‘So, I say I’ll play his piece,’ Jelly said, gulping her White Lady, ‘and he says “wohnderful, you must give the premiere at the Wigmore Hall!” And the premiere is booked, and the seats are sold. But where’s my piece? You know when he sends it to me? Three days before the concert. Three days, can you imagine?’

‘Yes, Jelly.’ Anna had heard the story at least 20 times, possibly 200.

Tzigane sounded desperately difficult. Ravel had been far from sure it was playable, despite giving Jelly only 72 hours to perfect it. ‘It’s not so hard once you know it,’ Jelly said. ‘But I didn’t!’

Normally at this point she would laugh. Yet tonight the fragility of that experience seemed not silly, but alarming. Supposing she hadn’t succeeded? Supposing she had messed up the world premiere of Tzigane? Ravel wouldn’t have been blamed; she would. The critics might not know what to make of the piece, but they’d have recognised second-rate violin playing. What a precipice she had lived on without even noticing. How much she took for granted – had she learned nothing from losing Sep?

‘Jelly, why didn’t you marry Tom?’ asked Anna. ‘I think you love him – or you did once?’

‘Darling, of course I love him. I love everyone.’ The tears in Jelly’s eyes made a fairground mirror distortion of Anna’s face. ‘There’s no point thinking about it, not now.’

Supposing she’d married him after all, ten, fifteen years ago, and they’d had a little Adrienne of their own, or several? She’d have had to stop playing professionally. She’d have been Lady Monteagle, wife of a diplomat, an aristocrat. She’d be seen as a strange person with bizarre Hungarian origins, the daughter of a policeman, a woman who once upon a time used to be a famous musician – how shocking in those circles. Everything she had worked for would have been worthless. And after he was gone their children would have spent the rest of their lives missing him…

‘Jelly!’ Anna passed her a handkerchief. ‘Hush now! Your imagination’s running wild.’

‘But you know I’m right. It’s not possible to be a female musician and be married. It simply is not. Except for Adi, of course, but she’s an exception, and Alec’s an exceptional husband, letting her keep playing.’

‘But… ’ Anna was holding a forkful of baked fish and gratin dauphinois poised between plate and mouth. ‘Don’t you want to be married someday, Jelly?’

‘Why, darling? You do, don’t you?’

‘Well… I think it’s natural to want a home, children, security… ’