She bounced down off the stool, threw on her coat and, before Stanley could decide whether to object, steered him by the shoulders out of Café Italia and into the cold night. She linked his arm with hers and huddled into him, precipitating an unexpected torrent of sweat that ran down his back to gather in a pool just above his belt.

‘Let’s walk to mine. It’s not often I get to walk through London in the early hours. You can only do it with a male accomplice, really.’

She led him through the cramped streets of Soho, past the Chinese groceries and eateries and the trashy strip-joints and peepshows; they cut through the glare of Leicester Square, still buzzing with tourists and clubbers and indiscreet street walkers. Entering the quieter refinement of Long Acre, they strolled into Covent Garden, across the cobblestones of the deserted Italianate piazza by St Paul’s Church, down by the side of the market, into Southampton Street, then on to the Strand, heading east.

Whenever Stanley tried to lead, Jessie speeded up so that he was always half a step behind. He didn’t mind. He wasn’t noticing anything much except the sensation of the body that was rubbing up against his side.

‘That Harley Street specialist told me never to sing again. So I turned my hand to comedy. Do you think it was easy getting up on stage and telling gags in 1970? I was shot down on account of my colour or gender or the size of my protuberances or usually all three by those bastards. So it became no-holds-barred expletives and jokes of the lewdest nature.’

… All heart and humour, that’s me,

bombastic, wise-cracking, ballsy bitch,

up there on stage giving it large,

like my sole mission on this planet

is to make them crack up

so’s they forget their sorry little lives.

But what about mine, eh?

What about my rumbling stomach,

my hole in the flamin’ breakin’ bleedin’

no-one-gives-a-damn-do-they-heart?

Where’s my handyman-cum-plumber,

my caretaker, welder, electrician,

what won’t short-circuit me for a change?

You see, no sod’ll go the distance,

not when he’s been sold a go-getter,

then creeps out of bed one night

to find me slid down the bathroom wall,

a snivelling heap of snot on the floor.

‘The eighties blew in and with it that craze called alternative comedy. All of a sudden my mullet-headed, baccy-chewing great god of an agent Wyn McGregor acquired one of those new-fangled things called an answer-phone and that was that. Miss wearing my best bib and tucker, Stanley. Still do, to this day.’

‘Of course you miss the adulation too.’

Jessie stiffened and snapped, ‘Freud now, is it?’

When Stanley looked hurt instead of rising to the bait, she found her anger subsiding. Maybe she wouldn’t have to fight this one. She was so tired of fighting.

… Had to be a warrior in those days,