I met the cellist on a Tuesday. Hidden in plain sight, no one suspects a cellist. Once the applause had passed, the flowers given, the bows taken, the self-congratulatory walkbacks of the conductor done with, I slipped round the back of the concert hall to the stage door. There were no guards so I went straight in. I came across a clarinettist, polishing her instrument with a red cloth. “I’m looking for a cellist.” I said. She pointed down the corridor. I thanked her and proceeded cautiously. I was unsure whether I would be able to pick the right cellist; luckily she saw me first, at once knew what I was up to, and headed straight over, cello on her back. She had been awaiting the moment with dread for months. With wet eyes, she agreed to come.