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spread of his bald spot – hereditary - and the ebb and flow of his waistline - alcohol indulgence; plus, he was utterly supportive of my aromatherapy business. In fact, he was still my most loyal customer. I could never resist the look of melting adoration in his eyes when, after a hard day on the run from the Inland Revenue or the local constabulary, he persuaded me to give him an Indian head massage or a Reiki session.
    Gavin was self-employed, as a… well, a sort of…. a sort of person who consulted others on how to avoid the Inland Revenue, I supposed. A kind of professional Dodgy Person. Actually, he helped people who wanted to set up restaurants and things; for a percentage of the profits, he sourced properties and arranged finance and wooed investors. That was the official story, anyhow. And for someone with such a dislike of the bourgeoisie, he was surprisingly well-connected. Local businessmen and posh totty kind of adopted him as their token rough diamond.
    When Gavin had money, he was incredibly generous, and took me and Stella out for very expensive meals at Pharmacy or The Atlantic Bar and Grill, where he seemed to know everybody. He was constantly nodding and waving and nipping over for improbable little chats with anorexic ladies dressed in Burberry. If he was skint, however, although he would still take me out for dinner, it was more likely to be to a Pizza Express where, as a finale to the evening, he sometimes dragged me out without paying the bill, the angry shouts of the waiters ringing mortifyingly in my ears. Mum and Dad would have hated him, and I wondered why this still bothered me.
    Twenty minutes later I was still standing outside the Royal Albert Hall, cold, pissed off, and faintly nauseous. I had stopped thinking about Gavin’s good points, and drifted into some less favourable descriptions.
    If I ever visualised the demise of our relationship, I always assumed that it would have something to do with his penchant for standing me up. It was the one thing which had always annoyed me most about him, even more than his dodgy dealings and questionable ethics. There had been so many restaurants on so many occasions; me sitting alone at the table, getting progressively more fed up and miserable.
    There was an episode of The Simpsons where the teacher, Mrs. Krabappel, went on a blind date to a smart restaurant, dewey-eyed and hopeful in her best dress. But Bart Simpson had set the whole thing up as a hoax, and Mrs. K. was stood up. You saw her sitting expectantly at the table sipping a drink, surrounded by the other diners, then slumping slightly down in her chair, the candle burning lower, her hair gradually becoming less coiffed; until finally hours had passed, the restaurant was empty, and waiters were putting the chairs on the tables and sweeping the floor around her. The candle had burned out altogether and Mrs. Krabappel’s head had drooped down onto her folded arms in despair. I always identified completely with that scene.
    At seven fifteen I rang Gavin’s mobile - God knows why, because he always turned it off when he was late for something, to avoid getting yelled at. I left a crabby message on his voicemail. At seven forty five I left a really nasty second message, saying he was an asshole, I was going in without him, and I’d leave his ticket on the door although it would serve him right if I flogged it to a tout.
    By the time I was ushered into my seat, I’d missed the first three songs, and I was fuming and upset. After the couple next to me had glanced over at me once or twice, I realised that I was muttering to myself.
    I eventually simmered down enough to pay full attention to the music, only to be hit by an overwhelming sensation of missing Dad. I visualised him in Gavin’s empty seat, cheering and probably jumping up to dance, infecting everyone around with his enthusiasm whilst almost certainly embarrassing the pants off me. The feeling hit me in the stomach, almost taking my