I came home full of anticipation and went through my wardrobe for garments suitable for evenings on the town. Luckily I had had a maid for one whole week earlier in the summer, and during that time she had cleaned and pressed my good clothes, so that my evening dresses were not as crumpled as my everyday wear. I sat in front of the mirror and experimented with putting my hair up. (Disaster. I looked like Medusa.) Then I got the scissors and snipped at the ends in the hope of turning it into the kind of sleek bob Belinda wore. Again not too successful. Now all I had to do was wait.

The next morning I ran out to buy the Times as soon as the newsagent was open and there it was on the front page in the middle of the other advertisements. Alone in town on business? Let Coronet Escort Service enhance your evening’s entertainment. Our high-class girls make ideal companions to grace your dining and dancing. I had had to supply a phone number, naturally, and had no choice but to give the Rannoch House number. I just hoped that nobody recognized it and told Binky or Fig. But then I reasoned I wasn’t doing anything wrong. That Mr. Hiram Schlossberger had enjoyed every minute of my company the other evening. So why shouldn’t similar gentlemen pay for the privilege?

Clearly the idea was not a silly one, because that afternoon I received my first telephone call. The man had a pronounced North Country accent, but I couldn’t hold that against him. I thought of all those rich mill owners and people who said things like “Where there’s muck, there’s brass.” Even if his conversation and manners were boorish, he’d pay well. He asked me my price, which no man of breeding would do, and stammered a little when I told him five guineas.

“That’s an awful lot,” he said. “She’d better be good.”

“The very best,” I said. “A high-class girl from a good family. You’ll be enchanted with her.”

“I bloody hope so,” he said. “Have her meet me at the Rendezvous Club behind Leicester Square. That’s close to where I’m staying.”

“Very well,” I said. “And what time shall I tell her?”

“Ten o’clock?”

I put down the mouthpiece. It wasn’t going to be dinner then, at that hour. Nor a theater. A late supper at a nightclub, maybe? Then dancing, gambling, a cabaret? My heart raced in anticipation. This was the sort of life I’d dreamed of living—out late with the bright young things, coming home at dawn.