At the back of the hall, the doors to the Queen Mary service kitchen opened. A procession of waiters marched out. Then, as if on military parade, they formed a guard of honour along which the head waiter and his second-in-command appeared, bearing the first of the enormous Gloucestershire turkeys on a silver platter. A rousing cheer went up from the nearest tables, and the turkey was taken to the centre of the room, where Maynard Charles stood with his carving knife at the ready. Raymond watched as he sliced through the golden skin, revealing the moist flesh underneath. Then, all at once, the ceremony was complete. While all eyes were on Maynard Charles, the waiters had returned to the kitchen – and now they flocked out, bearing platters and plates, trays on which champagne glasses were fizzing and overflowing. Somewhere, a cork popped, arcing out over the diners. Somewhere else, Christmas crackers were pulled, revealing slim silver wristwatches and golden cufflinks within. The air around Raymond was heavy with the scent of butter-basted turkey, the salt of bacon wrapped around fresh sausages, the sweet tang of cranberry sauce. He had forgotten what it was like to eat quite so handsomely, and his love for the Buckingham Hotel was suddenly renewed when a steaming hot plate was laid down in front of him. Raymond felt a sudden flush of pride at all the hundreds of people devoted to keeping the Buckingham alive. Maynard Charles was right. The Buckingham can’t wane. The Buckingham can’t fall. Too many of us depend on it.

He looked up. Nathaniel White was pontificating to the ambassador and his staff on the intricacies of the double reverse spin and his elevated place in the ballroom – but Raymond looked straight past him, over the heads of the other diners, to the very doors of the Queen Mary itself.

He felt as if his heart would stop.

There, hovering in the doorway, stood his brother, Artie. Their mother, Alma. Aunts May and Rebecca lingered behind. They look as out of place as Lord Edgerton would in the markets on Cable Street, Raymond thought. Or Maynard Charles grifting scrap metal in the yard with my old man. They were gazing with faces crinkled up in nerves, Artie shifting from foot to foot in awkwardness. It isn’t many of us who can slip from one world to another . . .

Raymond was still staring at them when he felt fingers drumming on his shoulder. So frozen was he that, at first, he did not turn around. The sheer incongruity of seeing his family here in the Buckingham had rooted him to his seat – so that he only looked up at all when he felt the moist breath in his ear, and the words, ‘Get rid of them, Raymond, and do it without anyone noticing. Do it now.’