3 Acton, West London, 2012

Temptation arrives in many forms. For Mel, it was cued by the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth, the ringtone on his phone.

‘Yes?’

‘Mr. Farran, the viola player?’ A male voice, educated, middle-aged and as imperious as Sir Thomas Beecham’s in rehearsal.

‘That’s me.’

‘Do you have a moment?’

‘Depends. Are you selling something?’

‘Certainly not. This is a serious call.’

A rap over the knuckles. Mel should have cut the call immediately and saved himself from the wrecking ball that was swinging his way.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘That’s immaterial at this juncture. Call me Ivan, if you wish. I have a proposal massively to your advantage.’

‘You are trying to sell something.’

‘Pay attention, please. This is about your professional career.’

‘As a musician?’

‘Naturally.’

‘A gig?’

A pause. Ivan was plainly unhappy with the expression and considering whether to hang up. ‘More than that, much more — if you’re prepared to cooperate. But this is too important to discuss over the phone. Are you free tomorrow evening?’

‘Free for what?’

‘For a drink and a chance to discuss the opportunity. I’ll send a car at seven thirty.’

‘You know where I live?’

‘This isn’t spur of the moment, Mr. Farran. I’ve heard you play, or I wouldn’t be bothering.’

Let’s admit it — flattery is a sure-fire persuader. ‘Where are we having this drink?’

‘At my club. There’s a dress code, by the way. Lounge suit and tie. You do possess a suit?’

Irritated by the patronising tone, sceptical, yet intrigued, Mel switched off and pocketed the phone. In truth, he was in no position to turn down the invitation. A life in classical music is precarious. His income from orchestral work and teaching was barely a living wage. Yet he was good at what he did. He’d been gifted with perfect pitch and a mother hooked on Mozart. Handed a miniature violin at an age when other kids were learning to tie their shoelaces, he’d mastered the basics within days. He was taught by an elderly Polish maestro and within a year on his advice switched to a miniature viola. Really. They do exist. Violists, the maestro told him, were always in demand, whereas there was a glut of violinists. The old man had been right — to a degree. Mel had never gone for long without ensemble work. He’d survived. However, there wasn’t much prospect of advancement. Solo opportunities with the viola were rare. If he’d excelled at the violin — as everyone suggested he could have done — the repertoire is huge and he could have toughed it out with the army of East Asian players who came along at that time. No use complaining now. He could play both instruments to a good level, but it was the viola he was known for. He’d trained at the Royal College and filled in with some of the great orchestras of Europe. Violists are an endangered species. If he’d known just how endangered, he wouldn’t have listened to Ivan. But he was an innocent. At twenty-nine, he needed an opportunity and this promised to be it.

Single, hetero, not bad looking, he was originally from Beaconsfield and currently living in a poky first-floor flat in Acton, West London. Fingis Street had never seen the like of the gleaming black limo that drew up outside at seven thirty. Good thing he didn’t keep it waiting or the local youths would have unscrewed the Mercedes logo in seconds and scraped a coin along the bodywork to see if it was real.

He was wearing an almost new pinstripe suit from Oxfam. You can bet the original owner had died, but you can’t get fussed about stuff like that when you’re skint and need to look respectable. All of his work clothes, evening suits, dress shirts and bow ties, black and white, also came from charity shops. Bargains, every one.

‘Where exactly are we going?’ he asked the driver.

‘Clubland, sir. St James’s.’

‘Which club?’

‘I was told it’s confidential.’

‘Well, I’m being driven there, so I’m going to find out.’

‘And I have my orders, sir.’

Mel didn’t press him. If Ivan wanted to make a cloak-and-dagger occasion out of the meeting, let it be, he told himself to calm his nerves. He hoped this wouldn’t turn out to be a huge let-down.

For all the man-about-town bluster, Mel couldn’t say he was familiar with the St James’s area of London. He’d never set foot in a gentlemen’s club, and when they drew up outside a set of white steps to a shiny black door with brass fittings, he forgot to look for the name.

The doorman had his instructions and waved Mel through when he said who he was. Carpeted entrance hall, grand staircase and oil paintings in gold frames. Mel couldn’t say who painted them, except it wasn’t Andy Warhol or Francis Bacon. A short, bald man appeared from behind a potted fern and extended his hand. The grip was firm, as if they were old chums.

‘So glad you came. There’s an anteroom we can have to ourselves. Have you eaten?’

‘Yes,’ Mel lied, not wanting to be treated to a meal before he knew what this was about.

‘In that case, cognac should go down well. Agreed?’

A beer would have been more to Mel’s liking, but he didn’t have the neck to ask for one. A club servant was sent for the cognac.

Bound copies of Punch lined the anteroom. Laughs all round.

‘I still don’t know your surname,’ Mel said when they were seated in leather armchairs either side of a marble fireplace big enough to park a car in.

‘Better you don’t unless and until we come to an agreement,’ his host said. ‘You will have guessed I, too, am a musician. Violin. You’ve heard me play.’

