“What name shall I say?”

“Dave Williams. Tell him Byron Chesterfield sent me.”

This was a lie, but Dave had nothing to lose.

The receptionist disappeared through a door. Dave looked around. The lobby was decorated with framed gold and silver discs. A photograph of Percy Marquand, the Negro Bing Crosby, was inscribed: “To Eric, with thanks for everything.” Dave noticed that all the discs were at least five years old. Eric needed fresh talent.

Dave felt nervous. He was not accustomed to deception. He told himself not to be timid. He was not breaking the law. If he were found out, the worst that could happen was that he would be told to get out and stop wasting people’s time. It was worth risking that.

The secretary came out, and a middle-aged man stood in the doorway. He wore a green cardigan over a white shirt and a nondescript tie. He had thinning gray hair. He leaned on the doorpost, looking Dave up and down. After a moment he said: “So Byron sent you to me, did he?”

His tone was skeptical: obviously he did not believe the story. Dave avoided repeating the lie by telling another. “Byron said: ‘EMI has the Beatles, Decca has the Rolling Stones, Classic needs Plum Nellie.’” Byron had said nothing of the kind. Dave had figured it out for himself, reading the music press.

“Plum what?”

Dave handed Chapman a photo of the group. “We’ve done a stint at the Dive in Hamburg, as the Beatles did, and we’ve played the Jump Club in London, like the Stones.” He was surprised he had not yet been thrown out, and he wondered how much longer his luck would hold.

“How do you know Byron?”

“He’s our manager.” Another lie.

“What sort of music?”

“Rock and roll, but with a lot of vocal harmonies.”

“Just like every other pop group at the moment.”

“But we’re better.”

There was a long pause. Dave was pleased that Chapman was even talking to him. Lenny had said: “You can’t get through the door.” Dave had proved him wrong there.

Then Chapman said: “You’re a bloody liar.”

Dave opened his mouth to protest, but Chapman held up a hand to silence him. “Don’t tell me any more whoppers. Byron isn’t your manager and he didn’t send you here. You might have met him, but he didn’t say Classic Records needs Plum Nellie.”

Dave said nothing. He had been caught out. This was humiliating. He had tried to bluff his way into a record company and he had failed.

Chapman said: “What’s your name, again?”

“Dave Williams.”

“What do you want from me, Dave?”

“A recording contract.”

“There’s a surprise.”

“Give us an audition. I promise you won’t regret it.”

“I’ll tell you a secret, Dave. When I was eighteen, I got my first job in a recording studio by saying I was a qualified electrician. I lied. The only qualification I had was grade seven piano.”

Dave’s heart leaped in hope.