‘He paid you?’

‘Not enough. And he grumbled about it. I think he thought I was on the house. He sounded desperate when he talked about the gambling, mind you. Must be hard, strutting around like the lord of the manor when you’ve mortgaged your wife’s diamonds.’

Peter reaches into his jacket and pulls out a pile of folded notes. He counts five onto the kitchen table.

‘Helpful information. You’ve done well.’

The kettle screeches to a boil. He takes it off the heat but does not pour the water into the teapot.

‘Now tell me, how do you know Harriet Littlemore?’

‘Who?’

‘You’re a very poor liar. The young man at Mortimer’s – the one with the wandering hands – he told me that you paraded about, all la-di-da, although evidently you were no lady. He said you were trying to impress him, and that someone called Harriet Littlemore was a particular friend, apparently. You were taking tea with her. Why would you tell him that?’

‘Oh, I was playing pretend, you know? That was just a name I thought of.’

He tuts. ‘I’ve warned you before not to mess with me. You see, I’ve met Harriet Littlemore. Sweet and stupid, but terribly well-connected. I know her father, too, and she’s about to marry another associate of mine, Ralph Christie. So, the question is, how would you know her? Did you steal something from her?’

Ruby shakes her head, uneasy. ‘We met. Yesterday. Before I rented this place.’

‘You met? I can’t see the two of you moving in the same circles.’

‘We met in a shop. We had matters to discuss. Interests in common.’ She bites her lip.

‘I doubt that. What could the earnest and thoroughly respectable Harriet Littlemore possibly want to discuss with a little tart like you?’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’ She folds her arms across her chest, trying to keep warm. He would never understand her longing to move through the world as comfortably as Harriet Littlemore. Or why she might spend hours tilting her head, walking slowly, speaking in that soft voice, mimicking the rounded vowels. He does not need to pretend wealth and class, after all. ‘Personal stuff.’

He rummages for teaspoons in a drawer, pulls out two and lays them neatly in the saucers. ‘Your shared appreciation of silver teaspoons, perhaps.’

‘Yeah. That’s right. ’Cause I have so many of them.’

He turns away from the tray to face her.

‘Well, those are probably mine as well.’

They stand in the white quietness of the apartment. All she can hear is the low hum of an electric lightbulb. He watches her with the same expression on his face that she had seen in the club, when he had given her to Alex Somers, and now there is only a cotton towel between them. The skin on her collarbone puckers with tiny pimples and she shivers.