‘Have I?’

‘Possibly in the concert hall and certainly on disc.’

What do you say to that? If the guy was a soloist, Mel didn’t recognise him. He could think of dozens he’d heard in the last eight years.

‘In a well-known string quartet,’ he added.

‘Ah. Am I supposed to guess which?’

‘No.’

Be mysterious, Mel thought. See if I care. The cognac arrived in a cut-glass decanter and was poured into balloon glasses. Ivan waited for the flunkey to leave the room.

‘There could be a vacancy in the quartet,’ Ivan said.

‘Could be?’

‘Is.’

‘For a violist? And you have me in mind?’

‘In mind is a good way of putting it.’

Mel waited, but nothing else followed. ‘Is this an offer?’

‘Not yet. The others will have a say.’

‘Are they coming here to join us?’

‘No.’

‘Who are they?’

‘That’s not for me to say.’

All this stonewalling was hard to take. Ivan had issued the invitation. He should have been selling the deal. Instead he was swirling the brandy in the glass as if he was reading tea-leaves.

At last, he said, ‘It’s not straightforward.’

‘That’s getting obvious,’ Mel said.

‘The others don’t know I’ve approached you. I believe I can persuade them. We play as a unit, but we’re all individuals, which is our strength. A quartet of yes-men would never make fine music. Playing in a quartet is all about dialogue, distinct voices that respond to each other, but not passively. There’s question and answer in musical terms, sharp debate, argument even. It isn’t all resolution and harmony.’

Mel felt like saying he wasn’t a total beginner. He’d played in quartets. ‘You said they don’t know about me. What if they don’t approve?’

‘I would expect to persuade them — if I’m persuaded myself.’

‘You said on the phone you’ve heard me play.’

‘But can you commit?’

‘Commit what — murder?’ A cheap remark. Something had to be said to lighten the mood.

Ivan didn’t smile. ‘Commit to a trial period of, say, a year? It would mean total loyalty to the quartet, rehearsals, business meetings, performances, recordings and touring.’

‘I’d need to know more.’

‘In particular?’

‘Who am I replacing?’

‘That I can’t say.’

‘Has he retired — or have you given him the elbow?’

‘Neither.’

‘Died?’

Silence.

‘He’s still playing? You’re plotting to dump him and he doesn’t know?’

A shake of the head. ‘We’re professionals, Mr. Farran. We have our disagreements, but we’re not like that.’

‘Speaking of the professional part, how much would I expect to earn? I need to live.’

‘Enough for that, and more. We divide all the income equally and that includes our manager. As a new member, you’d take home precisely the same as the rest of us. Not as much as a bank executive earns, but better than you’re used to getting.’

‘How much approximately?’

‘Just under six figures in a good year.’

Yoiks. This was the first thing Mel had heard that he liked. ‘At some point soon, you’ll have to come clean about who you are, the name of the quartet. If you’re earning that money, you must be famous.’

‘The fame is immaterial. You’re single, yes?’

‘I am.’

‘So touring shouldn’t be a problem?’

‘I guess not.’

‘We don’t live in each other’s pockets. There’s no sharing of rooms, no forced mingling. All we would insist on is that you are there for rehearsals and concerts. If we take on a residency, as we may, that can involve some teaching. Are you comfortable with that?’

‘I’ve done some. I’d still want to meet the others before deciding.’

‘Naturally — and they will insist on meeting you.’

‘So will it be arranged?’

Ivan hesitated. ‘Possibly. In the fullness of time.’

The ‘fullness of time’ was presumably how long it would take to dump the current violist, Mel mused, wondering what the unfortunate musician had done wrong. Difficult to feel comfortable about this set-up, but he was willing to stretch a point for a hundred grand a year.

Nothing more of substance was said and he left soon after. It was clearly a ‘don’t call us’ situation.


Three weeks went by before he was contacted again. He was on the sundeck of a riverboat on the Thames playing in a string trio for someone’s wedding. This kind of gig was a steady source of income and he didn’t think of it as slumming, as some musicians did. The repertoire was undemanding, but the pieces were popular for a reason. Most were from the shows and it was no hardship to play Gershwin and Bernstein along with others who had written damn good tunes and never aspired to the concert hall. In a mid-session break for drinks Mel was cradling a tankard and leaning on the rail watching ducks and moorhens taking refuge in the reeds along the river bank when a nudge from behind almost sloshed the beer out of his glass.

‘Careful, chuck. You don’t want to wet your Strad.’

He turned and found himself staring into a cleavage threatening to give him vertigo. He’d noticed this large wedding guest in a lyre-shaped fascinator hat and a wispy, low-cut yellow dress whooping it up with several of the men. The hearty shove in his back had come from her and here she was telling him to be careful.

This lady’s had a few, he told himself. People do at weddings. Keep in the spirit of the occasion. ‘If this is a Strad,’ he said, ‘I’m putting it up for sale. What’s your best offer?’

