Billy tumbled back into the alcove, bringing with him two tumblers of an amber liquor that smelled quite vile. Nancy had seen the village boys tramping through the village on a Friday night after drinking too much of their home-brewed beers, and the thought of drinking alcohol at all had always turned her stomach. But she took a sip now. It burned and she recoiled, but she went to take another.

‘Take it slow, Nance. This is wicked stuff.’

Wicked was exactly the word. Nancy put the glass down and her eyes were drawn back to Raymond and Hélène. The number was coming to an end and, at last, their bodies came apart. Only then did she find she could relax. You foolish, foolish girl! she thought. You didn’t come to London to get yourself in a lather over some man you barely know. You’re smarter than this, Nancy Nettleton!

In the relative quiet between the songs Nancy could hear glasses being smashed in one of the neighbouring alcoves, somebody barking drunken insults at another. The girls on the tables had stopped jiving and looked suddenly stranded, up above all of the rest. Nancy opened her mouth as if to speak – but then the band-leader stood up. ‘Now for something completely different!’ he announced, into the crowd. The crowd lifted their glasses and cheered, as if in unison.

Then the music began and it was quite unlike anything Nancy had ever heard.

*

Hélène took Raymond’s hand. This, she decided, this is what we came here for! The atmosphere in the Midnight Rooms was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. The smell of smoke would be in her hair for days; her ears rang already with the racket that the band put up. Their music was trapped and echoed in all of the many vaults around the edge of the stage – it did not soar and glide like it did in somewhere as vast and well designed as the Grand – but somehow that did not seem to matter. It was wild and different. It did not need elegance and grace. And now . . .

The music changed again. There came a time, each evening, when the Archie Adams Band threw in their own version of a Latin number, something to excite the Carmen Miranda enthusiasts in the ballroom. But what Archie and his orchestra played could not hold a candle to this.

The music started slowly but quickly sped up. The Latin rhythm was unmistakable. It infected every movement of the song. On the dance floor, the dancers quickly found their feet. This is it, thought Hélène. The rhumba . . . The music was bringing more and more dancers onto the floor. She felt hot bodies around her, pressing in ever more closely.