Soon, Raymond stepped back and Hélène, throwing a smile at Nancy – what does it mean? What’s she smiling at me for? – disappeared from the studio.

‘Shall we resume, mademoiselle?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nancy said. ‘I’m feeling—’

‘Whatever it is, feel something else,’ declared Raymond. ‘No embarrassment! No fear! Listen to the saxophone. That’s our own Louis Kildare playing. The greatest saxophonist to ever come up through the clubs.’

The music was extraordinary. Nancy had to admit that. All of the music Raymond had played for her had been extraordinary. The waltzes brought to mind pictures of decadent palaces. The quicksteps, more gay and fancy-free, made her feel like it was the height of summer, even as the nights drew in and October approached. The tango that was playing now was so exotic, it almost made her think she was a different person . . .

‘Where’s Miss Marchmont going?’ she asked, as if to change the subject. ‘She was wearing such an elegant fur.’

‘Not going,’ Raymond said. ‘Returning. The demonstrations begin anew tomorrow. There’s no rest for Miss Marchmont and me . . .’

‘Some of the girls, they say Hélène has a secret lover. That he charters planes and takes her to Paris and Milan . . .’ Nancy saw the way his face twisted as she spoke, as if trying to hide something, and caught herself too late. ‘Mr de Guise, have I said something out of turn?’

‘No, it’s not that. It’s just that . . . we all have secrets, Nancy. We all have stories. Even Maynard Charles himself, I shouldn’t wonder. Don’t you ever think . . . ?’ Raymond paused. He had a hand on Nancy’s shoulder and he was leading her around, taking classical hold again. This time, Nancy did nothing to resist. Their feet started moving together, a simple waltz around the room. Sometimes, she thought, it’s easier to talk when your body is moving. Dancing makes everything so much more . . . comfortable, somehow. ‘We live on top of each other here, don’t we? The Buckingham’s so big, but it can seem so small. The hotel director and the porters. The orchestra and the dancers. All you dozens of chambermaids! The garage mechanics and pages. There’s not one of them that doesn’t have a story – and here we are, all mingling together. The problem is, sometimes you want to keep your story to yourself. You must have a story, Nancy.’

‘I do,’ she said, ‘but there’s no secret in it. I’ll tell you everything, Raymond, if you like.’

He held her more tightly – then, suddenly loosening his hold, rolled her away from him, held the pose, and rolled her back tight to his body. ‘It isn’t about what I’d like. It’s about what you’d—’