He waltzed around the living room. ‘Isn’t it divine?’ Two large windows looked down on to Queensway, there were two red leather Chesterfields and an awful lot of objets d’art.

‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘Where am I …?’

‘In the guest room, of course. Unless …’ He posed seductively in the doorway. ‘No. Thought not. Well, you can’t blame a girl for trying. Here we are. All the comforts of home.’

There was a divan, an armchair, and a dressing table with a vase of chrysanthemums on it.

‘It’s very nice. Thank you for the flowers.’

‘I’m blushing! Now get out of that ghastly drab and get yourself zhoozhed. We’re going out.’

When I emerged ten minutes later, he looked disapproving. ‘Oh dear. Oh very dear.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘We’re going out. We’re not going to church.’

I was wearing flannel trousers, a navy blue blazer, a white shirt and a plaid tie.

‘Please don’t be offended, but would you mind if I just …’ He loosened my tie, undid the top button of my shirt. ‘No, not quite. Let me see …’ He removed the tie altogether, and rearranged the shirt collar outside my jacket. ‘Better. I don’t suppose you’d consider a cravat?’

‘No, I would not.’

‘Shame. Well, one more button.’

‘I can do that for myself, thank you very much.’

‘Oooh, Airman Medway, I’m not trying to undress you!’

We walked through Hyde Park, where a few determined sunbathers soaked up the last rays of the afternoon. ‘I say,’ said Stephen, gazing at a particularly tanned young man who was getting dressed as slowly as possible, ‘isn’t he bona?’

As we proceeded along Piccadilly, he got bolder.

‘Look! There’s Vauxhall Vera! Oooh-ooh! Vera!’

A figure in a loud check jacket lurched out of a doorway. ‘Hello Stevie, dear. Who’s the trade?’

‘This isn’t trade, dear. Allow me to introduce my good friend Michael. Michael, this is Vera, the biggest queen this side of Buckingham Palace.’

‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Vera, extending a hand weighed down with bangles, the nails perfect ovals, French polished. ‘My, what a strong grip. First time out, dear?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Well watch her.’ He nodded towards Stephen. ‘She’s notorious.’

‘Oh!’ Stephen pulled me away. ‘We’re not listening to another word!’ We proceeded on our way, arm in arm. ‘Honestly. She’s such a wicked bitch. Talk about the pot calling the kettle beige.’

I disentangled myself. ‘Please, Stephen. That’s enough.’

‘You’ve been in the RAF too long. Time to relax.’

‘It’s just so … effeminate.’

‘Well? I am effeminate.’

‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’

Stephen walked on. ‘I’m not offended. I know what I am. The doctors at Halton told me often enough. I am an effeminate homosexual, an invert, a path … What’s the word?’

‘Pathic.’

‘A pathic. That’s right. I’m one of them and all. What are you?’

We stopped outside Simpsons and looked at the windows. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Let’s go and find out, then.’ He squeezed my arm again. ‘Look at those lovely cream leather gloves. Oh, let me buy them for you, Michael, please.’