I spent a ridiculously long time getting ready, soaking in a hot bath and then actually trying to apply makeup, something I’ve never really learned to do well. But when I looked in the mirror, I was satisfied with the luscious red lips, even if black mascara on my eyelashes didn’t really go with my red-blond hair and coloring and the cocktail dress was not as slinky as I would have liked. It was one that the gamekeeper’s wife had run up on her sewing machine for my season. It was a copy of something I’d admired in a magazine, but somehow the combination of Mrs. MacTavish’s sewing skills and my taffeta didn’t make me quite look the same as the softly draped girl with the cigarette holder in Harper’s Bazaar. But it was the best I could do and I looked clean and respectable.

My heart thumped wildly all the way in the taxicab. We passed the bright lights of Leicester Square with its theater marquees and bustling crowds and finally pulled up on a dark side street.

“Are you sure this is it, miss?” The taxi driver asked in a concerned voice.

I wasn’t sure. It looked awfully dark and lonely. But then I saw a blinking sign over an entrance. Club Rendezvous. “Yes, this is it,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

“You are meeting somebody, I hope,” he said as I paid him.

“Yes, I’m meeting a young man. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” I gave what I hoped was a confident smile.