‘Peter won’t like that – ’ says Mrs Stemp.

‘ – at all.’

‘He’d be unhappy – ’

‘ – away from home.’

‘His music would suffer – ’

‘ – in a strange place.’

‘I couldn’t let him – ’

‘ – go away.’

‘Not at his age – ’

‘ – not quite up to it.’

‘Not yet.’

So much for that. I am tempted to remind them sharply that the Simmonds Award is conditional on a course of travel and study, but I fear that one or both of them might burst into tears. I am not, by nature, a patient man. I long to be shot of this pair, but there is something I need from the boy and I cannot release him without it. Coffee is poured and I am contemplating a less invasive way of lifting the wretched fledgling from the nest when Eleanor Stemp, to my mild surprise, proposes that she and I should discuss Peter’s future in private. There is even a hint of collusion in her voice, though Mrs Stemp’s bruised eyes, hooded and protective, seem too downcast to portend boldness.

One of the first rules in my line of work is to avoid private meetings with parents of prodigies. Always have a third party present, and keep the door ajar. There is an implicit risk of sexual assault or accusation. Incidents are so common that an etiquette has evolved, allowing music executives to deal with frisky parents without going to jail. Rule number one: never enter a lift alone with a mum. Rule two: watch out if the father wears leather. Rule three: make sure all junior members of staff are chaperoned.

There are, it is true, agents who prey carnally on desperate artists and their parents but, so far as I can tell, the traffic is mostly the other way. Set loose in a glamour industry, clients lose all perspective in their eagerness to assure themselves that they have actually arrived. Time after time, they set upon impassive managers like a pack of defrocked monks and nuns. What is it that provokes previously chaste parents to hurl themselves upon the fixers and finaglers of musical fame? A cocktail of conflicting motives and emotions: gratitude and resentment, ingratiation, blackmail and more. Papa Freud would have identified an urge on the part of the birth-parent to consummate a sexual union with the success-parent. It’s all too squalid to warrant serious attention, but people in my business know the risks and have only themselves to blame if they walk into what I believe is known in Hollywood as a honeytrap.

So when Eleanor Stemp suggests a tête-à-tête, I search her eyes for lustful intent, and find none. Assuring myself that her drabness and my advanced years are ample guarantors of probity, I invite her to dinner the following night. My aim is to interrogate each Stemp separately until I find out what I need to know.