Backstage at the Queen’s Hall, Jelly unzipped the dress carrier that held her Schumann gown by Edward Molyneux. From her working-woman self in white silk blouse and tweed skirt, she had to become once more Jelly d’Arányi, violin star, muse to Ravel, Bartók and sometimes Elgar, great-niece to Joseph Joachim and chosen one of the blessed spirits. Or something. Preparing for the culmination of the strangest five years of her life, her mind remained resolutely earthbound. The dress was divine: white and silver lamé, with capacious shoulder puffs.

Jelly shimmied into the gown, pushing her arms through layers of silk. Material slid like buttermilk over her hips and down towards her ankles. Her throat rose from the neckline, dark against the dress’s shimmer, and her fingers, sore in the February chill – oh, these accursed British dressing rooms – found the zip and slid it upwards. She took the Bergonzi and tried a few passages. The puffs played her their signature tune, rustling along like the turning of a hundred pages.

She always took her violin to dress fittings. Except this one. Surely she knew by now what she needed from a concert dress? Evidently not. After all that fuss, she was at last to play the Schumann, in one hour’s time, and her silly dress was going to make a noise?

A tap on the door and Adila was there, lauding her in baritone Hungarian. ‘Sai! You look good enough to eat.’

‘Adi, it’s a disaster. Listen to this… Rustlerustlerustlerustle!’

‘Nonsense, darling.’ Adila grabbed her hands and rubbed them hard. ‘Nobody will hear it.’

‘I will. Adrian will. And the orchestra will, and they’ll die laughing.’

‘They won’t. They’re on your side, you know they are.’ The rehearsal that morning had flown by without a hitch; musician after musician came up to Jelly to exclaim on the excitement of playing an unknown piece by Schumann, the beauty of the Andante, the stateliness of the Polonaise. It had gone too well for a dress rehearsal, the music shining out into the empty hall while Adrian, Jelly and the orchestra pulled together as strongly as if steering a new ship into its maiden voyage. If it had gone badly, she’d be happier now.

‘Don’t be superstitious,’ Adila ordered. ‘You’ll be fine. Now, let’s get your make-up fixed and your hands warm.’

‘Who’s here?’ Jelly let Adila help her with her stage look, as Adila loved to do on important occasions.

‘Everyone. Erik is proud as punch. He and Alec have been at the champagne already. Adri’s here, the school let her come back specially and she’s so thrilled. Ralph has brought Titi, and they’re actually coming to our place later.’

‘Myra?’

‘She has a concert of her own, but she rang to send you her love.’

Jelly closed her eyes and let Adila brush a light-gold shadow over their lids. ‘George?’