He was starting to think the whole thing could be an elaborate hoax. Classical music wasn’t without its jokers, however solemn its reputation. Generally they struck in rehearsal sessions when fooling about was excusable. Most of it was at the level of sabotaging piano stools, music stands and sometimes even the instruments. On occasions the trickery was more sophisticated, involving players being sent wrong instructions. He’d heard of an unfortunate first violin led to believe everyone would be wearing a red bow-tie for a concert of Russian music. Then there was the percussionist tricked into moving his entire set of instruments into the royal box at the Albert Hall for a performance of the ‘1812 Overture’.
The more he thought about this leg-pull theory, the more plausible it became, but where it was leading? Presumably some kind of humiliation was in store. He’d be notified he was picked for the quartet, turn up somewhere for a rehearsal, open a door and be greeted by all his jeering mates. Was that the sting? It didn’t seem enough after such a build-up. Better think again.
There had to be a bigger pay-off.
With a sinking heart he recalled the Candid Camera show that had run for so many years taking advantage of unsuspecting members of the public. Surely that had disappeared from TV screens, along with its imitators? They’d spared no expense in staging elaborate cons. What if some crap TV company had decided to dust off the formula and serve it up again?
His comeuppance as mass entertainment? He didn’t want that.
Either way, he was obviously the fall guy. Why? He hadn’t been getting above himself, had he? He was an even-tempered, unassuming bloke, or so he liked to think. He didn’t go out of his way to annoy people.
Maybe he did, and was not aware of it.
Or he was a born sucker. He still recalled with pain the night he’d been robbed of his viola outside the Festival Hall.
If this was a con, he knew musicians were involved. Ivan could have been an actor, but Cat was not. She was a damn good cellist. Someone in the business must have persuaded her to join in the fun.
Next question: who, of all the players he knew, was devious enough to have picked on him? Actually, plenty. In his situation, filling in often for violists in ensemble groups and orchestras, there were hundreds who know him by name. Generally there’s some banter when you return to a bunch of people you’ve met before. A few might want to take it further.
His thoughts veered in another, darker direction. This could be a revenge thing. He’d once had sex with a flautist called Destiny who played for the Royal Opera, a haughty-looking lady with hidden lusts. She’d approached him first, literally put her arm around him and led him below stage at Covent Garden where they’d had a vigorous session on the single-ended sofa normally used for the dying Violetta in La Traviata. This didn’t inhibit Destiny in the least. Mel was left with soreness amidships and multiple scratches to arms and back. He’d vowed not to repeat the experience, but Destiny had other ideas. For the rest of Mel’s stint with the Opera orchestra she made sure everyone knew he’d scored with her and she was up for more. Months afterwards he was still getting phone calls and texts suggesting another session. Everyone in the music world seemed to know. He got weary of being asked when he was planning another date with Destiny.
Could she have hatched this plot? On reflection, probably not: she believed in the direct approach.
But once he’d started on this tack, he thought of other affairs with musicians. Playing in an orchestra tends to encourage close relationships. Sitting for hours in rehearsal with attractive, creative people, you find yourself becoming fascinated by physical details, how her hair is fastened to leave the nape of her neck exposed, or how she crosses her legs at the ankles. The discipline of the music means that in moments between playing, a glance, a smile, a raised eyebrow can convey more than it would outside. With a love of music in common and the shared experience of making it as near to the ideal as possible, responding to the conductor, to the harmonics, you already have everything in place for some flirting when the formalities end.
That was how Mel had scored a number of times. Some romances lasted longer than others, but all had come to an end, almost always with unhappiness on one side or the other. It was not impossible that some of the hurt had lingered. He tried to imagine which former girlfriends were capable of engineering a plot like this, designed to raise his expectations and then humiliate him, and he just couldn’t see it. What was happening to him called for a degree of organisation, of bringing in people to help, that didn’t square with any of the women he’d slept with.