Across khaki fields, criss-crossed with stone walls and bobbled with sheep, Marcus could see the lights of Appleton. In case by some miracle he reached the final, he had brought his tails and the dress-shirt which Abby had turned pale blue in the washing-machine.

During a rather strained and stilted drinks party, when the contestants stared at each other like cats, Marcus noticed Benny Basanovich, black hair curly as a Jacob’s sheep, surrounded by girls, but paying particular attention to a voluptuous Slav beauty, with long sloe-black eyes, soft, drooping scarlet lips and large breasts. That must be Rannaldini’s protegee Natalia Philipova. Marcus felt a surge of pity for his mother. How could all the silicone implants in the world compete with that, he thought savagely.

Over an excellent dinner of steak and kidney pudding, and a huge pie made from dark blue bilberries picked off the moor, served with big jugs of cream, the level of chat and laughter started to rise.

Everyone then drew for position in the competition. With forty-eight contestants to play, the first round would take four days. Mid-morning or mid-afternoon were best. People who played first thing had to warm up the jury and the audience. Immediately after lunch was dodgy, because half the jury would be sleeping it off. By the end of the day everyone was irritable and tired. Marcus drew the very last number, then had a nail-biting, four-day wait.

On the first morning of the competition, however, all the contestants were expected to turn up at the small concert hall belonging to Appleton University, where the first two rounds were taking place, to be officially welcomed by Lady Appleton.

The jury were already in position in the gallery, including Jennifer the labrador, who was leaving blond hairs all over the shiny dark suit of the Ukrainian judge.

Marcus nearly fainted when he saw Boris, Rannaldini and oh God, Pablo Gonzales, who was raising binoculars with a shaky hand to spy out the better-looking male contestants.

Only after the last winner had accepted her little silver piano, had it been discovered that before the competition she had deliberately taken private lessons with most of the jury then further sucked up by writing them sycophantic thank-you letters.

This year Lady Appleton was taking no chances, and kept the names of the judges under wraps to prevent them being got at before the competition.

After welcoming everyone, and thanking the sponsors, Mr Bumpus of Bumpy’s Scrumpy, she stressed the importance of the jury not having any contact with the contestants.

‘I know many of you know each other, but try and restrict yourselves to a little wave until after the final.’

Monocled and massive in Prince of Wales check, Dame Edith promptly raised Jennifer’s fat yellow paw and waved it at Marcus.

‘Finally,’ went on Lady Appleton charmingly, ‘don’t be frightened or discouraged if you go no further — remember that every member of the jury was once knocked out in the first round of a competition.’

‘I was not,’ said a deep voice in outrage.

‘Sorry, except Dame Hermione,’ laughed Lady Appleton. ‘Now let us welcome our first candidate, Miss Han Chai from Korea.’

On went the jurors’ spectacles, as the prettiest little raven-haired teenager came dancing onto the stage with her pink skirts swirling and played Debussy, Liszt and Mozart with such proficiency and delight that she plunged every other candidate into despair.

Bruce Kennedy, the great American pianist, who always voted against the Eastern bloc only gave her five out of ten.

‘Technically perfect,’ he muttered to Dame Edith, ‘but I don’t figure she’s experienced “Life”.’

‘If you want to see raw emotion,’ whispered back Edith, who’d given her six, ‘look at her teacher in the front row. Don’t you agree, Boris?’

Boris, who was sitting behind them, gave a sulky grunt, and added another semi-quaver to the clarinet’s part in Act Two of King Lear. There was manuscript paper all over the floor and the seats on either side of him. He supposed it would be construed as collusion if he enlisted Marcus’s help to put in the bar lines.

Boris had only fallen under Lady Appleton’s spell and agreed to judge when he was plastered at some reception last year, and was livid to be dragged away from work.

He wasn’t remotely gratified that Rachel’s Requiem had now gone to Number Five, and he was incensed that Rannaldini had been given a suite at the Prince of Wales, with a room next door for Clive, his sinister leather-clad henchman, while he, Boris, had only a dimly lit shoe-box facing a grubby brick wall with no mini-bar.

Hermione was even crosser than Boris. Having promised her his full attention, Rannaldini had rolled up with a beady-eyed Helen, and then spent his time caballing.

