Maria was never likely to make a mint for us in Maastricht, but the Russian, Anatoly Gudzinsky, is a veritable dynamo. He plays like a wild legend of yore, a long-haired Paderewski or a lip-contorting Pachmann, with heedlessly sloppy technique and on-stage idiosyncrasies that make him a box-office sensation. He walks on to the concert platform chewing gum, which he sticks ostentatiously to the underside of his polished stool. Between movements, he hawks and spits like a footballer. His pink flared silk tie with an outrageous pudendum motif collars column inches in the popular press, then column miles. He recognises neither tact nor restraint. He responds to ovations with an impromptu speech, often defamatory and profane, and gets involved in a Wimbledon love affair with all-England’s latest rose-cheeked loser – an on-off, off-on, love-fifteen rally – that keeps the slavering tabloids in perpetual titivation. ‘He was Sophie’s only true love,’ screams the Sun, ‘but Rat Gudzi was scoring her doubles partner.’ The Mirror dubs him ‘Gudzilla’ and exposes his ‘steamy night’ in the locker room with two first-round contestants from Sweden. How much of this is true is none of my business. Gudzinsky, that egregious philanderer, makes the most of it and sells his ghosted off-court memoirs for a dollar fortune, pumping ten per cent of the advance and royalties into Simmonds’ vertical growth.

The Dutchman Derks, whose Russian connections are distinctly shady, feeds us a ceaseless stream of post-Soviet hopefuls, all of them tuned way above western concert pitch. Sandi and I select six fine specimens – three pianists, two violinists and a seductive Kazakh cellist, who proves irresistible to conductors of a certain age. Top orchestras beat a path to our door. Sandi promotes eastern promise via Hook of Holland with such enthusiasm that I am obliged to enquire whether her relationship with Mr Derks is strictly professional. ‘It is now,’ she grins disarmingly, ‘but we had some high old red-light nights in Amsterdam early on. Have you ever done it on hash, Mr S?’

I mutter something about generation gaps and carefully avoid asking after Olly. Sandi cheerfully volunteers that he is happier without her around. After giving the kids supper, he goes out most nights to press male flesh in Tawburn’s Royal Victoria Park, relieved to be rid of the lash of spousal disapproval. Olly has abandoned his political ideal in favour of self-gratification. Sandi is content and when Derks mysteriously disappears, to be dredged up in several butchered pieces from a Leyden canal, she gives up studying Russian and seeks no further close alliances, carnal or commercial. Success, I conclude, means more to her than libidinal satisfaction – exaggerating the hairline fracture in her unequal marriage.