It is five o’clock on Tuesday afternoon. I am in a small kitchen, making a cup of tea for myself and a lady called Dawn. We met one minute ago. I try some smalltalk:

“This is a nice little place you’ve got here. ” I say.

“It’s not so little.” she replies sharply, affronted.

I want to explain that I was only making friendly chit chat, and that I didn’t mean to insult the size and scale of her business, and to point out that she is perhaps being a little over-defensive, too. I don’t.

“Have you been here long?”

“Twelve years. I’m not one for resting on my laurels, though. I’d like to expand, but I need to find a man to do it with. And you know what men are like… ”

“Ooh, I know! Not all of them are like that, though. There are some good ones out there, somewhere, I’m sure.” I say, with an encouraging smile, before looking down to stir the tea.

I choose to use the word “them” rather than “us” in case she gets the idea that I consider myself a potential candidate for romance and business expansion plan. Dawn seems to be a lovely, successful and attractive lady, and even if I were single and hinting at courtship, I’m sure I’d be an unworthy candidate. It feels like a silly vanity to have even entertained the thought.

When I look up, Dawn is smiling kindly, with empathy in her eyes. I realise that she now thinks that I am a gay man, who understands her plight. She’s wrong, but I see no reason to correct her. It would only be awkward and besides, there’s a palpably lighter atmosphere now – I’m no longer one of the enemy. I’m a co-conspirator.

I toy with the idea of trying out some camp affectations. Although campery is, of course, in no way married to sexuality, I’ve always thought that if I’d been born gay, I would have thrown myself into the rich high camp culture of the scene. As an unappealing straight man, I’ve steered away from it, figuring that it was always difficult enough for me to attract girls anyway, without throwing in a possible red herring about my sexuality.

I freeze. I want embrace my inner Kenneth Williams, but can’t even muster up Charles Hawtrey. I focus my mind on my most camp friend, Mark, and ask myself how he would behave in this situation. What would he say?

“Oooh, tell me – do you get any famous people in here, then?”

Her demeanour changes instantly. She hardens. I’m not her co-conspirator anymore, I’m a flimsy man of no substance who just wants to coax namedrops out of her.

“I’ve got the BBC Scotland Concert Orchestra in tomorrow,” she says, matter-of-factly. “And I need to go and check their booking. Excuse me. ”

She takes her tea, turns and leaves the kitchen. Embarrassed, I squeeze my teabag against the side of the mug with my spoon, watching the liquid turn toffee-coloured. Taking a deep breath, I skulk past Dawn at her desk.

“You’ve got fifty five minutes left.”

I heave at the heavy soundproof door, and retreat into the rehearsal room. Dawn’s business is a northwest London piano centre. I am here to practice ‘Lady Madonna’. Tomorrow night I have been invited to the famous Abbey Road Studios, where the sonic identity for our new brand will be recorded. I am honoured to be among the small group of staff members, clients and journalists who have been asked along to what promises to be a very special evening.

Clive has mentioned that one of the instruments in the legendary studio is the piano from ‘Lady Madonna’, and has asked if I fancy having a bash at it. Of course I do. I have a religious fervour for The Beatles; Abbey Road Studio 2 is my Mecca, and that instrument holds the same kind of significance for me as the Holy Grail did for Indiana Jones’ dad.

There is a problem: ‘Lady Madonna’ is way beyond my capabilities as a pianist. For a start, it involves both hands doing different things at the same time. I’m too cack handed for this kind of thing. My fingers look like Walls sausages. I can manage ‘Happy Birthday’ or ‘Away in a Manger’, but that’s about the limit of it.

So here I am, holed-up in a small room with two pianos, plink-plonking away clumsily and flitting from one to the other in the hope that I’ll improve in between. I want to nail this. The whole idea of tomorrow night is to create a magical event to imbue the new brand with the spirit of rock and roll history. I don’t want to ruin it.

I’m overcome by the pressure: Adam’s going to be there, recording the whole event with his creepy ‘Sliver’ video camera. Andrew ‘Richard Clayderman’ Bailey’s going to be showing me up with his stage-school ivory-tinkling. Bobby and Gareth will be there, intimidating me with their musician swagger and cool hair. Mr Parigi’s going to be there. What if the one thing that sends Mr P. into a furious rage is poor piano-playing?

I hammer away for the remainder of my rehearsal session, robotically repeating the same phrases over and over again until my idiot brain is successfully controlling my maladroit fingers enough to get it right, on average, two out of three times. I feel an unfamiliar sensation, and grope around my emotional repertoire until I identify it as pride in hard-work. Looking at the clock, I realize my time is up. I gather my things together, and open the door.

Dawn looks up from her computer at the reception desk. She checks her watch.

“Good timing!” she says.

“The only bit of good timing all afternoon!” I quip.

She enjoys the musical joke.

“How did it go?” she asks.

“Okay, I think.” I reply tentatively.

“Great!” she says, and gives me an encouraging smile.

I feel ashamed that I had earlier used her incorrect assumption of my sexuality to indulge my immature flirtation with crude and stereotypical campness. I have no way of communicating this, so I smile back.

“Thank you!” I say. “See you again.”

As I open the front door, she goes to say goodbye but then checks herself and changes tack.

“Nigel Kennedy lives down the road at number 91. He sometimes pops in to say hello on a Saturday morning, on his way back from buying milk.”

I purse my lips and raise one eyebrow, and prepare to make an arch comment. I can’t think of one.

“Bye!” I say, and leave.

Geoff