He is working on his latest novel (sic), which is in the Pretty Woman genre. His Richard Grere is a world-weary old man with a touch of the palsy, loosely modelled on a lounge lizard to be found in the Midland Hotel, Manchester, most Saturday nights.

He is in his early sixties and stands over six feet, slightly stooped at the shoulders, black hair swept-back streaked with grey, black moustache beneath a hooked nose. His left leg shakes slightly with what he suspects may be Parkinson’s. A handsome man with an air of command about him; an officer and a gentleman some would say, mostly those that don’t know him too well.

His Julia Roberts is a single parent, absolutely drop-dead gorgeous (aren't they all?) - called Siobhan, curiously enough - with dodgy teeth and an eye to the main chance. His Siobhan is loosely modelled on a waitress/student of modern languages they met in the Moulin Rouge, Deansgate, with perfect teeth and lovely eyes, who taught them with much laughter, love and generosity of spirit how to say 'Siobhan'.

Oh, Siobhan, Siobhan, Siobhan...

He is shivering uncontrollably, his clothes lie on the floor in a sodden heap. It is colder in the flat than it is outside. She offers him a dressing gown. ‘It’s the only one I have,’ she says apologetically, seeing the look on his face. It is pink with a frilly collar and cuffs, a woman’s thing. He puts it on gratefully and turns his attention to the boiler to hide his foolishness.
It is stone cold, lifeless and rusty - pre stone-age by the look of it. He pokes around looking for something, anything, probing with his fingers, tugging on pipes and cables. The rain continues to beat down. He can hear it drumming on the roof, gurgling as it overflows the gutters, running down the walls; he can hear her breathing as she stands by his side watching him at work, her face expressionless. They do not speak. He finds a loose connection and a boyish smile breaks on his face. ‘What is it?’ she says dully.
‘The thermocouple’s loose.' He rattles it around triumphantly in its housing, straightens his back and still grinning, looks into her eyes. They are green and challenging. ‘No earth, no pilot, no boiler,' he says, scrabbling for the high ground, 'all we need is a screwdriver and we're home and dry.'
He watches her as she crosses the kitchen. Her bare feet leave a wet trail on the floor and the tail of what looks like a man's shirt flicks the back of her knees and he aches for her. She roots around in her handbag and walks back conscious of his eyes on her. She hands him a penknife, ‘Will that do?’ she asks.
He takes it from her and tries to tighten the screw but his hand shakes. She closes her hand over his, steadying it, and he realises she is cold too. It takes but a few seconds but he wants it to last forever. He feels the tears spring unbidden as he sees Rodolfo and Mimi on hands and knees searching for Mimi's key and the music rings in his ears. He wants to say to her, ‘Che gelida manina,’ which he carefully learned on his last visit to the Metropolitan Opera, but it is too late; he can't remember the words, it would come out all wrong and she wouldn’t appreciate it anyway. She's not that kind of girl.
The room fills with the sound of creaking metal as the radiators warm up. She says, ‘I haven’t thanked you, have I?’ He looks into her eyes. They are green but no longer challenging.
He starts shaking again.