He seems swayed, but shaken. Did he think I was setting a honeytrap for him? Does he associate sex automatically with strange women? Has he no sense of proportion? ‘Look,’ I tell him, ‘no one has ever done what we are about to do. No artist has ever risen from forty years of rest, no orthodox Jew has excelled in a famous concert hall, no impresario has staked his shirt on a patriarchal débutant. We both have a lot to learn. Let’s take it step by step. Trust me, I can make it work. I can grant you forgiveness.’

‘You won’t let me back out?’

‘Back out? A few minutes ago you were sounding pretty keen. You want to play. You also want to make good, to stop looking over your shoulder, to do what you were born for. What’s the point of being alive if not to fulfil your purpose? God gave you a gift. Use it.’

We are antagonists again, but the air has cleared. His poker face, softened with scholarship, relaxes at the corners of his jaw. ‘I’ll say good night, then,’ he murmurs, pulling up a few yards from the hotel, ‘and thank you for the concert.’

‘There will be bigger and better ones ahead.’

‘God willing.’

‘You said it.’

A malt from the mini-bar, the last miniature bottle, settles my nerves as I run through the faxes and voice messages. Myrtle has secured her spare males and is happily stewing over the discovered nuisance that the Cape Town bore is a strict vegetarian. Sandra has signed up Olszewska and Stemp, and is wondering if she should hire Fred Burrows as a talent scout. Good idea: the cathedral organist knows his onions. She reminds me that we need to start planning Manchester, Leeds and Newcastle recitals for Maria Olszewska, building up her confidence before she makes an international début in London. We will make a good team, Sandi and I.

Weary, I decide to avoid further company and follow my past routine of a drink in the bar with a light snack for supper. The Telegraph crossword should untangle my mind and leave me ready for bed. It is past eight when I descend and the snug is near-empty. ‘Not a good night, Thursday,’ says the barman, ‘everyone saves up their money for the weekend.’

Suits me, I think, nibbling peanuts while waiting for a cheese salad to settle my diet of fine whiskies. I hardly notice the woman until she slips in beside me and nuzzles my cheek.

‘I was just passing,’ lies Eleanor.

‘What a lovely surprise,’ I lie back. ‘Can I get you something?’

‘Just an orange juice,’ she says primly.

‘Peter all right?’

‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ she says, instantly naked in her anxiety. ‘Why did you send that Adams woman round?’