‘Gerald?’ The name was familiar from the muscle mags: Photo by Gerald, Studio Gerald. ‘The Gerald?’

‘In person,’ said the little man, extending a hand with a gold signet ring. The accent was hard to place, possibly American.

‘Gerald, allow me to introduce my dear friend Michael Medway, a very promising young photographer. You may recall the pictures I showed you of that dolly bit of rough in the posing pouch.’

‘Ah, what exceptional talent.’ I wasn’t sure if he was referring to me or the photographs. ‘You have the eye.’ He held on to my hand. ‘You could go far, my boy.’

‘All right, Gerald. Hands off. He’s mine.’

‘Come and see me some time.’ Gerald pulled a dirty, creased card from his wallet, which was bulging with banknotes. The card bore an Oxford Street address. ‘Now if you will excuse me, I have a little business to attend to. See you later!’

‘And we know what sort of business that is, don’t we?’ said Stephen, as Gerald resumed conversation with a uniformed sailor. ‘That one will be out of his bell bottoms before the night is over.’

‘Really?’

‘I don’t know how he gets away with it. He’s going to end up in prison, or worse.’

‘Why?’

Stephen lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Because, my dear, he does dirty pictures.’

‘You mean nudes?’ I thought of those photographs stashed at the back of the filing cabinet in faraway Reville.

‘And more. You know. Sexy stuff.’ He made a delicate masturbatory gesture. ‘Sometimes twos and threes.’

‘Oh my goodness.’ My cheeks were burning, and not just from the gin. ‘And he sells them, right there, out of his studio. I’ve seen them. I’ve been round to collect pics for the mag. He’s shown me. My dear! It would make your hair curl.’

‘But you don’t print nudes.’

‘Oh no. That’s for private customers only. You know, reply to the ad at the back of the mag, send off your postal order, get the catalogue, and if you can read between the lines of all that crap about uninhibited natural poses, you pop along to the studio with a wallet full of cash and voilà! All the cock you can eat.’

Gerald was lining up more drinks for his new discovery.

‘Look at him! Look at the money! My God, he’s as rich as Croesus. I wish I had a bit of that. I’d have a dinky little car and holidays in the south of France and dinner at posh restaurants and a nice husband to keep house for.’

‘Is that what you want?’

‘Yes, dear. Are you available at all?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Oh well. Some day my prince will come.’

‘And you’ll live happily ever after?’

‘Why not?’

‘That doesn’t happen for people like us.’

‘Oh! Like “us” now, is it?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I certainly do, dear. And why shouldn’t it? Why shouldn’t we get the same chance of happiness as everyone else?’

‘I don’t know. But we never will.’