‘When are you likely to be down here again? I want to see you, Cliff.’

I realised that I wanted to see her, too. Badly. Being back at work and on something interesting was all very well, but I needed warmth. Viv had said I was sour. I didn’t feel sour, especially when I heard Sarah’s voice. She was a part-time soul singer and her voice had a special quality.

‘I’m back in business, Sarah. It’s great to hear from you.’

‘Busy, eh, baby? Well get here soon.’

I went to the Toxteth in an uppish mood, didn’t drink too much and Daphne Rowley and I held the pool table until our eyes got crossed.

Sophie Marjoram had an office in Paddington not far from the Five Ways. It was wedged between an art gallery and an antique dealer with a pub just across the street and a coffee shop half a block away. Ideal location. Sophie specialised in all aspects of the film and television business. She was an agent for writers, directors, actors, sound engineers, special effects people, stunt persons, you name it. It was a good niche that enabled her, sometimes, to get quite a few of her clients in on the one film or TV production and guarantee stability and reliability. And lock in good commissions for herself. She didn’t have any of the big names.

‘Don’t want ’em,’ she’d told me when I first met her. ‘Nothing but ego, ego, ego. I’ve had a few on the way up who’ve left me when they made it, and come back to me on the way down. A microcosm of life’s what it feels like sometimes.’

Our appointment was for 10 am. I showed up on time and she was late. She came hurrying along the street, high-heeled boots tapping, flowing skirt flapping and with a mobile phone glued to her ear. Still listening and talking she dug keys out of her bag, opened the door and waved me inside.

‘Fuck you,’ she said and switched off the phone.

‘Another successful negotiation, Soph?’

‘It will be, it will be.’