I’m not half smart enough for the West End. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. Her sense of humour could not wholly resist his abnormal gravity. In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. ‘Lord, no! I’ve a better regard for my skin, I thank you. “Who the hell are you, Lucy?” “Promise me you will never tell anyone. “I’ve been playing since I was five, Lucy! You’re just more talented than I am. You say you have twenty-four hundred in your letter of credit.
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