‘Absolutely not. Come on. Wherever we’re going, let’s go there.’

He marched me along the street towards Eros.

‘Emerald City is closer and prettier than ever!’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Here!’

From the outside, it looked no different from any other West End pub: etched glass windows, a bit of dirty red carpet under the worn doormat, a grimy sign that announced it as The Standard. The bar was almost empty, a few couples sipping halves of bitter or gin and tonics.

‘Follow me!’ Stephen opened a door on to a staircase. Laughter, music and smoke poured down. The couples cringed, and looked at the floor. ‘Up you go.’

The upstairs bar was crowded with men, some in business suits, some in casual jackets, a few in colourful sweaters and a smattering of military uniforms. Stephen was greeted on every side with shrieks and laughter, even a few pecks on the cheek. Bangles jangled and eyes rolled. From the jukebox, Connie Francis asked ‘Who’s Sorry Now?’

I was. I would have backed out, but there were others coming up behind me.

‘Come on, let me introduce you to some interesting people. Look over there! That’s him off the telly!’

I recognised a familiar face. ‘What on earth is he doing here?’

‘That soldier, by the look of things.’

We fought our way through to a space between the bar and the window, and I stood with my back to the wall. I had already been touched half a dozen times.

‘See over there?’

‘Oh my God.’ Squeezed into a tight white T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans was a body that I recognised from the pages of Man’s World. ‘He’s not … is he?’

‘If the price is right he is. That’s that film bloke he’s talking to. Casting-Couch Carol, we call her. Don’t stare.’

‘Jesus!’

‘What? Is she here too?’

‘I’ve just seen someone I was in basic with.’ I shielded my face, hoping the young man in question wouldn’t see me.

‘Oh, they all come in here. I’ve met no end. You’d be surprised. Even the butchest ones.’

‘Why?’

‘Is he in uniform, your friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then he’s on the batter.’

‘The … batter?’

‘The game. The rent.’

‘He can’t be. He was always talking about girls.’

‘They’re the worst, dear. Bore you to death on the subject, even while you’re … Well, you know.’

‘But you don’t … do you?’

‘What? Pay for it? No, dear, not me. I can’t afford those fancy prices. I say, look sharp! Off they go!’ The television personality was leading his new uniformed friend towards the stairs. ‘He’s got rooms in Half Moon Street, I believe. Oh, if walls could talk!’

‘But it’s so dangerous.’

‘Not really, as long as you have an understanding landlady and you don’t pick up a blackmailer.’

‘Blackmail? Oh my God.’

‘Doesn’t frighten me, dear. I’m beyond blackmail. I mean, who are they going to tell? My family? My employer?’

‘The police.’

‘Oh, them. But if they tell the police, they’d be in trouble too, wouldn’t they? Because I’d stand up in court and tell them everything. Everything! Ooh, I’d make their eyes water.’