The sky is lit up as the sun sets over West London. We can see out all across the city from the big marble kitchen table cluttered with books, glasses and paintbrushes. But for Lorna Tucker, there are parallel cities.
“I spend most of my time walking in a ghost world. I can go to a meeting in Soho and get super excited, and then I’ll step outside of a club and there’s the ghost of my friend who died of an overdose, or I walk through Rupert Street where I suffered horrific abuse,” she says. “And it still smells the same. I still remember everything, and my friends who were killed in Berwick Street, I can still see the shine of the lamp on the blood.”
I sip what I later realise is a very strong coffee. Tucker has already had six when she shows up, with her trousers tucked into her socks – a trick that Vivienne Westwood taught her. One of the mugs,
