Tommy fitted me up with a tiny buttonhole camera disguised as a brooch that I wore on my lapel. He also chose me an outfit that he considered appropriate – a white blouse with the top button undone, a grey trouser suit jacket and a pair of skinny jeans. He allowed me to wear my Doc Martens. We arrived at the wine bar separately. Tommy took a seat at the bar and I sat near the back in a ‘cosy corner’ ideal for courting couples. I would usually read a book when sat on my own to discourage unwanted approaches, but tonight I needed to look available.

The Chump arrived about ten minutes after us and actually struck up a conversation with Tommy at the bar. He later told me that his first words were: ‘Not a lot of fanny in here tonight.’ The Chump would occasionally stare over at me and when he did I would try to encourage him by smiling back and acting fidgety, hoping to give the impression that I was uncomfortable being sat alone. Eventually he walked over to my table with a bottle of plonk and a couple of fresh glasses.

‘You on your own?’ he enquired.

‘Yeah, I think I’ve been stood up, I was just about to leave,’ I replied.

‘Oh, don’t do that. Come on, let’s drown our sorrows together,’ he suggested as he took the seat next to me and started to pour out two very large glasses.

The Chump was around forty years old and worked at a bank in central London. You would have guessed that without my help. He wore a dark blue suit, white shirt and a very thinly knotted light blue tie. His complexion was piggy pink and his lips were non-existent. His hair was sandy brown, brushed back over his crown and his ears, and held tightly in situ by some sort of hair grease. He smelt of Windolene and spearmint. Not unpleasant after the initial hit had faded. His accent was posh and nasal.

‘So, what fool of a bloke has stood up such a sweet thing like you?’ he asked.

‘Oh, just some guy from work. It wasn’t a definite arrangement or anything,’ I replied.

‘My name’s Laurence, by the way.’ (It wasn’t. His name was John. John Bell.)

‘Pleased to meet you. Is that really your surname? “Bytheway”?’

‘Oh no, not at all. I should have said, “Incidentally, my name is Laurence.” Ha ha, that’s hilario. My surname is Romano. My father was Italian, you see. Owned a canning factory on the outskirts of somewhere or other. Massive place. Produced over a million tins per annum – pasta, peaches and fuckloads of peas. Do you like a tinned pea? I prefer to do it in the toilet, ha ha, hilario. This is the greatest of fun.’