Marcus was exceedingly twitchy. The night before Abby’s concert he had had a terrible dream about Alexei, and his beautiful oiled naked body dancing away from him. He woke pouring with sweat, sobbing his heart out.

‘I dreamt I lost my car keys,’ he lied.

‘That means frustration,’ reproached Abby.

Marcus hadn’t made love to her for three days. Being uptight about Bartók’s Second Concerto wasn’t a sufficient excuse.

As she was leaving the telephone rang. Smirking, buckling the aerial on the top of the back door, Abby waltzed the cordless into the garden, then returned three minutes later still chattering.

‘I guess I’ve broken through the gender gap, right, people no longer see me as the first woman to do this or that, but want to know what kind of artist I am. No, poor Markie’s battling with Bartók Two. I can’t entice him away. Well, if I see you, OK, I see you. Come backstage afterwards.’

‘That was Alexei.’ Smugly Abby switched off the telephone and then scooped up Scriabin, covering him with kisses, then spitting out his fur. ‘He’s stopping at the Ritz. He wanted to know what I, I mean, we were up to. Oh, there’s the car.’

A large black BMW had skilfully made its way up to the splashing stream scattering elderflower petals to right and left.

‘I must go.’ Kissing Marcus lightly, Abby climbed into the back of the limo so she could spread out the afternoon’s scores. A week ago she would have blown kisses and waved until she was out of sight.

It was such a beautiful day. Although the trees had lost the bright, shiny green of early summer, the field sloping upwards from the gate was streaked silver and gold with ox-eye daisies and buttercups, the limes were in flower luring the bees with their sweet, lemony scent. In a frenzy of jealousy and despair, Marcus washed up Abby’s breakfast and last night’s dinner, hoovered the drawing-room, choking on the dust, watered the pink geraniums falling out of the front windows, loaded the washing-up machine, changed the sheets on his and Abby’s bed. He then made a cup of coffee and, wondering why it tasted so disgusting, realized in his disarray he had added a teabag as well. But anything was better than the loneliness of wrestling with Bartók Two. He’d played the concerto his first year at the Academy, but half-forgotten, it was like dragging up an ancient wreck from the bottom of the sea. He must find his own voice but he had to master the notes first.

Oh God, like scrubbing off a tattoo, he tried to wipe out the indelible horror of Abby in Alexei’s arms, the après-concert euphoria leading on to something more. He loved Abby and she seemed his only hope of keeping out of the quicksand. As he wandered distracted into the garden he noticed the little stream shaking the ferns hanging over its bank as it hurtled towards the lake. Hart’s tongues, the ferns were called — like the tongues that would frantically wag if he were outed. ‘RUPERT’S SON A POOFTER,’ he could imagine the headlines. The papers would have a field-day. Sweating, he imagined his mother’s horror, Rupert’s lip curling in scorn — what else could any father have expected from such a wimp?

He wished Flora were here. He had so wanted to tell her about Alexei, but each time he’d bottled out. She was so busy playing chamber music with Julian and Old Henry and taking singing lessons that he never saw her.

By the front gate he noticed a white scented branch of philadelphus had been bashed down by last night’s downpour. As he broke it off to give it a few more days of life, he heard the telephone ring. Frantic with excitement, slipping on the mossy flagstones, he raced into the house. But it was only Helen, pumping him about Abby. Wasn’t it fascinating that she was conducting Rannaldini’s old orchestra? Rannaldini was kinda put out, said Helen laughing without amusement, but she thought she’d go along anyway.

Rannaldini was in Rome, she went on, expected back tomorrow. How was Marcus’s asthma? She rattled out the questions. Was he practising too little? Too much? Had he heard whether he’d qualified for the Appleton? She didn’t listen to any of his answers.

She sounded uptight when Marcus said Flora was away, then relieved when he added that she and Trevor were staying with her parents. Was Helen frightened of all Rannaldini’s exes? wondered Marcus, as he studied the Bartók, pencilling in reminders, as he listened to her.

Outside he could see Scriabin stalking a mouse, teetering along the fence, plumy tail aloft, like the sail of The Corsair’s pirate ship. Stealthily she crept towards him, on her velvet paws, thought Marcus.

He could bear it no longer. The moment Helen rang off he dialled the Ritz only to be told that Mr Nemerovsky had checked out, gone straight to Abby, no doubt. Marcus banged his burning forehead against the window-pane.

Work was the only salvation.

