Nancy held up her hands. In them there was a little package, wrapped in crêpe paper and tied with an emerald ribbon.

‘Come in,’ Raymond whispered, with a smile.

Nancy looked quickly up and down the corridor. Tonight, with her story finally shared, she felt as light as the air.

When she was certain there was nobody to see, she darted inside.

‘I told them,’ she blurted out. ‘Rosa and Ruth and the others. I—’

‘And they’re not going to—’

‘Gossip?’ Nancy grinned. ‘Oh, they’ll gossip. I’m certain of that. But they’ll gossip with each other. They’ll natter away. They’re my friends, Raymond. At least I think . . .’ She passed him the gift. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘open it.’

‘It’s not Christmas morning.’

Somewhere, far away, the bells of St Stephen’s Tower were tolling. ‘It is,’ said Nancy, ‘so open it! I want to see your face.’

Raymond’s hand trembled as he worked at the ribbon. Why are you so nervous? he asked himself. But he already knew. There was something on the tip of his tongue, something that he wanted to say.

The crêpe paper came apart and fell to the ground at his feet. Inside, there was a little wooden box, decorated with spirals and swirls. It smelt of beeswax. Raymond had no idea what he was looking at but he smiled all the same; it came from Nancy, and that was all that mattered.

‘Well,’ she beamed, ‘open it again.’

Together they perched on the end of the bed and Raymond opened the varnished box. Almost immediately, a motor started whirring. The box rumbled in his hands as, from its centre, two uniquely sculpted figurines arose: two dancing figures, holding each other in a classical pose.

‘A music box.’ Raymond grinned, and listened to the melody. ‘A Viennese waltz.’

Nancy smiled. ‘It’s Christmas. It had to be elegant. I didn’t think a cha-cha would do.’

‘I love it,’ said Raymond. ‘I . . .’

He fell silent. Was Nancy mistaken, or was he embarrassed? There’s something on his mind, thought Nancy.

Raymond produced a gift, wrapped in scarlet paper and finished with a bow. ‘For you, Nancy.’

She unwrapped it gently, not wanting to tear the paper, until she had revealed a black taffeta evening gown. She unrolled it, held it up against herself. It’s so unforgettable. Something Hélène would wear. It had exaggerated peaked sleeves, sheared down the centre and puffed up to perfection.

‘For when we go dancing. Because, we are going dancing, Nancy, you and I. Might be we disappear off to the Hammersmith Palais, down to Margate, to Brighton – somewhere they don’t know us. Somewhere where we can be us. Away from Buckingham eyes.’

Nancy was too full of emotion. ‘I love it,’ she whispered.

‘There’s something I have to say.’