Ulli turned over, shunting one arm out from its trapped spot under his chest. His ears took in the detail of late-night London: motors growling in the street, the claws of some creature scuttling over a dustbin lid, the glass xylophone of something that could only be a milk van, for dawn was approaching. He was a responsible man, a respectable man, a person of judgement. His work depended on the soundness of that judgement. He was not, at the vital age of 31, about to lose his head to a crazy Hungarian violinist, world famous and much older than he was. Many others had fallen for Jelly before him; that didn’t mean he must follow suit. But through his mind there flickered the idea that he didn’t have to leave London straight away. If the Streckers were willing, he could stay an extra day. He could perhaps invite her to coffee, or lunch, or tea, or cocktails, or dinner, or all five. But he’d need some daring and he wasn’t sure he had any. He dozed, then woke with the sound of his own snore as a sunny morning lightened his windowpanes in time for breakfast.

*

Jelly rose late. Her dreams had reverberated with the tango to which she and Ulli had danced; now she had to clear all that away and prepare for her next recital.

‘Adi, I’m going to the park,’ she said, glancing into the dining room, where Adila was working her way through a large pot of coffee.

‘Today, I know, there will be a miracle,’ she mumbled in return, ‘and I need one for my head… ’

Caesar’s leash in one hand, a book of music in the other, Jelly made brisk progress down the road, along Cheyne Walk and over Battersea Bridge to the park, where her ancient but serviceable fur coat and a brown hat over her ears protected her from the autumn chill. Caesar snuffled around the tree trunks, as far as his leash would let him, while Jelly settled on a favourite bench to focus on Bach.

The tango didn’t want to leave her. Nor did the image of her lovely friend, who looked so open and danced so well. It was the sort of evening your brain wants to hug. Caesar trotted over and put his snout on her knee.

An hour and a half later, she was about to let herself in, giving the ever-vigilant Mrs Garrett her habitual smile and wave. No doubt the Garretts hadn’t approved of their long, late party. It wasn’t as if they weren’t invited, because they always were, but they never turned up.

Adila, eyes gleaming, flung the door open before she could turn her key. ‘Darling, come quick! Your lovely Deutsch Doktor with the delectable derrière is here, waiting for you.’