He has a classically handsome face – a Hollywood cowboy face, strong and sensual and stubbled, with weathered blue eyes like coloured glass in his head and always so cynically amused – on a flawless frame and the way he slumps in the armchair in front of us, sinewy, is just right.
He’s melancholically in love with this life – post-show parties, globetrotting, stoned, ripped, twisted – and he suits it well, hitched, drawling Canadian delivery and rockstar attitude.
I sit across from him, wondering where he learned that trademark penetrative stare, the one that says I see you and you make me wonder about the possibilities but honestly I could take it or leave it; the filthy, deep-plunging eye contact that lingers on your skin.
In love maybe, but he puts me in mind of falling. What he pushes onstage isn’t confidence, its disinterest. He flings out wit like a billionaire spending money. Offstage – here, his Edinburgh flat, oft-mentioned wife and kids conspicuously absent – everything he says carries the aftertaste of despair.
Still, impressions change. When we finally say goodbye at three AM – “Okay, that’s it, I’m kicking you out.” – and he puts his arms around me and squeezes – “I’ll see you again.” – the solace of hot human flesh tells me everything will be okay.
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