Now that his life was simpler, Charles still liked to have the book with him although whether out of force of habit or because he saw it as a talisman of sorts, he wasn’t sure. He knew he should probably have destroyed it but that would have been like wiping Ray Allen away, like a chalk mark or a spilled drink, and either vanity or sentimentality had stayed his hand. Even his name still made Charles smile. No one who had met Ray Allen had ever commented that he shared his name with a vaudeville act, a ventriloquist whose dummy was, amusingly, named Lord Charles. The alias was such a stroke of genius that it was all Charles could do not to share it with everyone he spoke to. But that would never do, would it? And he had altered the spelling too, just to be on the safe side. Grace would probably have thought it funny, been entertained by its cleverness if he’d ever been able to tell her, which obviously he hadn’t. The joke would have gone totally over Melissa’s pretty head.

Charles left the changing rooms, flicking the light off as he went. His lonely footsteps echoed down the empty corridor.

‘Night, Mr Montgomery Smith, sir,’ said the security guard on the door.

‘Goodnight, Eric. See you next week.’

Charles pushed out into the darkness. It was warm for May, the air almost balmy; too nice to hurry to his car. With his violin case swinging at his side, he set off towards the Quayside where the night would just be getting going.

Down by the Tyne it was almost as busy as daytime with people enjoying the bars and restaurants that had sprung up, and Charles walked straight into the midst of them, relishing the proximity of strangers who neither knew nor cared who he was. He was tempted to go for a drink somewhere but he had told Grace that he wouldn’t be late, so he would just have a stroll and then head back to the Hall. He tried always to be where he said he was these days.

The various bridges that spanned the river were lit up in a multitude of colours, and the lights reflected in the moving water. It was like being in an Afremov painting, he thought, so vital and alive. If only he were thirty years younger. He would have loved this part of Newcastle back then. Then again, if it had been here, he might never have wandered into that grubby pub and then he wouldn’t have met Melissa, beautiful, simple Melissa with her curves and ready laugh and her unquestioning love for him.