‘Do we have a date for this recording?’ Mel asked, to steer the attention away from himself.
‘That’s up to us,’ Ivan said. ‘We’re not ready yet.’
‘The recording studio has its own terrors,’ Cat said. ‘Personally, I prefer performing in front of an audience.’
‘Don’t we all?’ Ivan said. ‘I always find I can bring out something extra.’
‘Is that one of your Ukrainian customs, bringing out something extra?’ Cat said. ‘Do that in public here, comrade, and you’ll get arrested.’
Ivan clicked his tongue. ‘Isn’t it possible to say anything serious in present company?’
Anthony stood up and packed his violin away, indifferent to the banter as usual.
Cat said to him, ‘Your turn to share a taxi with me and my cello, right? I’ll phone for one now. Want me to order a second one, guys?’
Ivan said he was staying on to teach a student, but Mel said he was ready to leave.
When they reached the foyer only a few minutes later, a cab was already outside.
‘Can’t be ours,’ Cat said. ‘It’s too quick.’
‘I’ll check,’ Mel said.
The driver lowered his window and when Mel asked who he was waiting for, he said, ‘Mr. Farran.’
‘That’s me,’ Mel said, surprised. ‘Is the other cab on its way?’
‘I wouldn’t know, mate. I was asked to pick up Mr. Farran, the viola player.’
‘Fair enough.’ He gestured through the window to the others that he’d got lucky.
It all happened so fast that the taxi was zooming along the road to Bath before he realised he hadn’t given his address. He must have used this driver before, he decided. Often at the end of a rehearsal he felt so wrung out that he wouldn’t have recognised his own father in the driver’s seat. They were heading in the right direction, so he relaxed and thought about his plans for the rest of the day. He’d need to fit in more practice. In spite of the praise from the others, he knew Ivan was right. His intonation — accuracy of pitch — could be improved. With such latitude possible in their creation of sound, string players had a huge advantage over anyone else in an orchestra, yet there were phases, say in a long legato line with open strings, when the pitch should be suppressed. He’d noted a couple of passages in the Beethoven when he needed to adapt better to the violins. Ivan would certainly speak up if there wasn’t an adjustment next time they practised.
The taxi forked left at Park Lane, heading directly north past Royal Victoria Park — an odd decision considering Mel’s lodgings were in Forester Road, north-east of the city. Cab drivers were a law unto themselves, so Mel didn’t question the route. Maybe the man knew about some obstruction along the way. Or maybe he was putting another half-mile on the clock. If so, it didn’t worry Mel, as all the fares went on the quartet’s account and were settled by their agent, Doug.
But when they slowed to a crawl for no obvious reason he tapped on the glass. ‘Hey, this isn’t where I live.’
‘All right, mate. It’s under control. I’m picking up another fare.’
‘What?’
‘Just ahead. Your lucky day, by the look of her.’
A woman was waiting opposite the entrance to the Botanic Garden, hand raised for the taxi to stop. People sometimes shared when cabs were in short supply at the station, but this woman was behaving as if she was hailing an empty one. Mel was on the point of objecting before he saw what a dream she was. She could have stepped off the style pages of a weekend magazine. Blonde, in a short white leather skirt and black top, she was smiling as if she knew exactly who Mel was, even though he was sure he’d never met her. She wasn’t in any way forgettable.
Mel was a ladies’ man. Any lingering thoughts of protest went out of the cab door when it opened and a tidal wave of cleavage almost engulfed him.
‘I’m Olga and you must be Mel.’
Distracted, he almost forgot to move his viola case from the seat beside him. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘Relax. It’s all good news if you’re up for it.’
‘Up for what?’
She laughed. ‘Wait and see. It seems a bit cloak and dagger, but from now it’s champagne all the way.’
The taxi was already speeding along Weston Road. Mel had abandoned all thoughts of objecting to the extra passenger.
‘Heavy practice this morning?’ Olga asked. This close, her perfume was overpowering.
‘I’m used to it.’
‘But you’re new to the quartet.’
‘Newish. You seem to know a lot.’
‘Only the essentials.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘The Royal Crescent Hotel.’
The taxi took the turn to Marlborough Buildings and was soon rattling over the cobbles in front of Bath’s best known thirty houses, a five-hundred foot semi-elliptical terrace faced with Ionic columns. The crescent’s position, high above the park with views across lawns and trees to the city, was intrinsic to its glory. Three months into his stay in Bath, Mel hadn’t been here before. He was awed.
The famous hotel occupied the space for two houses at the centre, fitting unobtrusively into the architecture. From a distance the only way you could tell it wasn’t private dwellings was a pair of ornamental trees in tubs either side of the entrance.
A doorman in dark blue livery stepped forward and opened the cab.
Mel was in such a state that he almost forgot to reach for his viola, an unthinkable oversight ever since he’d been mugged that time in London. He snatched it up and stepped out.
In the front hall, it became obvious Olga knew where to go when she crossed the chequered floor to the staircase. Mel followed his new companion up the stairs as if her undulating bottom had hypnotic powers. Powers of some sort, for sure. Whatever she planned next he was unlikely to object.
The doors along the first floor corridor had the names of well known former residents of Bath. Olga stopped outside the John Wood suite.
‘We have the use of this for the afternoon.’
Which beat working on the Beethoven, he decided.
She opened the door.
The suite was spacious and honey-coloured, with a padded sofa and armchairs at the centre and walnut furniture. The windows facing the front were elegantly pelmeted and draped in a gold fabric. To the left, discreetly recessed behind a white wooden balustrade, was a kingsize bed.
At full stretch on it was a man.
Mel came to an abrupt halt. A threesome wasn’t in his thoughts, and certainly not a threesome in this combination.
Olga said, ‘Mel, this is Mr. Hamada. He doesn’t speak much English so I’ll need to translate.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Mel said. ‘You’ve got the wrong idea about me. I’m leaving.’ He turned towards the door.
‘No, please be reasonable.’ She put her hand on his arm.
Something sharp but unintelligible was said from across the room. Mel glanced back.
Mr. Hamada had sat up and removed himself from the bed. He was fully dressed in an expensive-looking suit. He stepped over the little balustrade, bowed solemnly and spoke some words in his own language.
Mel reached for the door handle.
Olga said, ‘Wait.’
There was such unexpected force in her voice that he froze.
She went on with more moderation, ‘Mr. Hamada apologises for all the inconvenience, the secretive way you were brought here. As a passionate lover of music he has been looking forward to meeting you.’
Mel hadn’t supposed this was about music, even though he was holding his viola in its case. After some hesitation he clasped the hand that was offered. Hamada had a strong grip. He was a short man, made shorter because he was in his socks. Mel guessed he was around thirty-five.