Can a spirit from earth, held in a living body, go out to meet one that has departed? How do you know what is real and what isn’t? Perhaps imagination is real? Or perhaps she really, seriously needed some food. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, it had been a dreadful day, and it was getting late. Sometimes she forgot she needed to eat.

She changed into a serviceable long black dress with scooped-out back, threw a silk and lace wrap over it, brushed her hair, put on some powder and lipstick. If fingers were to point, at least she would look good. The drift of dance music on the piano led her in the right direction along the soft-carpeted corridors.

A woman alone in the Savoy restaurant, though, was not as welcome as she had hoped. After all, the waiters didn’t know she was a famous musician. The maître d’hôtel tried to show her to a table near the door to the kitchens, tucked out of sight of most other diners. She’d have to eat her meal beside the constant coming-and-going of trays, the door opening and closing, the draughts and the shouting of orders, just because she was a woman without a male companion. ‘I’m afraid we’re rather full, madam,’ the maître d’ said by way of apology, ‘and you do not actually have a reservation… ’

‘I could come back a little later, if the kitchen is still open?’ Jelly gave her brightest smile.

‘It is entirely up to madam. For how long is madam visiting England?’

‘I’ve lived here for more than 20 years,’ Jelly said, smile painted on. ‘I’m a musician. I’m playing at the Queen’s Hall next week.’

He gave a stiff little bow. ‘Perhaps if madam would like to wait for a more comfortable place, I might suggest a cocktail in the American Bar or the lounge, and we will call you when your table is ready?’

‘What an excellent thought. Thank you, sir!’ Jelly, putting on her theatrical self, set her shoulders back, tilted her neck, flashed her smile, and watched the snobby man recoil slightly under the bolt of charisma. At least she hadn’t lost that.