For despite Lady Appleton’s strictures, corruption was gloriously rife. Everyone, particularly the Eastern bloc, indulged in tactical voting. All the judges had been tempted by massive bribes. Dame Edith was shocked to be offered three Steinways, a diamond necklace and a week’s holiday for two by the Black Sea, Dame Hermione less so. The only safe unbugged place for intrigue was the heated pool. Rannaldini, who had the advantage of a magnificent Sardinian suntan and fluency in most languages, soon had wrinkled paws from dog-paddling with large lady judges, their long grey hair swept up on top.

A few of the judges argued the whole time, the rest were too terrified of Rannaldini and making fools of themselves to put forward any forceful opinions. This happened particularly after the Italian contestant, whom Dame Edith had described as ‘a fairly good-looking pig who unfortunately sounded as though she was playing with trotters’, turned out to be the daughter of Ernesto, the Italian judge. The strain of listening to music from nine in the morning until eight at night was telling on all of them. The old trouts found it impossible to stay awake, particularly after Bumpy’s Scrumpy and a large lunch.

As contestant followed contestant, however, stars were beginning to emerge. Most of the judges liked Han Chai, none of them liked Benny, who had only entered because both Howie and Rannaldini had persuaded him certain victory would lift a sagging career. Benny, on the other hand, was very famous, and rather good with judges, claiming not only genuine French-Russian parentage, but also aunts from Latvia, Romania, China and Ireland who, when necessary, became ‘my favourite relation’.

Also much fancied was Carl Matheson, a cheery, bouncing Texan with a terrific stage personality, who’d been told by his agent to leave his tails behind. This was an old trick. The contestant would then appear not to have expected to reach the final. If he did and walked onto the platform in his plaid jacket or a too large borrowed DJ, the audience and jury would be touched by his modesty and humility, and the fairy tale element of a rags-to-riches win, and mark him up accordingly.

Dominating the candidates, however, was Natalia Philipova, who’d ‘come a long way, baby’, since two years ago in Prague when Rannaldini had advised her to give up the piano, then relented and financed her private lessons. Now he was determined to make her a big star. Hence his tickling of all the old trouts in the swimming-pool and his waking them with a cattle-prod when it was Natalia’s turn to play.

He had chosen Natalia’s first round pieces well. Liszt’s piano adaptation of Tristran, and a Chopin sonata with a funeral march middle movement reduced everyone to tears. Howie had already signed up Natalia, but he was soft-pedalling the connection, as he and Rannaldini didn’t want Benny to go into drunken orbit. A win from Natalia would be that much more impressive and dramatic if she beat an established talent like Benny’s.

Finally, there was Anatole, a moody handsome Russian, and a marvellous pianist. He was left handed, which made him very strong in the bass and gave his playing a wonderful thunder. His hair was the browny blond of newly laid parquet, and like most eastern bloc players, he wore cheap clothes: shiny brown trousers, plastic shoes and his freckled back could be seen through his thin nylon shirt. But nothing detracted from his eruptive presence. His deadpan face, deep husky voice and occasional bursts of temper reminded Marcus agonizingly of Alexei. Howie, who was gasping to sign him up, had nicknamed him the ‘Prince of Polyester’.

Anatole, like all the other Russians who’d entered, had been playing his first-and second-round repertoire and his chosen concerto in concert halls all round Siberia for the last six months. Although aware he would probably go back to Siberia for good if he didn’t win, Anatole was far more interested in winning the local pub talent competition.

All the contestants reacted to pressure in different ways. Some paced before they played, some took deep breaths or did yoga, others stared into space, some shook and sweated. Anatole kept throwing up, then lighting a cigarette immediately afterwards.

Marcus’s four-day wait would have been a torment if every day a fleet of cars hadn’t arrived to ferry the contestants either to the concert hall or to big houses in the area, where they were offered a grand piano on which to practise. Marcus was sent to a darling old lady called Mrs Bateson who’d been a friend of Thomas Beecham. Deciding Marcus needed fattening up, she baked wonderful cakes for him. All her family rolled up and listened whenever he played, but when they appeared at the hall to cheer him when his turn finally came, they had great difficulty getting seats. The place was packed with Press, chasing more copy on Rupert’s estranged son and Abby’s live-in lover.