‘It isn’t just the club though, is it, Joseph? It’s . . . the whole world. One of my dancers at the hotel, her brother has vanished in the horrors in Spain. There still isn’t any word of him. And now the riot in the East End? It doesn’t feel . . . right out there.’

‘Still no word from the King either,’ chipped in Joseph’s father. ‘Will he give up Mrs Simpson or give up the throne?’ He paused. ‘The world has always been full of uncertainty, Hélène. It will never be any other way. But keep your focus, keep thinking on what matters most – that baby, right there in front of you – and you’ll be all right.’

Soon it was time for dinner to end. Hélène lifted Sybil and tidied her up; Joseph reappeared in a green checked jacket, with peaked lapels and only two buttons on its breast and – despite the hoots of embarrassment from his father – disappeared out the front door with a flourish. Noelle worked her magic in the kitchen, while Maurice swept the rug. And, through it all, Hélène felt as if she was a world away from the Buckingham, the trials and tribulations of guests and concierges and hotel management.

‘Time for me to get some sleep,’ announced Samantha. ‘Richard will be back from shift soon enough. Ma, Pa, goodnight. Lovely to see you, Hélène. And –’ her eyes dropped down to the baby Hélène was still holding – ‘night night, Sybil.’

Hélène took Samantha’s hand. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and Samantha looked at her and replied gently. ‘Never say that again, Hélène. You’re family. You both are.’

At last, it was only Hélène and Noelle still up. In Hélène’s arms, Sybil looked forlornly around, as if searching out Samantha. But I’m here, Sybil. Your mama is here. Then her face opened in an enormous yawn, revealing a mouth full of tiny white teeth.

‘Well, somebody’s sleepy. Do you want to put her down, dear?’

Hélène was hesitant. ‘Isn’t it silly,’ she said, ‘how nervous one can get?’

‘You dance for princes every night. How could a little thing like this make you nervous?’

Because, Hélène thought, she matters so much more.

With Sybil still lolling in her arms, Hélène squeezed down the hallway to the little nursery at the end. Behind her, Noelle sang a ditty to herself as she tidied everything away. In one of the flats above, a pair of young lovers were arguing. Through the walls, Hélène could hear the sound of the BBC news buzzing out of the wireless, news of Germany and Spain – and, of course, the daily bulletin about King Edward and the glamorous Mrs Simpson. But here, safe in the nursery, everything was still.