‘Do you know what I think it was with that one – and I’m still off the record here, Neil. I’ll let you know when we go on, eh. What it was, I think, was she never could just settle down. She had to keep itching away at the next thing and the next, she never really grew up, you know what I’m saying. I mean, when we were together – I actually asked her to marry me, can you imagine. What a close escape that was, eh. She wouldn’t have made a politician’s wife, would our Clio. She broke my heart at the time, right enough, but when I think of taking her along to, say, dinner with the Prime Minister, or even officiating at a constituents’ evening? Oof. I mean, at the time she turned me down, she said, “I’m not the marrying kind, Gogs,” and I thought she was being cool, you know, that this was her feminist principles or whatever. Something to admire about it, even. A younger man then, Neil. A younger man. But then she went and married that music guy and I’ll admit it, even though I was very happy with Sharon by that point, there was a part of me that took that as a punch to the stomach. You know what I’m saying, pal. That didn’t last, though, did it? I met him, you know, some sort of council bash or something. He was looking at moving his festival to East Ren at the time. I did say to him, after a couple, “I understand we have an old flame in common, pal,” you know, and I regret that. You don’t refer to a man’s wife as an old flame, ex-wife even. There are lines, Neil. There are lines.’

‘There are lines, Gogs.’

‘Always struck me as a bit of a Flash Harry type, that one. She probably thought she was going up in the world with him. No conscience, do anything for a buck. I mind I thought at the time that they wouldn’t have that much in common. You know. You know, pal.’

Neil knew.

Last night, in the pub, he’d spun a vision of himself, one of those legendary Rolling Stone journalists matching the band drink for drink, putting everything on expenses, turning in definitive interviews down the line to the copy desk from truck stops and neon-blasted motels, and round the table everyone had nodded, believed him.

Squinting through the hangover now, digging his hands into the disintegrating foam of the Skoda’s seat as his stomach lurched with each swerve, he felt embarrassed for himself. Beside him, Deek clenched the wheel, his pink head bumping the car’s ceiling. Neil could have been sitting on a nice calm train now, reading the papers, gazing at the scenery; however, both his editor and Danny the tour manager had been keen for this, the much cheaper option.