Hadley’s gallery is almost exactly the same as his flat, a huge empty space in a disused warehouse in east London, white walls, wood floor, pillars, girders, the usual gang of black-shirted gypsies handing out champagne, and of course no food. The ‘art’ that we’ve come to see is a series of huge blow-ups of photographs of shoes, empty takeaway wrappers, plastic forks and pigeons, and in the middle of them all there’s an enormous out-of-focus photo of an erect cock that looks like it was taken with a mobile phone and then massively enlarged.

The artist’s name is Nicolae Vladimirescu, and judging by the quality of the work he has a great relationship with someone at KwikPrint. There’s a huddle of people in the centre of the room, from the middle of which I can see a shock of highly-processed black hair sticking up, and when I jump up in the air to get a better look I am not surprised to see that it is Hadley’s friend Nico.

‘Oh didn’t I tell you?’ says Jonathan, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘Yes, he’s a really famous artist in his own country, and Hadley’s launching him over here.’

‘I see.’

‘Don’t say “I see” in that tone of voice, I think he’s amazing, and he’s really brave.’

‘Brave?’ I say, ‘well he’s certainly got a lot of nerve showing this pile of …’ and then I feel a hand squeezing my shoulder, and of course it’s Hadley.

‘Robbie! Glad you could make it!’ he says, looking even more leathery than usual. His eyes are tiny and twinkling, but the flesh around them looks dead. There’s a weird flush on his neck, against which the hair follicles stand out as white dots. He does not look healthy, despite the huge muscles.

‘Thanks for having me,’ I say, and immediately regret it.

‘I haven’t … yet …’ he says, very close to my ear, and letting his hand slide down to the small of my back. He’s almost feeling my arse, and I’m beginning to wonder if this is why I’ve been asked to come.

‘I was just telling Jonathan how much I like the photos,’ I say, stepping away.

‘Aren’t they great?’ says Hadley. ‘They’re such an incredible expression of the plight of asylum seekers.’

‘Are they? Right. Yes, I see that.’

‘All the garbage of Western life, blown up to ridiculous proportions, really thrust in our faces.’

‘And the cock?’

‘It’s … the … the commodification of sex, as the only form of economic power that people in Nico’s position have.’

‘Ah,’ I say. ‘That’s just what Jonathan was saying, isn’t it?’

Jonathan looks daggers at me, but daren’t say anything because Hadley is stroking my arm again.

‘He’s a very talented young man,’ murmurs Hadley. ‘I like talent.’

‘Me too,’ I say, far too brightly, then I guzzle the rest of my champagne. Hadley is almost nuzzling my neck, and if I play my cards right I could have a one-man show by the end of the evening.