‘My body,’ she said, ‘and there’s plenty of that, but on closer inspection it looks like a Chinese imitation. The viola, I mean, not me. I withdraw the offer. You’re Mel Farran, right?’

Caught by surprise, he said, ‘I am.’

She drew back a fraction, allowing him to get a wider focus on her physique. She was exceptionally large in all areas. Under the rake of the hat, blonde curls in profusion surrounded a face that was both pretty and pudgy. ‘I came specially to see you. I’m the cellist in the quartet you could be joining.’

He took a moment to absorb this. ‘Really? Which quartet is that?’

She wagged her finger. ‘I may look decks-awash, buster, but you won’t catch me as easily as that. I’m more sober than you think and that’s restricted information.’

‘Are you allowed to tell me who you are?’

‘I’ve told everyone else, so I might as well tell you. I’m Cat — known for obvious reasons as Cat with Kitties. Rhyming slang.’

Difficult to follow that. Mel summoned a faint grin.

Cat continued blithely, ‘You look the part, anyway, and apparently you can play a bit. Have you ever tried the cello?’

‘I know enough not to stick it under my chin.’

‘Don’t get modest with me. I bet you can play, and I could play yours if you’ll pardon the expression. At a pinch I can stand in for anyone.’

‘Useful.’

‘In the quartet we back each other up.’

‘Does that mean you get someone else to carry your cello?’

She laughed and everything wobbled. ‘Now you’re talking, kiddo. If that’s a genuine offer, you could have just sealed your place in the famous foursome. Mind if I handle your instrument?’

She had the knack of giving an innuendo to everything, and she had already picked up his viola.

Mel handed the bow across. Cat gripped the fiddle in a way that showed she was no beginner, tucked the chin-rest into her flesh and played a few bars of Elgar’s ‘Salut d’Amour’, inescapable at events like this.

‘Would I get by?’

‘You know you would.’

With a sure touch, she segued to the opening solo chords of the Telemann Viola Concerto. Much more demanding.

‘You don’t need me in your quartet,’ Mel said.

‘I’m a smart gal, but there’s a problem. I haven’t yet learned how to play my cello whilst holding the viola.’ In yet another smooth change of styles she knocked out some bars from one of the numbers the trio had performed, “Those Were the Days”, and did it with gusto. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you get yourself another drink and I’ll sit in for you? The others won’t mind.’

They didn’t. She delighted everyone, including Mel’s colleagues in the trio, not merely coping with the music, but giving it some welly.

Mel looked on in awe from behind a cluster of guests bobbing to the beat. He was amazed that this boisterous woman belonged to the same quartet as the po-faced Ivan. How on earth did the pair of them relate to each other? Ivan had said something about the members all being individuals, but these two came from different planets. Perhaps the playful Cat was needed as a counter-balance to Ivan’s navel-gazing. Mel was in no doubt which of the two he’d rather have for company. What could the others be like? As yet he couldn’t picture a rehearsal. String quartets were sometimes known as the “music of friends”. His own experiences of ensemble playing told him this could be a long way from the truth, but there was an understanding that discussions must take place and agreement reached on fine points as well as the major issues of interpretation.

He still had no clue as to which quartet they were. He knew of many and had played in some. This wasn’t to say he was an expert. String quartets were legion, a surprising number top notch, plenty whose best hope was to get through a concert without people leaving, a humble majority who confined themselves to weddings like this and a few who were just abysmal. The high-flyers literally jetted around the world delighting audiences in distant places, so it was understandable that he’d not heard Cat in concert. He was sure he’d have noticed her.

They’d reached the end of a rendering of Moon River that she’d embellished with trills the trio hadn’t heard before, all in waltz time, and now she waved the bow for Mel to take over. ‘Melly, my dear, I haven’t had my second slice of wedding cake. I’m through playing.’

She was given a round of applause and blew kisses to the audience. While changing places with Mel she said with a wink, ‘See more of you soon, eh?’

‘So I may be in with a chance?’

‘Don’t push it, ducky. We only met an hour ago.’

‘I meant the quartet.’

‘Oh, that. Better wait and see. Is this your best instrument?’

‘I do have another I keep for concert work.’

‘That’s a relief. This one isn’t fit to use as a doorstop. Promise me you won’t show it to any of the others.’

He wasn’t going to miss an opening like that. ‘I only show mine to girls, really lucky girls.’

‘Well, it didn’t get my juices going, honey. Keep it hidden.’

‘Does anyone else need to vet me?’

‘You bet.’ She blew a kiss. ‘Thanks for today. Wild.’

He didn’t see her again that afternoon. At the end of the river trip, when they were packing up, one of the ushers asked him who the woman in yellow had been.

‘That was Cat,’ Mel said.

‘Your girlfriend?’

‘D’you mind? We only met today.’

‘The reason I asked,’ the usher said, ‘is that no one seems to know who invited her. The bride’s people thought she was one of the groom’s family and the groom thought she was on the bride’s side. We decided in the end she must have come with you.’

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