‘Always practise as though you were playing in front of an audience, even if it’s only the cat,’ Marcus remembered his old teacher’s words, so now he played for Scriabin, nearly breaking the keys in the fireworks of the last movement, working off his anguish until he was wringing wet. The sun had also appeared round the brow of the hill, blazing into his studio.

As he flung open the window, he could hear shouting and a time bomb tick. He must be hallucinating, for there, getting out of a taxi, smothered in the same grey wolf-coat that he had been wearing at the gala, was Alexei.

As he tore across the lawn into the darkness of the cottage, Marcus realized he had forgotten to put the branch of philadelphus in water. Brandishing it like a white hot, scented sword to defend himself, he opened the door.

‘I ’ave no money,’ said Alexei simply. ‘Can you pay the taxi? He will take cheque.’

‘I’ve got the cash,’ Marcus tried to curb his elation. ‘It’s only a fiver from the station.’

‘I come from the Reeetz.’

By the time Marcus had settled the bill, with a cheque which would probably bounce, Alexei had made himself at home, dipping chunks of brown bread into tara-masalata and pouring Abby’s vodka neat into two ice-filled glasses.

‘For you,’ Alexei chucked a little grey bag at Marcus, which clinked as he caught it. ‘Roubles for when you come to Moscow.’

Alexei tossed back one entire glass of vodka and handed the other to Marcus, who shook his head.

‘I’ve got to work. I’ve got a concert on Saturday. I don’t know the piece yet, anyway,’ he stammered, his blushing crimson cheeks clashing with his dark red hair, ‘Abby isn’t here.’

‘Of course, zat is vy I am here.’

Marcus’s heart was beating so fast, only Alexei’s flying feet could have kept up with it. Grabbing a rolling-pin, he bashed the stem of the philadelphus ferociously, before ramming it into a pale green Wedgwood jug. The heady sweet scent was overpowering.

‘I ought to work,’ he said obstinately.

‘I ought to walk,’ mocked Alexei. ‘I need country air in my lungs.’

He refused to remove his wolf-coat.

‘In Eengland, I am always cold.’

Outside, the sun highlighted his night-owl pallor, the flecks of grey in the thick straight black hair.

Last evening’s eye-liner still ringed eyes that were just slits of amused malice beneath the heavy lids. A half-smile played over the rubber-tyre mouth. A cocksucker’s mouth, his father would call it, thought Marcus, Oh God, help me.

Alexei walked, as he danced, with a springy step leaning backwards, chin raised, head thrown back proudly, idly whistling tunes from Romeo and Juliet as he went. As they reached the wider path along the edge of the lake, he took Marcus’s arm — it was like walking with a bear. Marcus prayed they didn’t bump into any of the Celtic Mafia. He was having great difficulty breathing, and longed to collapse on the bank amid the meadowsweet and watch the dark blue dragonflies dive-bombing the water lilies.

But Alexei was gazing at the mayflies endlessly dancing above the still dark water, making the most of their one day of life.

‘They are like me,’ observed Alexei bitterly, ‘you ’ave sixty, perhaps seventy more years to play the piano. I have ten to dance, eef I’m lucky. I’m not going to drag myself on like a wounded eagle like Rudi.’

‘You could always direct or teach.’

Alexei shrugged. ‘No more bravos, no more centre of attention.’

Reaching the end of the lake, they turned back up a rough track into the wood, going deeper and deeper until only the occasional sunbeam pierced the darkness, throwing ingots of gold light on the carpet of dark moss. It was wonderfully cool after the blazing heat. The birds were silent beneath their green-baize cloth of leaves. Marcus kept his distance.

‘What d’you call this ’ere?’ Alexei was shaking a great acid green shawl slung over the branch of a towering sycamore tree.

‘Old man’s beard,’ muttered Marcus. ‘Some people call it traveller’s joy.’

‘A nicer name, I am a traveller, who will bring you joy,’ announced Alexei, then, when Marcus didn’t respond, asked, ‘How ees anyone as beautiful as you so frightened, leetle Marcus? You should be enjoying your beauty. Brave boys like you should not be afraid of wolves,’ he added mockingly.

Marcus started, opened his mouth and shut it again. They had been joined by Mr Nugent and Mrs Diggory’s spaniel, who often escaped together on illicit hunting sprees.

Now the two dogs were crashing round trampling the last green seed-heads and yellow leaves of the wild garlic. The smell reminded Marcus of Taggie’s cooking and the gentle intimacy of long chats with her in the kitchen, until these had been ruined by the return of disdainful, disruptive Rupert, who was even jealous of a son he despised.