Marie had told me that I was very skilled in the specialist art of page-turning and that when she was famous she would take me on as page-turner, an essential role if concerts are to run smoothly. She explained that there were some great musicians, hugely talented, who’d never given their best because they didn’t have a good page-turner.

“I’m very lucky to have found mine straight away,” she said.

To be honest, I couldn’t quite see why she needed a page-turner, given her visual circumstances, but I wasn’t going to argue with her about it. And anyway, people you love often tend to make you feel indispensible, even when you know perfectly well that you’re of no use whatsoever.

On the evening of the concert the audience were rooted to their seats, all hunched up and almost embarrassed to breathe. I’d put Haisam and his father in the front row.

“It’s the Sabbath,” said the Honourable Egyptian, “but I’m making an exception for once. Not so much for the music but for the pleasure of seeing a whole crowd of people conned by a blind girl and a dummy.”

Normally I’d have been put out, but with Haisam you always had to look beyond the obvious, so I could see that he was actually paying me a great compliment.

On the stage I felt completely exposed: I don’t think I’d have felt much different if I’d been stripped naked. Every time I turned a page it felt like taking off another item of clothing but then, with invisible stitches, Marie’s bow seemed to knit me something new to wear. When it was over I realized I was sweating and my heart was racing. The school VIPs and the local big cheeses came up to congratulate Marie – and me too a bit, just to be polite. Marie looked straight into their eyes: how on earth did she know how to find them?