‘It’s nothing, Noelle,’ Hélène lied. She refocused on the decorations and tickled Sybil under one of her manifold chins. ‘Do you remember,’ she went on, ‘how nervous I was when I came here that first Christmas?’

Noelle’s eyes lifted to the picture of Sidney on the mantel. She had made an extra effort to crown Sybil’s father in snowflakes. In the picture he was nineteen years old and holding on to his trumpet. He looked angelic, as if he existed outside of time.

‘I remember you were terrified,’ said Noelle. ‘But you had no need. Hélène, you did beautifully.’

Two years ago – a whole lifetime . . .

Hélène could clearly remember the first morning she’d known she was pregnant. The Christmas tree was being hoisted up in the Buckingham reception. The tinsel and baubles appeared overnight, the hotel staff slaving long past the midnight hour. Dawn found her with her head in the bowl of the toilet at the end of the dancers’ hall. She had never known a sensation like this. By the time she arrived in the ballroom for the afternoon demonstrations and took Sidney to one side, she knew that her suspicions were right. There was a baby inside her, curled up and waiting for its mama to introduce it to the world.

Three weeks later, on the night of the winter solstice, Sidney had brought her to this very door. He’d first kissed her a summer before, one night when only she and he remained in the rooms behind the ballroom. From that moment on, Hélène’s life had lit up. She had known romances before, but always with men who sought to own her, to define her, to box her up and package her away for their eyes only. Sidney was not like that. Sidney burned bright and his passion for her was matched only by his passion for his trumpet. She loved how much he knew about music. She loved how much he knew about dance – although, on the rare occasions he’d stepped out onto the dance floor, it was obvious that, though a natural musician, dance did not come as easily. She loved how he breezed through life, thinking only of the day, not caught up in the trap of the future like so many others. And she loved, most of all, the way he had touched her that first night they lay together, up in her room in the Buckingham Hotel. The secret was theirs alone, and it had intensified all year, just like their love.

Now, though, love felt different. It felt like sickness in the bottom of her stomach. It felt like faintness when she demonstrated a particular dance with Raymond de Guise. It tasted like last night’s dinner, forever lurking at the back of her throat.