‘You couldn’t belong to me,’ he said. ‘You belong to your music. You have so much to give, so much love and joy for everyone who hears you. Don’t be distracted. It’s your true purpose and it will make you immortal. And then I can die happy, knowing you will, in a manner of speaking, live for ever. That’s all I want, my dear.’

Anna looked round the door, but stopped short, seeing Jelly in tears.

Jelly put down the phone. ‘Tom’s dying,’ she said.

*

Jelly knew that without Adila, Alec and little Adrienne, and Anna too, she’d be adrift in a hostile ocean, holding on to one tiny plank of violin to stay afloat. It was ten years since her mother had died; her father, left behind in Budapest decades ago, was a more recent, still seismic loss. The friends to whom she could turn in difficult times were at some distance. Donald Tovey lived partly in Norfolk, partly in Edinburgh; Myra Hess, her pianist duo partner, was in St John’s Wood, but spent months every year on tour in America; George was, of course, in Dublin.

The grief assailing Jelly now was not something she would choose to inflict on any of them.

‘You should have married him while you could,’ said Adila unhelpfully, clasping Jelly to her jewel-clad bosom. ‘Shall I not go to the party? You shouldn’t be alone tonight.’

‘No, you must go. Please, Adi. He’s still alive, so there’s still hope. There has to be hope.’

‘I’m here,’ Alec said, attentive and concerned. He would be busy, of course; his legal paperwork was interminable now there was anxiety that Japan might leave the League of Nations. He told his family little about his work, especially that for the League – partly because he was not supposed to talk about it. If Adila or Jelly pressed him for news, he would keep it brief, for instance explaining only that the new government in Germany was not well liked.

‘I’ll look after her,’ Anna promised. ‘Jelly, why don’t we go out to eat, just the two of us?’

*

Around 8, they drove to Soho for dinner at Kettner’s, Jelly’s favourite restaurant; the oak panelling and slender staircases reassured her with their very familiarity. They picked a table by a generous window that gave them a vantage point overlooking Romilly Street, then ordered cocktails as a treat. Jelly distracted herself by telling Anna about dining here with Maurice Ravel, chattering in French, enjoying champagne and feeling somewhat underdressed, so elegantly attired was he; and about the night, after a concert and the ensuing party, when she’d ended up playing Ravel all the Gypsy music she remembered from Budapest. Soon afterwards, he’d told her he was writing her a new piece, provisionally called Tzigane.