His jaw dropped. No, he was not mistaken. He glanced feverishly around, in case Lord Edgerton too had noticed. The atmosphere in the ballroom was thrilling at last – but the two dancers leading the show were not Nathaniel White and Hélène Marchmont.

*

Vivienne had already crashed into the guest lift by the time Nancy reached the reception hall. She saw its golden cage closing as a sobbing Vivienne disappeared into the uppermost reaches of the Buckingham Hotel. Nancy careered across the red and black chequered tiles, hurling herself through housekeeping until she reached the service lift. The cage itself was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was being loaded on one of the other storeys. She prowled the corridor for only a second, before deciding that any second she waited here was a second too long. There were still stairs. Her leg would not like her for it, but the pain would not last for ever; and, no matter what she’d done, no matter what kind of girl she was, Vivienne Edgerton needed a friend now.

Nancy reached the stairwell, took the steps two at a time. Miss Edgerton, please. Please wait. You don’t need your drugs. All you need is . . .

By the second storey her leg was already putting up a protest, but she hurried on. By the fourth, she had slowed. The staircase seemed interminable. She clung to the banister and heaved herself up – and, by the time she reached the sixth storey, her leg was throbbing with pain.

No matter. Vivienne’s suite was only yards away. She could see its door hanging open.

In the moment before she reached it, Nancy had a terrible vision: Vivienne lying pale and white on the bed, all of the life drained from her body.

Is it that bad, Vivienne? Is your life really that bad?

Nancy crashed through the open door – and there she was. The drawer from the bottom of her dresser had been upended on the bed. Vivienne was manically rifling through it. As Nancy staggered to the foot of the bed, Vivienne found what she was looking for: a little lavender pouch. She opened it up and emptied its contents into her palm: two tiny phials of crystalline powder.

‘Vivienne.’

Vivienne looked up. Her face was red and raw. Her eyes were smears of black where her make-up had been kneaded away. She was beautiful, thought Nancy, but she was feral as well.

‘What are you doing here? Get out. Get out! I’ll have Maynard Charles summoned. I’ll have you fired. I’ll—’

‘No,’ said Nancy, her voice barely a whisper. ‘Vivienne, I’m not going anywhere.’

‘You’ll call me Miss Edgerton, or you’ll—’