The club was serene this afternoon, though two men in velveteen waistcoats were seated by the small corner bar, locked in conversation with Almira – the manageress who, if history had followed a different path, might now have been sunning herself on the ramparts of some palace in Persia. Almira recognised Raymond almost as soon as he stepped through the doors. Her black eyes gleamed at him and she directed him to a table in the corner, where a middle-aged man with distinguished silver hair and moustache waxed into perfect spirals was nursing a plate of the most succulent rabbit cassoulet.

Raymond approached slowly, snow sloughing off his grey overcoat. The diner looked up and his face, with its otherworldly blue eyes, opened up in the warmest smile. He stood and, when Raymond extended a hand, the man pulled him into a warm embrace instead. When the elder man let go of him and directed him to sit, he felt the tears of a young boy pricking in his eyes. He had not known how much he needed this.

‘Georges,’ he began, ‘I’m grateful to find you.’

Georges de la Motte summoned Almira for an extra glass, and himself poured Raymond a measure of the darkest, richest Merlot. This he placed in Raymond’s hand, folding Raymond’s fingers around the glass stem himself. ‘Drink, my boy,’ he said gently.

So Raymond did. The wine had a warming effect. Its taste was an intoxicating mixture of red grape and cinnamon – something exotic, and of the east. He let it penetrate every corner of his body. For the first time, in a long time, he felt his muscles relax as he sank back into the chesterfield.

Georges de la Motte had just celebrated his half-centenary and, although it was showing in the silvering of his hair, he still retained that fey, otherworldly air that had first struck Raymond so many years ago. Raymond supposed Georges would have been his own age back then. There had been so much to admire in the seventh son of a French baron who’d picked him up from the taproom floor, set him on his feet and recognised, in the youngster, something of himself. Raymond had learned so much from him – not just the nuances of the double reverse spin, nor the imperceptible changes to his posture that would better create elegance in the ballroom, but of gracefulness and poise in larger life as well. It was this stability that drew Raymond to his mentor now.

‘Raymond, my boy. You look like you could use an old friend.’

Raymond nodded. He did not want to seem weak in front of his old mentor, but something inside him was lost, something inside him was spinning apart. ‘I’m grateful for it,’ he replied. ‘Georges, I need your help.’