Nancy slapped his wandering hands away and pushed him back onto the bed. ‘There are two worlds in the Buckingham – you dancers might waltz between them, but you can’t deny it. Christmas Day is for those who can afford it. For the rest of us, Christmas has to wait till the work’s done.’ She was almost at the door when she turned back; the sight of him lying there was enough to make her face glow in a smile. How strange life was, and how quickly it could change. ‘You won’t be as smug this afternoon, when I’ve hung my shoes up for the day and you’re still entertaining guests in the Queen Mary.’ She rushed back to his side, planted her lips tenderly over his.

The clock on the wall read a quarter to five.

‘Merry Christmas, my dear Raymond,’ she whispered.

*

Raymond did not lounge for long. As soon as Nancy had vanished, he rose and paced the length and breadth of his quarters. Then he began his routines: stretching first his legs, then his back, then his arms, his shoulders, his neck. The press-ups were for the strength in his arms; the sit-ups for the core muscles that directed the dance. The squats and stretches he performed were the same exercises that Georges had shown him all that time ago. He had stuck to them like a religious rite ever since. If Nancy were still here, and if he had dared ask, he would have performed each stretch with her balanced over his shoulders – anything to make sure his body was right, that he was strong enough to show the dancers in the ballroom what they had been missing.

The sweet scent of Nancy was still on his bed sheets. After he had finished his routine, he reclined for a moment on the bed and remembered her. It was, he decided, the most miraculous thing. Somebody who knows who I am, every last inch of me, for better and worse. Somebody I . . . love.