it occurred to me that the bloody man had only released me from my singing burden for that one single occasion. “Hit it, bitch …” had been my trigger and this one Saturday night the moment of its activation. He had not freed me of my musical inhibitions permanently. The talisman’s power had been all used up and if I wanted to sing again in public I would have to make another sodding appointment. There and then, in the vodka-and-cocaine-fuelled passion of the moment, I made a vow never to do so. Singing and Stephen were not meant to be.
