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and swung round to face him. ‘Are you?’
    ‘Paloma, it’s not me making an issue out of nothing.’
    ‘So I’m to blame, am I?’
    ‘I didn’t say that.’
    ‘Not in as many words, but that’s obviously what you meant. It may sound like nothing to you but I’m not used to beingtold my opinions are claptrap, especially when I was reaching out to you, doing my best to understand you.’
    ‘I don’t want to be understood – not like that, anyway.’
    Her face reddened and her eyes filled with tears. ‘In that case you don’t need me around. Find some other woman to shag, someone who doesn’t give a damn about you. You and I are through.’
    She turned and stepped briskly away without looking back.

5
    T wo weeks passed and Mel heard nothing more from the “Famous Foursome,” Cat’s term for the mysterious string quartet. Thinking they may have decided he wasn’t the right choice for violist, he made up his mind not to lose any sleep over it. Sure, the money was tempting, but he didn’t care for their methods, acting like Cold War spies, obtaining his address, whisking him off for a secret meeting in a London club, refusing to say who they were and gatecrashing a private wedding party for a second look at him. Out of curiosity he’d Googled string quartets. Would a reputable, high-earning ensemble group be able to exist in the twenty-first century without its own website with pictures of the performers? Even if Ivan was a shadowy figure, the rumbustious Cat was not. He’d found more ensembles online than he had ever dreamed existed, plenty with female cellists and their pictures, too, but none looked like her. If he’d been able to supply a name for the quartet he might have had more success. After numerous tries he decided his time would be better spent practising.
    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 movinghis 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,