He is embarrassed that his heart is pounding as he reaches for the brass knocker, which he brings down to echo with light apology against the glossed wood. He shifts uneasily on the limestone step, turning to look out over the expansive park, its great oaks silhouetted against a navy sky whose ghostly clouds drift lazily over the moon in a half-hearted game of hide and seek. Jack knocks again.

Music wafts on the breeze. He listens to a rakish dance of tinkling piano keys, accompanied by sliding strings and the boom of a plucked double bass. With his knocking unanswered, he allows the drifting notes to beckon him around the side of the house, where he discovers a stone terrace. Golden light floods through its row of French doors and spills onto the partygoers clustered on the lawn below. Their mingling voices are punctuated by tittering laughter and low guffaws. The men are dressed in dark dinner jackets and white bow ties and the ladies dazzle beside them in their sheaths of jewel-coloured satin. They drink from coupes of glistening champagne as if conscious this might be their last hurrah.

Jack hangs back in the shadows, acutely aware he does not belong here. He lingers by the edge of the grass looking up at the terrace where fleeting images of whirling dancers are caught behind glass. Checking his watch, he sees it is now after eleven. He wishes Gwen had been waiting for them, as she ought to have been.

Unsure what to do, he loiters, not daring to step onto the cropped grass which seems to designate some social boundary he should not cross. Instead, he keeps his feet firmly planted on the gravel, not wanting the grind of chippings to disclose his presence.

He waits with the nervous anticipation of an actor hovering in the wings, following the drama unfolding on stage, hanging on every line, awaiting his cue. And then, as if by prearranged direction, his attention is caught by a shimmer of velvet and a ripple of blonde waves. Gwen enters stage right, laughing merrily as she glides through a set of French doors that have been flung open to release the heat trapped inside. She fans her flushed cheeks with gloved fingers, her eyes alive with excitement as she half-turns to the young man who has escaped with her to the refreshing respite of the terrace.

Jack’s jaw tightens. Her companion is tall and his black dinner jacket appears sculpted to his broad physique. He carries himself with the confidence of a movie star and has the looks to rival most – square chin, straight nose, strong brow, and tawny hair bearing a brilliantine glaze. Backlit by the chandeliers inside, he appears to possess a magical aura, and from the look on Gwen’s face, it is clear she is entranced.