‘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.