The funk singer Betty Davis and I met in London in the late 1970s. We both had accommodation problems, and I found her thoughtfulness and humour a consolation.
Betty delighted in the role of “flaneur”: with her hair tamed under a peaked cap she presented a slender, androgynous figure. An acute observer of others, she could weave speculations of great length around a few minutes’ interaction.
An “important” meeting or modelling gig would see her transformation into glamorous perfection. These outings left her drained and needing a long period of quiet. She had a way of being in but not of the world.
