‘I know,’ said Nancy. She dared lift an arm and put it around Vivienne’s shoulder. ‘But it doesn’t matter. It’s only words. Words can be undone. But this thing? This thing you’re about to do? That can’t be undone, Vivienne. And, Vivienne, the world doesn’t want you to die.’

‘The world doesn’t want me at all. You don’t know what I did . . .’

Nancy was still.

‘I sent that poor girl out into the snow. I made her think her baby was dying. And for what? So that he might dance with me? So that it might be me out there in the ballroom? So that, for just one evening, my mother and the others might have seen me, thought something good of me, realised what she did when she chose him over me . . .’

The sobs erupted out of her in a great geyser. She crumpled, and at last she was in Nancy’s arms.

‘I hate this hotel,’ she uttered. ‘I hate being here, in this country, where I don’t know a soul. I hate my stepfather for bringing me here. I hate my mother for letting him. I hate it every time I breathe them in, those powders Mr Simenon brings. I hate it every time I ask for another cocktail in the Candlelight Club and some waiter comes running. And the men. They don’t want me for me. I . . .’ For a moment she was lost for words. She sank further into Nancy’s arms. ‘I hate myself,’ she sobbed – and after that she said no more.

Nancy held her softly, then held her tighter still. Vivienne’s body quaked up against her until, after a time, she was as still as a child.

*

The dance was almost at its end. The two principals turned, came apart, and came back together again. The male lead swooped his partner forward, then back, lifting her from the ground as they spiralled together, hitting the final beat in perfect harmony. Then, in a fanfare of trumpets and Archie Adams’ hands ricocheting up and down the piano, the music came to an end. An explosion of applause erupted. On the ballroom floor, the dan-cers stopped, breathless, each couple clasping hands and bowing towards their principals.

The masked male lead released the hand of his partner and strutted along the gleaming wooden squares, the rest of the dancers forming an aisle around him. As he reached the edge of the dance floor, his chest puffed out – and, from the balustrade where he watched, Maynard Charles thought that he held himself like a hero from classical myth.

At the very head of the dance floor, the Norwegian royals stood together, proudly joining in the applause. Märtha, the crown princess, was up against the balustrade, beating her hands more fervently than the rest. The lead dancer stopped at the bottom of the stair. He bowed and, upon rising, extended his hand to her.