met … at a club, or something.’

He cocks his head to one side, like a bird, and then laughs till there are tears at the corners of his eyes. ‘A club? A club? And what sort of club exactly would that be?’

‘A gay club.’

‘Do you have any idea when we met?’

‘I don’t know’ I’ve never thought about it, but I remember Michael saying that he and Mervyn had been together for forty-something years. ‘Sometime in the sixties?’

‘The fifties, actually. 1957 to be precise. Not exactly a vintage year for gay clubs.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘And why should you, dear? They don’t teach it at schools.’

‘Go on, then.’ I fill up my glass. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘Oh God, no,’ he says. ‘It’s a long mucky story and I’m far too pissed to go into all that now. You don’t want me crying on your shoulder all night, which I inevitably would.’

‘I don’t mind.’ I want to tell him that I don’t sleep at night, that I’d enjoy the company.

‘I tell you what, dear. If you’re really interested, you can read all about it.’

‘Where?’

He nods towards the boxes. ‘There, of course. Were you never curious enough even to take a little peek?’

‘No. I thought it was just …’