I came off to applause, whistles, cheers. I walked right over to Black Alec’s table and sat down opposite him. The jukebox came back on. The owner brought me a whisky. So did a couple of punters, congratulating me on the best show they’d seen. The owner wanted to book me a regular slot, maybe hosting the club. And throughout, Alec didn’t take his eyes off me.

‘So,’ he said at last, ‘that was your routine?’

‘That was it,’ I said. I couldn’t see Emily. Maybe she’d spotted Alec and done a runner.

‘It was good,’ he said. ‘Really good.’

I looked at him. Was it possible…?

‘You can warm an audience up,’ he went on. ‘I could do with someone like you.’

‘You’re going to take me to one of your clubs and roast me on a spit?’ I guessed.

And he laughed, the way he’d laughed when we were kids. ‘I’m offering you work, Comedian. That way, I can keep an eye on you while you pay me what you owe me. How does that sound?’

‘It sounds great,’ I said, unable to keep the relief out of my voice.

‘The same set should do.’

And I nodded, while my insides turned to rubber. The same set? The one I’d improvised? I couldn’t remember it, couldn’t recall a single blessed punchline. And then Emily was marching towards me, waving a cassette.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘I taped you,’ she said, leaning down to kiss me. ‘Now you’ve got your portfolio.’

‘And my continuing good health,’ I said, kissing her back.

I used to think comedy came from wanting acceptance, wanting to be liked. Now I know differently. I know it’s all down to fear. Fear, ladies and gentlemen, is the only true comedian in town.

My choices that day were twofold: kill myself before or after the Prime Minister’s cocktail party? And if after, should I wear my Armani to the party, or the more sober YSL with the chalk stripe?

The invitation was gilt-edged, too big for the inside pocket of my workaday suit. Drinks and canapés, six p.m. till seven. A minion had telephoned to confirm my attendance, and to brief me on protocol. That had been two days ago. He’d explained that among the guests would be an American visiting London, a certain Joseph Hefferwhite. While not quite spelling it out – they never do, do they? – the minion was explaining why I’d been invited, and what my role on the night might be.

‘Joe Hefferwhite,’ I managed to say, clutching the receiver like it was so much straw.

‘I believe you share an interest in modern art,’ the minion continued.

‘We share an interest.’

He misunderstood my tone and laughed. ‘Sorry, “share an interest” was a bit weak, wasn’t it? My apologies.’

He was apologising because art is no mere interest of mine. Art was – is – my whole life. During the rest of our short and one-sided conversation, I stared ahead as though at some startling new design, trying to understand and explain, to make it all right with myself, attempting to wring out each nuance and stroke, each variant and chosen shape or length of line. And in the end there was… nothing. No substance, no revelation; just the bland reality of my situation and the simple framing device of suicide.

And the damnation was, it had been the perfect crime.

A dinner party ten years before. It was in Chelsea, deep in the heart of Margaret Thatcher’s vision of England. There were dissenters at the table – only a couple, and they could afford their little grumble: it wasn’t going to make Margaret Hilda disappear, and their own trappings were safe: the warehouse conversion in Docklands, the BMW, the Cristal champagne and black truffles.

Trappings: the word seems so much more resonant now.

So there we were. The wine had relaxed us, we were all smiling with inner and self-satisfied contentment (and wasn’t that the dream, after all?), and I felt just as at home as any of them. I knew I was there as the Delegate of Culture. Among the merchant bankers and media figures, political jobsworths and ‘somethings’ (and dear God, there was an estate agent there too, if memory serves – that fad didn’t last long), I was there to reassure them that they were composed of something more lasting and nourishing than mere money, that they had some meaning in the wider scheme. I was there as curator to their sensibilities.

In truth, I was and am a Senior Curator at the Tate Gallery, with special interest in twentieth-century North American art (by which I mean paintings: I’m no great enthusiast of modern sculpture, yet less of more radical sideshows – performance art, video art, all that). The guests at the table that evening made the usual noises about artists whose names they couldn’t recall but who did ‘green things’ or ‘you know, that horse and the shadow and everything’. One foolhardy soul (was it the estate agent?) digressed on his fondness for certain wildlife paintings, and trumpeted the news that his wife had once bought a print from Christie’s Contemporary Art.

When another guest begged me to allow that my job was ‘on the cushy side’, I placed knife and fork slowly on plate and did my spiel. I had it down to a fine art – allow the pun, please – and talked fluently about the difficulties my position posed, about the appraisal of trends and talents, the search for major new works and their acquisition.

‘Imagine’, I said, ‘that you are about to spend half a million pounds on a painting. In so doing, you will elevate the status of the artist, turn him or her into a rich and sought-after talent. They may disappoint you thereafter and fail to paint anything else of interest, in which case the resale value of the work will be negligible, and your own reputation will have been tarnished – perhaps even more than tarnished. Every day, every time you are asked for your opinion, your reputation is on the line. Meanwhile, you must propose exhibitions, must plan them – which often means transporting works from all around the world – and must spend your budget wisely.’

‘You mean like, do I buy four paintings at half a mil each, or push the pedal to the floor with one big buy at two mil?’

I allowed my questioner a smile. ‘In crude economic terms, yes.’

‘Do you get to take pictures home?’ our hostess asked.

‘Some works – a few – are loaned out,’ I conceded. ‘But not to staff.’

‘Then to whom?’

‘People in prominence, benefactors, that sort of person.’

‘All that money,’ the Docklands woman said, shaking her head, ‘for a bit of paint and canvas. It almost seems like a crime when there are homeless on the streets.’

‘Disgraceful,’ someone else said. ‘Can’t walk along the Embankment without stumbling over them.’

At which point our hostess stumbled into the silence to reveal that she had a surprise. ‘We’ll take coffee and brandy in the morning room, during which you’ll be invited to take part in a murder.’

She didn’t mean it, of course, though more than one pair of eyes strayed to the Docklanders, more in hope than expectation. What she meant was that we’d be participating in a parlour game. There had been a murder (her unsmiling husband the cajoled corpse, miraculously revivified whenever another snifter of brandy was offered), and we were to look for clues in the room. We duly searched, somewhat in the manner of children who wish to please their elders. With half a dozen clues gathered, the Docklands woman surprised us all by deducing that our hostess had committed the crime – as indeed she had.

We collapsed thankfully on to the sofas and had our glasses refilled, after which the conversation came around to crime – real and imagined. It was now that the host became animated for the first time that night. He was a collector of whodunnits and fancied himself an expert.

‘The perfect crime,’ he told us, ‘as everyone knows, is one where no crime has been committed.’