The upper echelons of the Buckingham Hotel had been contemplating Christmas since long before the first snows. In an enterprise as vast and interconnected as the Buckingham, Christmas was an affair not for the cold winter months, but for the final days of summer. Maynard Charles had directed his subordinates to source the great Norwegian fir that was now being hoisted into pride of place in the hotel reception. Mr Simenon had been tasked with procuring the very best in crystal baubles and stars, and all of the other candles and crosses, tinsel and trinkets, which – by the time the guests awoke – would adorn the halls and lounges of the hotel. Maynard Charles had but one directive: if our hotel is to become a grotto, then let it be the most elegant and lavish grotto in London.

An army had been enlisted now. Nancy and Rosa and Ruth busied themselves draping tinsel and scattering stars, all under Mrs Moffatt’s watchful eye – ‘this is my twenty-first Christmas at the Buckingham Hotel, and I’ve never seen a finer tree! Great job, girls! Keep it up!’ – but they weren’t the only ones. A flurry of hotel pages skittered through reception, carrying the glass stars that would adorn the guest lounges. Kitchen hands, waiting staff and concierges passed, on their way to decorate the Queen Mary, the Candlelight Club, the brasserie and the ballroom. To Nancy, it seemed the most incredible thing in the world. The Buckingham was transforming in front of her eyes. One season was changing into the next – to the guests it would surely seem like magic.

In an hour, the tree was bedecked in glass angels and snowflakes, tinsel arranged so splendidly it constantly caught the light – and all that was left was for Maynard Charles himself to huff and puff his way to the top of the ladder and, watched by the assembled throng, place a single silver star at the top of the tree. Later that day, Billy Brogan would be dispatched to take careful note of the decorations on display at hotels such as the Savoy and the Ritz – and come back reporting that no tree was larger, no star brighter than that which shone at the Buckingham Hotel.

I wonder what it’s like at home, Nancy thought as she gazed up. Not that it’s really home any more. But . . . I wonder if there’s a tree for Frank this year. I wonder if Mrs Gable will wrap him a present. Raymond had taken her to Fortum and Mason, and there she had bought a little Christmas cake to send to him. Because you might be sixteen, Frank, but you’re still my baby brother. I’m going to make a home for you – for us both – down here. I just need a little more time . . .