When Suki had pressed the intercom button and uttered something in her low tone and they’d been admitted to the house, Petra couldn’t help feeling a little disloyal to Vincent and Gloria and Max’s memory. Because this was the way this beautiful space was meant to be celebrated. It was like a scene from an opulent movie set in a time and a place where the world didn’t matter – elegant people spritzed with understated wealth, sophisticated lounge jazz resonating richly through the walls like the house itself was an organic instrument, gold and copper and bronze party lights twinkling in soft focus, the clink of crystal and laughter, the smell of fresh-baked vol-au-vent and something roasting. As she hung her coat and hefted the gift she’d brought, beautifully wrapped in gold paper and spangled ribbons, Petra felt like she’d been invited to Nigella Lawson’s Christmas party.

She smoothed the electric-blue jersey of her dress down her thighs and checked the ruck at the waistline, trying not to compare her clothes with those of the other women. That was like going to the zoo and envying the tiger’s stripes. Beside her, Suki was in skin-tight black trousers, massively bulky biker boots and a black shirt, waistcoat and tail coat, drawing any critical looks away from her. But the temperature was just right inside and the smell of cooking and the mellow music – and a couple of Suki’s tranquilisers – were all helping to keep Petra relaxed.

Petra trailed behind Suki, meeting the faces of the guests as they made their way deeper into the house. She half expected to see a flash of orange hair, felt a spurt of adrenaline bubble up as she imagined someone cornering her with a cue. But this was the real world, she reminded herself. She didn’t have to play a part, she didn’t need to make a good impression.

She was standing among a tight knot of people in a lounge that had been decorated like a ragtime nightclub, her fingers loosely draped in Suki’s hand and staring at the framed prints on the wall – black-and-white streetscapes of Paris and New York and Tokyo – when Suki drew her towards the bar counter at the edge of the room and she heard the familiar voice.

‘What can I get you?’

‘Vinnie, darling! There you are.’

‘Heya,’ Vincent said. He was wearing a suit with a white-banded fedora that he might have borrowed from Ellis Brown’s collection. Suki was stretching across the drinks table to grip his face and kiss him on both cheeks. Defensively, Petra held the gold-wrapped box in front of her.

‘Snazzy getup,’ Suki said.

‘Yep,’ he said, twisting his lips. ‘You know how it is. I’ve been asked to wear worse.’ And it was only now, as he shifted his view, that he recognised Petra. ‘Oh, hi.’

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Do you two know each other?’