‘Given the casting couch legend,’ Jake said with a chuckle, ‘we must hope that whoever the Hollywood producer is currently sleeping with knows how to put a number over.’

‘You’re leaping ahead somewhat, Jake!’ Marianne said edgily. ‘There’s a long way to go between Martin and Andy being invited to LA for discussions and their being offered a contract.’

Should the contract be forthcoming, they would then be expected to write the music and lyrics on site, a suite provided for them and the producer breathing down their necks. Martin’s domestic situation was stressful enough without that further strain. Marianne hadn’t expected ever to wish that a step forward in her son’s career would not happen.

If this one did, he would be unable to take A.P. with him to the States. She knew that were it not for Andy, he would not be halfway across the Atlantic now, his lad left with a mother whom therapy had so far failed to help. How, though, could Martin let down the partner who had shared his struggle at the moment when the top seemed attainable?

Marianne had no doubt that by now his priorities had undergone the same painful adjustment that Howard’s had.

‘Meanwhile,’ said Jake, ‘a feature of Howard’s wedding will be the last minute stand-ins. He’ll probably ask Karin’s brother to be his best man. And I’ll be honoured to play the part in the ceremony Arnold promised that he would.’

The absence of Arnold and Lyn was due to Matthew’s falling ill. He had complained of dizziness after giving a performance and Pete had insisted on his seeing a doctor. A hospital appointment had followed and he was now an in-patient undergoing tests.

Nathan too was at present unwell. Which elderly person would recover easily from being mugged in broad daylight outside their own front door, Marianne thought with a surge of anger. Would this be the end of Uncle Nat? Though his bruises had faded he had not yet shaken off the psychological effects, demonstrated by his not since having left the house. Too many senior citizens in this age of violence had similarly retreated with their memories of a world that was for them a safe place.

The taxi-driver interrupted Marianne’s distressing thoughts. ‘Here is Kurfürstendamm,’ he announced, halting at some traffic lights, ‘where is the beautiful stores and cafes of Berlin.’

‘I’d have liked to see the Unter den Linden,’ Marianne remarked as the driver turned left into the broad avenue, its pavements thronged, and the buildings at first glance as lacking in character as Prince Charles had pronounced some of their London counterparts to be.