Well, that made me think, I must say.

“How did you know Sam was going to be away?” I asked.

Carl looked me in the eye. “I’m ashamed to say that he wrote to me on behalf of His Royal Highness asking me to read a poem at the Prince’s Trust Concert and instead of agreeing, as naturally I normally would have done, I… Well, it seemed like fate.”

I was amazed. He had waited until he knew my husband was out of town and had then brazenly asked me out to dinner!

“This is a planned seduction!” I exclaimed and he continued to stare me in the eye and replied that he certainly hoped so.

God, I must have been the colour of a shy beetroot.

“Carl, I’m married! I… I love my husband. You can’t possibly be serious! I shouldn’t even be here.”

“Then why did you come?” he asked, and I’m afraid to say he had me there. I mean I could have protested that I had accepted his invitation entirely innocently, but after what had gone on between us before? Hardly. And me sitting there with my hair done and a breast-flattering new silk top on? The truth of the matter was that there was no way that this meeting could be innocent. I was just avoiding the truth because I was scared of it.

Carl answered his own question. “You’re here because you’re lonely, Lucy. Because you need tenderness and passion and you’re not getting it. I can see the longing in your eyes.”

I tried to protest that it wasn’t true, but I’d lost the power of forming a coherent sentence, what with the champagne and the fact that in some ways… Oh God, he was right.

“I’ve tried to do the honourable thing and keep away as I said I would,” Carl said, “but when this chance came along I couldn’t fight it any longer. I’ve wanted you from the first day we met, Lucy. You fascinate me. I don’t know any other women like you.”

This couldn’t be true, surely? I mean Carl Phipps is a star, a heart-throb. He could have the pick of the bunch. I put this to him but he insisted that I was different, that he really did want me above all others. Before I knew it, there we were holding hands again. I really don’t know if I encouraged this but I do know that I had left my hand lying prone between us upon the table and when he elegantly rested his hand upon it, I did not withdraw.

Therefore, I suppose I’m as guilty for what ensued as he.

The hospitality backstage was really buzzing. Charlie Stone was doing some interviews to be cut into the broadcast whenever any of the old rockers got into a particularly long guitar solo. I hung around with him and his recordist for a while, partly to let people know that I did have some status and also, let’s face it, because he was interviewing absolutely gorgeous girls, including Brenda.

“So, Brenda,” said Charlie. “What do you say to people who call you a sexist stereotype?”

Brenda drew herself up to her full height, which was about five feet nothing, and answered the charge.

“Well, I think they’re the sexists because they don’t understand that me being proud of my body and getting my kit off is actually all about being strong, and female empowerment and the me I want me to be.”

“Well, it certainly gives me the horn,” Charlie said, getting to the point, so to speak. Brenda smiled a gorgeous smile as if her point had been proved and honour satisfied.

Next I found myself in Joe London’s dressing room. Woody Monk was there, of course, and Wally, the drug-addled lead guitarist of The Muvvers and Joe’s sidekick for nearly thirty years. Wally looked quite extraordinary, like a mummified corpse. He reminded me of that Stone Age hunter they found after he’d been frozen for twenty thousand years in the Alps, except Wally had a feathered haircut with a spiky top which had only been preserved for about thirty years. They were rehearsing one of The Muvvers’ early hits and Joe and Wally seemed to be having a little trouble remembering exactly how the song went. Joe said, “Nah, man, you go fahkin’ da da da dum after the second line when I sing, ‘Youngest gun, dream won’t stop’ awight?”

This threw Wally completely. “Is that the lyric?” he mumbled with apparent surprise.

“Of course it’s the fahkin’ lyric. I mean we’ve only done it eight trillion fahkin’ times, geezer!”

“Well, that’s amazing, man,” said Wally. “I always thought you were singing ‘Currant bun, cream on top’. In’t that amazing?”

Then Joe saw me. It took a moment for him to focus, but he recognized me, which was nice and he seemed genuinely pleased to see me. I told him how proud and happy the BBC were that he and the band had graced us with their presence and he couldn’t have been sweeter about it.

“I larve a big gig, me. A nice big charity gig. ’Ere, Wally, you remember that one we done for RockAid with Mark Knopfler and the Straits?”

“Nah,” said Wally. Silly question really because it was quite obvious that Wally did not really remember anything at all.

“Mark done this guitar solo,” Joe continued, “you know, the one in the middle of ‘Sultans of Swing’… dabadaba dabadab dabad-aba daaaa daaa, he would not stop, daaaa dabadaba dabadab dabadaba daaaa, people was nodding off, going out for fags, getting married, ’aving kids, dying. Mark’s still giving it dabadaba dabadab dabadaba daaaa. ‘Pack it in, you ponce!’ we was all shouting, but old Mark was off in Dabadabaland. In the end we just left ’im to it. I think it’s still going on somewhere as it ’appens.”

Just then Rod Stewart puts his head around the door to say hello. I must admit it was all pretty exciting.

“Rod! ’Ow’s it going, you old bastard? Orlright?” Joe said. “Nice one. ’Ow’s Britt? Sorry Alana. ’Ow’s Alana?”

This was of course something of a faux pas.

“Not Alana, you pillock,” said Monk. “He moved on.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. ’Ow’s Rachel?” Joe corrected himself.

“I don’t fink it’s ’er any more eiver,” said Monk.

“Well, whatever, ven, the new one, ’ow is she?” Joe seemed impervious to social embarrassment. “I saw that calendar she done. Lovely girl, beautiful.”

“Very tasteful,” Monk added.

“Yeah, that’s right, it was tasty, very tasty, that one with the sand stuck to her bum that was well flipping artistic, that was… Yeah, see ya, Rod, keep rocking, mate.”

Rod having gone on his way, Joe turned back to me.

“Lovely bloke, top geezer. Diamond. ’Asn’t changed at all. Still loves his soccer. That’s what I like abaht gigs like this. They bring out the best in all of us. We’re here to support starvation abroad and drug abuse at home. Just a bunch of top geezers and stunning birds coming together to help uvver people. No ego. No attitude. Just cats wot care.”

At this point, Toni, Joe’s supermodel wife, entered. All seven and a half feet of her. She had to stoop to get through the door. I recognized her from the pages of Hello! She seemed angry.

“Here, Joe,” she said. “I’ve just been having a natter with Iman Bowie…”

“Lovely girl,” Joe interjected, “stunning bird. She ’as been so good for David.”

“Yeah well, they’ve got champagne in their dressing room and what have we got, bleeding Australian Chardonnay, what if Iman or Yasmin or any of the girls come in and I offer them that? I’ll be shamed…”

Seeing as how it was the BBC who were in effect hosting the event and hence responsible for the catering, I made my excuses and left. The show was about to start anyway. I really wanted to ring Lucy to tell her about meeting Joe and Rod and Mirage and Brenda and about the whole fantastic show, but I knew she wanted a quiet night and was probably already in bed.

Three bottles of wine between us, a quick “Perhaps we should have coffee somewhere quieter,” and suddenly I’m in a taxi heading for his place. Yes, we were snogging and, yes, now there were definitely tongues involved and, yes, he was using his hands, upstairs and outside only but when all you’re wearing is a silk blouse, quite frankly it might as well have been inside.