I met the Great Train Robber Bruce Reynolds, who died in his sleep this morning at the age of 81, a couple of years ago. I had written a novel about the robbery called Signal Red and he had gone through the manuscript and had a ‘few corrections’. I suggested we meet at the Groucho Club and we had a four-hour lunch (he was on spritzers, I was on red wine). He was very generous about the novel but suggested I tone down the ‘heavier’ side of Charlie Wilson’s character (he insisted he was hilarious, which I am sure he was.. to his friends) and agreeing that I had pretty much nailed Roy James, the racing and getaway driver. He was also quite happy with my portrayal of him. ‘Although it seems all that happened to a different person now,’ he said. ‘I suppose I was a bit of a fantasist.’
As we were leaving the club a statuesque blonde burst through the doors – small diamond choker round her neck, tiny black dress and a cleavage that would put Jordan to shame. As she cruised by Bruce whispered in my ear: ‘They’re not real’. What? I asked. Her breasts? ‘Naaah,’ he replied. ‘The diamonds.’