‘Yes,’ said Geraldine, primly, ‘I think we’d better.’ She fastened a lock of hair in place with a Kirby grip. There was a mark on her neck.

‘Just park somewhere,’ said Wright. ‘The windows will steam up nicely.’

‘I’m not sitting in a steamed-up car with you, you brute,’ said Geraldine, sounding like Joan Greenwood. ‘Hands all over the place. What are you? An octopus?’

‘A donkey,’ said Wright. ‘Want a ride, little girl?’

‘Oh, you disgusting man.’ Geraldine opened the door and got out. Wright followed, adjusting his pants.

‘Let’s all have tea.’ She took Valerie’s arm, and they trotted off to the tea room, whispering conspiratorially.

‘Fucking prick tease,’ said Wright. ‘Let’s dump them and go back to town.’

‘That’s not very gallant.’

‘I’m not gallant. I’m fucking horny. I’ve got blue balls.’

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s go and buy them some cakes. That usually cheers girls up.’

‘Cakes. Christ.’

I made most of the conversation as the girls nibbled their way through a selection of over-iced cakes and mushy sandwiches. We drank two pots of tea, until Wright announced, ‘I’ve got to piss,’ and disappeared into the gents.

‘Your friend’s got no finesse,’ said Geraldine, looking down her nose.

‘Don’t be too hard on him. He comes from a broken home. Never knew a mother’s love.’

She looked curious for a moment, then changed her mind. ‘Well it shows.’

We drove back to Blackpool just in time to see the sun break through the clouds in a dazzling blaze at five o’clock.

‘Pick you up at eight, and don’t be late!’ shouted Wright as we drove off, then, ‘Thank fuck for that. What a waste of fucking time.’

‘You complained about the whores last night, and now you’re complaining because a girl won’t drop her knickers in the back of a car. What do you want?’

‘I don’t fucking know. But I don’t want her.’

‘They’ll find us at the dance tonight.’

‘Fuck the fucking dance.’ He kicked a pebble up the street. ‘I’m not in the mood any more. Let’s just get pissed.’

We went straight to the nearest pub. Wright ordered a pint and a whisky chaser and disappeared into the toilet. When he came out, his hair was freshly combed, his eyelashes still wet from splashing water on his face.

‘Fucking bitch,’ he said, and drank his pint in silence.

After the second pint – it was still not six o’clock – he started talking again.

‘I fucking hate Blackpool. It’s a two-penny shitheap.’

‘Well I admit it’s not the Riviera …’

‘Stupid little virgins.’ He adopted a silly, singsong voice, and a bad attempt at a Lancashire accent. ‘Oooh, don’t touch my titties! Oooh, get your paws off my drawers! Oooh, that’s disgusting that is, I’m a nice girl I am!’ He knocked back a whisky. ‘Bollocks to that.’

‘It’s not like you to give up so easily,’ I said. ‘What with your blue balls and all.’

‘What do you know about my balls, other than bloody staring at them every chance you get?’