‘What happened to Michael and Mervyn? What did they do?’

‘It’s all in there, if you can be bothered to read it. Michael carried on in the Civil Service. Never got the promotions. We always said there must be a big black mark against his name on a file somewhere. Mervyn scratched around in the lower depths of the film industry for a while, doing stunts, waiting to be discovered, did a couple of bits of telly, then he got into wrestling. He did well, dear. That’s how they afforded the flat. Always on the telly on a Sunday afternoon. Oh, he was camp! Mad Mel Wright, he called himself. Dyed his hair blond, came flouncing on in a satin cape, blowing kisses, flapping his wrists, then he’d beat the shit out of his opponent. The old ladies loved him. Nobody would ever have believed that he was queer.’

‘And what about you, Stephen?’

‘What about me?’

‘When you got out of prison. When the world changed.’

‘Well, they were exciting times, weren’t they. The sixties. Swinging London, all that caper, and I swung harder than any of them. Bona days, dear, bona days. The summer of love, 1967, the change in the law, gay liberation, my generation saw it all.’

We sit down for dinner, and Stephen asks Simon about his family, his work, his hopes for the future, his plans, specifically his wedding plans. By the time dessert is finished, he’s practically booked the marquee and sent out the invitations. We drink a lot, and get quite merry, and I tell Stephen he can stay the night, and he screams and calls me a vile seducer.

The doorbell rings, and it’s Jonathan.

I always rather hoped that Jonathan and Stephen would get on, and they’re both pissed, so they have something in common, which is a good start.

However they take one look at each other and immediately they’re like two cats having a stand-off, hissing and yowling, the fur standing up, any second now there will be spitting and claws and they’ll be rolling around in a heap on the floor.

‘Oh,’ says Jonathan, dumping his bag in a chair, ‘I didn’t realise you were having one of your help the aged evenings.’

Stephen sits up very straight, his hands resting on his knees, and makes no attempt to introduce himself.

‘Jonathan, this is Stephen. Stephen, this is Jonathan, one of my oldest friends.’

‘Oldest!’ says Jonathan. ‘That’s a laugh.’

‘How do you do, Jonathan,’ says Stephen, who has obviously decided to play the grande dame. Jonathan does not take his hand.

‘I need a drink.’ He heads for the kitchen to help himself as usual. Simon follows him.

‘Your friend needs to learn some manners,’ says Stephen, getting to his feet, rubbing his tired legs. ‘Anyway, thank you for a lovely evening.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Heavens, is that the time, I must fly.’

‘Stay, Stephen.’

‘I won’t stay where I’m not wanted.’

‘You are wanted. I want you to stay. Please. Sit down and have another drink.’