I return to my room and busy myself with paperwork, faxes and phone calls until Sandra comes by to collect contract forms. Together, we ring the thrilled Olszewskas, offer them world representation for little Maria and arrange for Sandra to call. I undertake to phone Eleanor Stemp and tell her that Sandra has taken over her son’s personal management; she will not be pleased, which is just as well. It will put the previous night’s digression into proper perspective.

‘Is that the radiator?’ asks Sandra, resplendent in her straining pink sweater. ‘That droning noise.’

‘No, it’s me,’ I confess. ‘I often hum when I work.’

‘Nice to see a man who loves his work.’ She beams.

Nice to have my lightness back, I think. Thank you, Dovidl.

We order a business line over the phone to be installed in Sandra’s spare bedroom, nip round to the nearest bank to open a joint account and collect enough cash to buy her a personal computer at the shop next door. Simmonds must be seen to be doing its bit for local businesses: we shall need them to sponsor some of our local artists. The latest line in Japanese radio gadgets catches my eye: I buy one for Myrtle, for the kitchen, a guilt-offering.

No sooner do I get back from shopping than a call from Reception advises me that Mr Katzenberg is waiting for me in the car park.

‘Well?’ I demand, climbing into the camper-van.

‘What choice have I got?’ he sighs.

‘Excellent, that’s settled. Now tell me, how long is it since you were last at a symphony concert?’

‘I think you can guess.’

‘Good, because we are going to a midweek matinée in Manchester. On the motorway, at this time of day, we should make it in an hour.’

He has brought along sandwiches and tea, expecting an outing, and we consume them none too daintily along the route. Our conversation is neutral and wide-ranging, touching on the weather, the recent war, the fate of Israel, the economic downturn, the trouble with the younger generation, the scarcity of talent, the kind of drivers they let on motorways these days, just look at that Vauxhall – anything except the past, which is enemy territory, never to be re-entered.

Beneath the beard, I see a sore patch on the underside of his chin. Excellent, I tell myself. He must have been practising for hours.