Walli was sitting next to Dave now, guitar in hand as usual. He was playing with a metal tube fitted over the middle finger of his left hand, and singing: “Woke up this morning, believe I’ll dust my broom.”

Dave frowned. “That’s the Elmore James sound!” he said after a minute.

“It’s called bottleneck guitar,” Walli said. “They used to do it with the neck of a broken bottle, but now someone makes these metal things.”

“It sounds great.”

“Why do you keep phoning Eric?”

“I want to know how many copies we sold of ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll,’ what’s happening about the American release of ‘Love Is It,’ and whether we’ve got any tour dates coming up—and our manager won’t speak to me!”

“Fire him,” said Walli. “He is a breast.”

Walli’s English was almost perfect now. “A tit, you mean,” Dave said. “We say he’s a tit, not a breast.”

“Thank you.”

“How can I fire him if I can’t get him on the phone?” Dave said gloomily.

“Go round to his office.”

Dave looked at Walli. “You know, you’re not as dumb as you sound.” Dave began to feel better. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

The downhearted feeling left him as he stepped outside. Something about the streets of London always cheered him. This was one of the world’s great cities: anything could happen.

Denmark Street was less than a mile away. Dave was there in fifteen minutes. He went up the stairs to the office of Classic Records. “Eric is out,” Cherry said.

“Are you sure?” said Dave. Feeling bold, he opened Eric’s door.

Eric was there, behind the desk. He looked a bit foolish, having been caught out in deceit. Then his expression changed to anger and he said: “What do you want?”

Dave did not say anything immediately. His father sometimes said: “Just because someone asks you a question, don’t think you have to answer. I’ve learned that in politics.” Dave just stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

If he remained standing, he thought, it would look as if he expected to be told to leave at any moment. So he sat on the chair in front of Eric’s desk and crossed his legs.

Then he said: “Why are you avoiding me?”

“I’ve been busy, you arrogant little sod. What is it?”

“Oh, all kinds of things,” Dave said expansively. “What’s happening to ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll’? What are we doing in the New Year? What news from America?”

“Nothing, nothing, and nothing,” said Eric. “Satisfied?”

“Why would I be satisfied with that?”

“Look.” Eric put his hand in his pocket and took out a roll of bills. “Here’s twenty quid. That’s what you’ve got coming for ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll.’” He threw four five-pound notes on the desk. “Now are you satisfied?”

“I’d like to see the figures.”

Eric laughed. “The figures? Who do you think you are?”

“I’m your client, and you’re my manager.”

“Manager? There’s nothing to manage, you twerp. You were a one-hit wonder. We have them all the time in our business. You had a stroke of luck, Hank Remington gave you a song, but you never had real talent. It’s over, forget it, go back to school.”