‘No, really, I do like it, please give it back.’

The wallet has been returned to its bag, and will go back to Selfridges along with the rest of this week’s wardrobe.

Jonathan sticks out his lower lip and swirls the ice around in his glass, making sure it clinks audibly. I am not going to be made to feel guilty just because he’s stolen my present back. It’s my birthday and he can buy a round. Jonathan finds it hard to pay for things. I sometimes think that ‘share’, to him, means only the singer of ‘Believe’.

Suddenly it’s time to leave, probably because I’m not putting my hand in my pocket, but also because Jonathan has seen someone he knows walking down the street, so he leaps to his feet and shoots out of the bar, screaming ‘Hadley!’ I should mention that tonight Jonathan is wearing what I call his yoga drag, a sort of loose raw linen trouser suit that’s five sizes too big for him, and some horrible Prada leather flip-flops that, apparently, are going to be everywhere this summer, and he’s determined to wear them first even though it’s far too cold. His hair is still quite long, gelled up into a complicated birds’ nest, which doesn’t really go with the outfit, I think he ought to shave the lot off but he says he doesn’t want to be mistaken for a bloody monk.

I finish my drink, leave a couple of quid for the barman who sniffs and doesn’t seem to find me quite so irresistible any more, and follow Jonathan out into the street, where he’s deep in conversation with the person I assume is Hadley. Hadley is five-feet-ten tall, and about the same across; I have never seen anyone so built up, he looks like a saveloy that’s about to burst its skin. Speaking of skin, he resembles a saveloy in that department too, its a rich deep terracotta colour, particularly in the folds around his neck. He looks old, but not in the normal way of having wrinkles or grey hair, but in the new way of having a completely immobile forehead and a permanently wide-awake expression. His face is stretched and shiny, but if you look at the backs of his hands, oh dear, they tell a very different story. In order to stop you from doing this, Hadley moves his hands around a lot. I would guess that he’s in his mid-forties, but he could be anywhere from thirty to sixty, depending on how good, or bad, his plastic surgeon is.

I’m left hovering on the margins for a few minutes, while Hadley shoots appraising glances at my tits and arms. He’s obviously not that impressed, because after a while he looks straight through me. There’s another much younger guy also hovering in the background – he is dark and handsome in a rough kind of way, he looks like a Romanian gypsy dressed by Vivienne Westwood, ill at ease in his designer gear, shifting from foot to foot, waiting for Hadley to move on, but Hadley and Jonathan are deep in conversation about Madonna tickets and circuit parties, so neither of us is going to get a look-in. Eventually I step around Hadley – which is quite a detour, as he’s so large – and offer my hand to the young guy and say, ‘Hi. I’m Rob.’ He’s confused, and quite possibly doesn’t understand English, and looks up to Hadley for guidance. Hadley is suddenly very attentive, and interposes himself between us.