Stephen was waiting on the platform at Euston. In the months since I’ve seen him, he’s been transformed. His hair is longer, of course; everyone grows their hair out after demob. But Stephen’s wasn’t just long – it was done. It curled up in a lustrous golden quiff, it was cut into the back of his neck, and when he saw me looking he proudly patted it. His face glistened, his high cheekbones catching the light. His eyes were dark. A herringbone scarf was tossed over one shoulder. His shirt was pale green, his sweater salmon pink. He wore blue jeans – real, genuine blue denim jeans – and the same brown suede loafers as I’d seen on the train. That myth was based on fact, then. As soon as I opened the carriage door, he raised his arms in a double-handed wave.

‘Michael!’ Heads turned. The two young queers stared and whispered. I stepped down, and made sure my suitcase was between me and Stephen, in case he tried to take my arm.

He started talking immediately. ‘Oh, there’s so much to tell you! I can’t believe how much has happened! Well of course getting out was the best thing I ever did, you should have seen their faces when they found me lying there like Theda Bara in the back of that old ambulance, screaming my tits off.’

‘Yes. I want a word about that.’

‘Wasn’t it marvellous? Oh, hello boys, what’s a nice girl like me doing in a dump like this. I thought they were going to ravish me, my dear!’

We bought Tube tickets and descended the escalator.

‘You might have warned me of your plans.’

‘If you’d played your cards right, you could have been out by now as well.’

‘I have no desire to be “out”, as you put it.’

He pursed his lips and looked at me. ‘You’ll change your tune soon enough. Here’s our train. Westward ho!’

I sweated all the way round the Circle line, convinced that people were staring. We made an odd couple: me in my uniform, Stephen in his. I shuddered at every flap of his wrists, every crossing and re-crossing of his legs, every emphasised sibilant. But nobody stared, nobody even looked. A handsome older man in a sports jacket, perhaps forty, caught my eye and smiled, but got off at Edgware Road.

Stephen kept chattering. ‘You’ll love my flat, it’s quite bijou. Room for us both, and room for a friend if it comes to that. Oh, I’ve had some marvellous parties already, we can really let our hair down. And of course it’s convenient for everything, the Serpentine, Earl’s Court, Chelsea, and I mean if the handbag’s empty you can practically walk everywhere, and you always bump into someone you know, or if you’re lucky, someone you don’t!’

We got out at Bayswater.

‘Welcome to Fairyland!’ said Stephen. ‘Now, let’s get you out of that ghastly uniform.’

The flat was in an elegant redbrick block, with a carpeted lobby and a lift. I wondered how much Stephen was earning as the art director of Muscle Boy magazine.