In her new home in Hampstead Myra took a break from practising to feed Jelly strong tea plus biscuits on a willow-pattern plate. Jelly felt intimidated by her friend’s impeccable modern surroundings. The lease on the Carlton Hill house had expired and with the fruits of her American success Myra had bought a house on Wildwood Road, opposite the Heath Extension. It wasn’t much more than ten years old, though it was supposed to look Georgian. Compared to Hurricane House it felt square, tidy, peaceful and devoid of ghosts.

‘Let’s sit out on the terrace,’ Myra suggested, leading the way through her skylit studio to the garden. ‘It’s so delightful here that it can be quite hard to concentrate on music.’

It was indeed a haven; Jelly let the sun warm her skin while she explained, as briefly as she could, some of the ongoing troubles.

Myra’s cynicism was no more or less than she expected, though at least she was generous about it. ‘My dear, if you unleash “spirit messages” as a sane reason for your actions, I’m afraid you have to anticipate that 95 per cent of the modern public will be poised to die laughing. I’m not saying it didn’t happen. It’s simply that that’s how people are.’

‘They’re sniping at Erik and the book without even looking at it,’ Jelly protested. ‘And me and the concerto too.’

‘You have to be tougher, Jelly.’ Myra poured out leaf tea through a strainer. ‘One day you’ll look back on this and, I promise you, you’ll laugh.’

Jelly sipped the tea, wishing she could believe her.

‘The important thing is to focus on the music.’ Myra insisted. ‘Everything else is so much nonsense. I can see it’s a mess, but you have to insulate yourself and concentrate on what matters, which is that you have to play this concerto to the very best of your considerable abilities. Make sure you know it inside out and backwards and standing on your head, then go in and play it like an angel. More than that, play it like a professional. And for goodness’ sake, make sure you get enough rehearsal.’ Myra had a justifiable bee in her bonnet about how little rehearsal London orchestras provided. ‘It’ll be the first time the orchestra’s seen the piece, of course – and Schumann can be a real pest.’

Jelly nodded. After two nights with no more than an hour of sleep, she’d been practising to escape, playing the notes but unable to absorb herself in the music. Concentration was becoming almost impossible. ‘It’s so nice to have a discussion that feels normal.’

‘Exactly. In your world of spirits, you mustn’t forget the here and now. Have some biscuits, Jelly, and do try to relax. You’re so tense. It can’t be helping that arm trouble.’