She was soon earning enough money not only to stay in the big city, but to put a little by as well. Phyllis had always harboured a longing to travel, evident as soon as she could walk. Her parents had been forced to keep her under constant surveillance because, left alone, she would wander indefinitely until someone recognised her and brought her home.

Finding herself with enough cash for a passage to Europe and an international meal-ticket (her hands and feet apparently equally in demand in Paris, Milan and London), she packed her few belongings—including the softening cream and cotton gloves to wear at night—and set sail, crossing the Atlantic for the first time in style on the QE2, albeit in a modest cabin near the waterline.

The decision to fulfil her wanderlust was prompted by two things; she doubted that the normal relationships her fellow models repeatedly tried would ever be hers, and wanted to ‘find herself’. As far away from her parents as possible.

Her other reason was less defined. Miss Vincent had once or twice spoken of her own teacher, and Phyllis had remembered the name: a Miss Sage, who taught voice in London.

She had stopped modelling after a trip to Rome and a visit to a fortune teller, una strega, an old lady with a chatty mynah bird, who lived in a garret with a balcony that looked out across the russet rooftops. She had originally gone to see the old woman with friends for a lark, but stayed to talk privately. The old woman told Phyllis that only if she followed her heart’s desire would she be showered with inner and outer gold.

Later, in a moment of insight, she realised that she had perhaps overdone the solitude. Soon after returning to London she halted her wanderings, found a flat mate, and together they rented a small house in the suburbs. Phyllis had taken a job in an office close by the Green Park tube. It was a large airy space on the sixth floor, with a view over the park, staffed almost exclusively by women. The work she did wasn’t very taxing—her choice of employment being more geographical than financial—and she spent a lot of time thinking about other things; twice a week anyone strolling down Half Moon Street would have seen a still figure sitting on a stoop, an apple in her lap and a thermos flask by her side, her head tilted like the HMV dog, as though listening—which indeed she was.

One of the first things Phyllis had done upon returning from the modelling trip to Italy was to look through the telephone directory and see if Miss Sage—her voice teacher’s teacher—was listed. There was an ‘I. Sage’ listed and, on impulse, Phyllis dialled the number, half expecting to discover it was the wrong Miss Sage or, worse, that she had passed away. Phyllis knew that the renowned teacher had not been young when she’d taught Miss Vincent.

At last the telephone was answered, and the voice that came through the receiver was unmistakable. Too overpowered to speak, she replaced the receiver. It was a Tuesday. Phyllis located the address and was several houses away when she heard the sound of a piano and knew that a lesson was in progress. She stood on the doorstep near the window and, listening with all the attention she could muster, heard most of the tuition being given.