Back One Enchanted Evening
Chapters (50)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Prologue
  4. The Grand Masquerade Ball
  5. Five Months Earlier . . .
  6. Chapter One
  7. Chapter Two
  8. Chapter Three
  9. September 1936
  10. Chapter Four
  11. Chapter Five
  12. Chapter Six
  13. Chapter Seven
  14. Chapter Eight
  15. Chapter Nine
  16. Chapter Ten
  17. Chapter Eleven
  18. Chapter Twelve
  19. Chapter Thirteen
  20. Chapter Fourteen
  21. Chapter Fifteen
  22. Chapter Sixteen
  23. Chapter Seventeen
  24. Chapter Eighteen
  25. October 1936
  26. Chapter Nineteen
  27. Chapter Twenty
  28. Chapter Twenty-one
  29. November 1936
  30. Chapter Twenty-two
  31. December 1936
  32. Chapter Twenty-three
  33. Chapter Twenty-four
  34. Chapter Twenty-five
  35. Chapter Twenty-six
  36. Chapter Twenty-seven
  37. Chapter Twenty-eight
  38. Chapter Twenty-nine
  39. Chapter Thirty
  40. Chapter Thirty-one
  41. Chapter Thirty-two
  42. Chapter Thirty-three
  43. Chapter Thirty-four
  44. Chapter Thirty-five
  45. Epilogue
  46. A New Year
  47. Extract from Anton Du Beke’s next novel’
  48. Acknowledgements
  49. About the Author
  50. Letter from Author

Hélène looked back at her girls. Elisabeth was with Sofía and the room was a chaos of ball gowns and cases and missing shoes, but no matter what they looked like now, Hélène knew they would be striding into the ballroom without a hair out of place when the clocks tolled two. She herself would be wearing a floor-length cotton organdie gown with huge frilled sleeves – a perfect imitation of the one Joan Crawford had worn in Letty Lynton.

Hélène marched along the hall, up and away from the ballroom as Billy scurried in her wake. ‘Billy,’ Hélène said when they reached the hotel director’s door. ‘Is our honoured guest still in the Grand Colonial Suite? You know the man I mean. The Spaniard . . .’

Billy nodded. He was here to star in a picture show they were shooting at the old Heatherdon Hall. He’d brought his leading lady to dine at La Petite Salle, the Buckingham’s finest French restaurant (Billy knew she’d stayed the night as well, even though she was not on the hotel manifest).

‘Don’t suppose he’ll be going back to Spain now, will he, miss?’

Hélène tensed. ‘He’s not to go near Sofía tonight. A glass of champagne and he’ll want to dance with her. Do what you can, won’t you? A nice little distraction, here and there. Get Sofía partnered up with some other guest for the evening.’

Billy gave Hélène his most ostentatious bow – ‘Your wish is my command!’ – and then, readying herself for yet another battle, Hélène knocked sharply on the director’s door.

*

Maynard Charles was not what you would call an insignificant man – but he did pride himself on being invisible. He knew the names of every guest of note at the Buckingham Hotel. He made it a matter of honour that he could recite them all – and, because the Buckingham comprised two hundred bedrooms and twenty-six suites, this was certainly a Herculean task. And yet very few of those guests would have paid him a second glance had they passed him in the reception hall, or sat beside him in the cocktail lounge as they deliberated over their long Martinis. Invisibility, Maynard Charles had long ago decided, was advantageous.