‘There is not much to get concerned about for the moment,’ I assure her. ‘I will arrange for him locally to see a first-class teacher, who will prepare him for a public début and enable us over the next couple of years to make a realistic assessment of his prospects.’

‘Is he going to be a great soloist?’ she wants to know (as they all do.)

‘It’s too soon to tell. It depends, as much as anything, on what erupts from the crumbling Soviet Union. Classical music is a shrinking, fiercely competitive market, with only so many concertos and recitals to go round. If half a dozen Heifetzes were to emerge over the next decade, Peter would be wiped out, but so would the rest of the West. Give it time. In a year or so, we should know better. We’ll do our best.’

‘I’d like to see him launched so I can reclaim my life,’ she confides, much to my surprise. ‘I don’t intend to be one of those smothering mothers who follow their prodigies all around the globe. I have read about them in biographies and reject the role. I have given Peter some of my best years. The rest I want for myself.’

Well, well, there’s uncrushed spirit in Eleanor Stemp. She makes to rise. Moving smartly round the table, I pull out her chair.

‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Mr Simmonds––’

‘Martin, please. Allow me to call you a cab.’

‘I had better phone Peter to tell him to go to bed, and then I must find my way to the ladies’ room to powder my nose.’

‘Why don’t you make the call from my room?’ I suggest. ‘That way, you can avoid the hotel’s remote and antediluvian public washrooms, which you may recall from our lunch yesterday.’

I collect her coat from a somnolent cloakroom attendant and lead her to the first-floor suite where, long ago, I bedded a giggly girl who called me ‘Daddy Bear’ and who might, or might not, have a part to play in my far-reaching plans. I hang Eleanor’s coat on the wardrobe rail while she telephones Peter, then turn on the television news to drown out any tinkling noises from my capacious Victorian bathroom. The room is large enough to convert into three in an efficient modern hotel.

Eleanor emerges, freshly lipsticked and slightly flushed, her smart jacket half-way unbuttoned to reveal the billowing white blouse. She is fuller than I might have imagined, and comfortable with it. I reach for the phone to summon a cab. ‘Thank you, Martin, for everything,’ she repeats, laying a hand on my outstretched arm. I turn and kiss her, full on the mouth. She responds slowly, eyes shut, compliant. Without further ceremony, I lay her across the king-sized bed, hoist her skirt to her hips and take her full-length on the unturned counterpane, rhythmically, proficiently, rewardingly.