The risk of meeting people he knew was acute. He remem- bered how Dr Watson in the first Sherlock Holmes story had described Piccadilly Circus as a great cesspool into which every idler and lounger of the Empire was irresistibly drained. It seemed now that as the Empire had dwindled in size, so the strength of the Circus's pull had grown. Britain was a draining bath and Piccadilly, its plug-hole, now seemed almost audibly to gurgle as it sucked in the last few gallons of waste.
It was part of Adrian's job, in the centre of the whirlpool, to scrutinise every face that eddied past. Innocent passers-by tended not to meet the glances of strangers, so he usually found himself able to turn away in time if there was someone he knew in the area.
One rainy afternoon, however, about a fortnight after the meeting with his Uncle David, while sheltering in a favourite pitch under the columns of Swan and Edgar, touting for business, he caught sight of Dr Meddlar, without his dog collar but unmistakable nevertheless, coming up the steps from the Underground.
Term must be over, Adrian thought as he concealed himself behind a pillar.
He watched Meddlar look left and right before crossing over to Boots the Chemists under the neon signs. Greg and Mark, a couple of skinheads that Adrian knew, were going about their unlawful business there, and he was amazed to see Meddlar stop and talk to one of them. He was trying to look casual, but to Adrian's knowing eye it was perfectly clear that formal discussions were taking place.
Hopping through the traffic, Adrian approached from behind.
'Why, Dr Meddlar!' he cried, slapping him bonhomously on the back.
Meddlar spun round.
'Healey!'
'My dear old Chaplain, how simply splendid to see you!' Adrian shook him warmly by the hand. 'But let me give you a piece of advice - verb sap as we used to say at the dear old school - if they're asking more than a tenner for you to suck their cocks, you're being ripped off.'
Meddlar went white and stepped backwards off the kerb.
'You're leaving?' Adrian was disappointed. 'Oh, if you must. But any time you're in need of rough sex let me know and I'll fix you up with something. But as the man said in Casablanca, "Beware, there are vultures everywhere. Everywhere, vultures.'"
Meddlar disappeared into a mess of spray and car horns.
'Remember the Green Cross Code,' Adrian called after him. 'Because I won't be there when you cross the road.'
The skinheads were not pleased.
'You bastard, Hugo! We were about to score.'
'I'll pay you in full, my dears,' said Adrian. 'It was worth it. Meanwhile let me stand you both a Fanta in the Wimpy. There's no action going on in this bloody rain.'
They sat by the window, automatically scanning the crowds that blurred past.
'Why did he call you "Healey"?' asked Greg. 'I thought your name was Bullock?'
'Healey was my nickname,' said Adrian. 'I used to do impressions of Denis Healey the politician, you see. It sort of stuck.'
'Oh.'
'What a silly billy,' Adrian added, by way of proof.
'That's just like him!'
'Well, it's just like Mike Yarwood anyway.'
'And that guy really was a vicar?'
'School Chaplain, on my life.'
'Bloody hell. He was asking Terry and me if we'd tie him up. And him a bleeding Collar.'
'"I struck the board and cried No More!" said Adrian, folding his hands in prayer.
'You what?'
'George Herbert. A poem called "The Collar". It must have passed you by somehow. "Have I no garlands gay? All blasted? All wasted? Not so my heart: but there is fruit, and thou hast hands."'
'Oh. Right. Yeah.'
'You were the garlands gay, the fruit. And his hands were about to lay themselves on you, I suspect. He must have forgotten how it ends. "At every word, Methought I heard one calling, Child! And I replied, My Lord."'
'You don't half rabbit, do you?'
'It's a splendid poem, you'd love it. I can sprint down to Hatchards and buy a copy if you'd like.'
'Fuck off.'
'Yes, well, there is that side to it too, of course,' Adrian conceded. 'Now, if you'll forgive me, I've got to nip next door to Boots and get myself some more lotion for the old crabs.'
About two months later he was picked up by an actor.
'I know you,' Adrian said, as they sat back in the taxi.
The actor took off his sunglasses.
'Christ!'Adrian giggled.'You're - '
'Just call me Guy,' said the actor. 'It's my real name.'
A famous trick! Adrian thought to himself. I've turned a famous trick!
He stayed the night, something he had been warned against. Guy had woken him up with smoked salmon and scrambled eggs and a kiss.
'I couldn't believe you were trade, honey,' he said. 'I saw you walk from Playland to the Dilly and I couldn't fucking believe it.'
'Oh well,' said Adrian modestly, 'I haven't been at it long.'
'And Hugo, too! My favourite name. It's always been my favourite name.'
'One does one's best.'
'Will you stay with me, Hugo baby?'
The invitation couldn't have come at a better time for Adrian. Three days before he had caught sight of himself in the mirror of the Regent Palace Hotel cloakroom and been shocked to see the face of a whore looking back at him.
He didn't know how or why he had changed, but he had. Only the tiniest amount of bumfluff grew on his chin and when he shaved it off he was still as smooth as a ten-year-old. His hair was shorter, but not coiffured or poncey. His jeans were tight, but no tighter than any student's. Yet the face had screamed 'Rent'.
He smiled engagingly at the mirror. A cheap invitation leered back.
He raised his eyebrows and tried a lost, innocent look.
Fifteen quid for a blow-job. Nothing up the arse, his reflection replied.
A couple of weeks out of the Dilly would give him a chance to bring back some of the peaches and cream.
Guy lived in a small house in Chelsea and was about to start shooting a film at Shepperton Studios. He had been cruising Piccadilly for a last treat before throwing himself into five weeks of rising at six and working till eight.
'But now I've got a friend to come home to. It's wonderful, honey, wonderful!'
Adrian thought that to have someone to answer the telephone, do the shopping and keep the place tidy for him was indeed wonderful.
'I had an Irish cleaner once, but the bitch threatened to go to the press, so I don't trust anyone to come in now. I trust you, though, cutie-pie.' i The public school accent. If only they knew.
'I may be right, I may be wrong,' he sang to himself in the shower, 'But I'm perfectly willing to swear, That when you turned and smiled at me, A prostitute wept in Soho Square.'
So Adrian stayed and learnt how to cook and shop and be charming at dinner parties. Guy's friends were mostly producers and writers and actors, only a few of them gay. Adrian was the only one who called him Guy, which added a special and publicly endearing touch to the friendship. Guy was thirty-five and had been married at the age of nineteen. The child from this marriage lived with the ex-wife, an actress who had taken Guy's announcement of homosexuality very badly, instantly remarrying and denying Guy any access to his son.
'He must be about your age now, couple of years younger perhaps. I bet he's a screaming madam. It would serve the bitch right.'
One evening Guy's agent, Michael Morahan, and his wife Angela came to dinner. They arrived before Guy had returned from Shepperton so Adrian did his best to entertain them in the kitchen where he was chopping peppers.
'We've heard a lot about you,' said Angela, dropping her ocelot stole onto the kitchen table.
'Golden opinions, I trust?'
'Oh yes, you've done Tony nothing but good.'