Raymond shrugged. ‘My seat is going cold up in the Queen Mary.’ He paused. ‘I’d rather be here,’ he said – and, at that moment, a rousing cheer went up. A string of chambermaids and the younger concierges had formed a conga and began to snake up and down the lounge. Raymond saw Louis Kildare, saxophone still in hand, at its head. It seemed a revelation, at last, to admit it to himself: upstairs, with the dukes and duchesses and other men of means, he was a day-tripper; downstairs he was at home. ‘Oh,’ he said, spying his mother re-emerging from the crowd, ‘and there’s one more thing . . .’

‘Who’s this then, Ray?’ Alma Cohen asked, looking Nancy up and down. Nancy was not certain whether the look on her face was genuine inquisitiveness or sneer. ‘This another reason you been holding out on us, is it, boy?’

Nancy looked, aghast, between Raymond and the eerily familiar stranger.

‘Nancy,’ Raymond began, in his boldest declarative voice, ‘may I introduce you to—’

Alma Cohen gave a deliberate splutter. ‘The name’s Jones,’ she interjected. ‘We used to carry Raymond’s bags, back in his continental days. We was your . . . retinue. Wasn’t we, Mr de Guise?’

She raised her eyebrows imperceptibly, as if inviting him to join the charade – and, in that moment, Raymond felt such a surge of love and gratitude. All of the disappointment and distance there had been between them – and now this . . . To pretend she was not his mother, to help him maintain his facade even when it meant denying her firstborn son – somehow this seemed the greatest act of love Raymond had ever known.

‘No,’ Raymond said, gently placing a hand on her forearm. ‘Nancy, this is my mother. Alma Cohen. Ma, this is Nancy Nettleton. She’s the real reason I’m staying here at the Buckingham Hotel. Ballroom or not, I’m here for her.’

Alma Cohen looked Nancy up and down. Then, with an approving nod, she said, ‘More beautiful than any of those toffs up there in that fancy restaurant of yours. Well, Nancy, I’m charmed.’ Then, out of the side of her mouth, Alma whispered, ‘Dance well, does she?’

‘Like an angel,’ said Raymond, and squeezed Nancy’s hand.

The conga swept by and Raymond reached out to join its tail as it passed. It was then, with Nancy and his mother behind him in the line, that the real Christmas celebrations began.

*