‘What do you think?’ Ruby says, unsmiling. ‘Someone put my face in the newspapers. Drew a picture of me. Someone wrote about me, told the whole world how the Forties operate.’ Her voice grows harder. ‘Someone made me out to be something special, gave me a nickname: the Jewel of the Borough. That sort of thing doesn’t go down well with the likes of Annie Richmond.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh.’ Ruby glares at her. ‘Yeah, that’s exactly what Annie said, when she saw the paper.’

Harriet’s stomach clenches in fresh horror. The Queen of the Thieves. Alice had spoken of her in awe as well as terror.

‘But it was only meant for Kensington. I didn’t think anyone would have read about it in Southwark, surely. Were you in trouble for it? Oh, please say not.’ She reaches out and grasps Ruby’s arm. Ruby pulls away again and lifts her chin.

‘Annie Richmond beat me, in front of everyone; broke a bone in my cheek and battered the face that you put in your paper. I was spitting blood. Then she threw me out of the Forties.’

Harriet’s throat constricts again. She can barely talk. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry… I never knew… How could I know…?’

Ruby, by contrast, is oblivious to everyone around them, taking pride in sharing her dreadful tale with Harriet, seeing how she cringes. ‘I had no one. I had no money and no food for weeks. That’s why I went to work at the Angel, for Peter Lazenby.’

Harriet cannot hide her anguish. She is the one who has driven Ruby to this life. ‘I had no idea the trouble it would cause you. Forgive me. It wasn’t meant to harm you.’

‘I don’t forgive. Never have. I prefer revenge.’

‘Revenge?’ Harriet feels cold fear wash over her now.

‘It’s remarkable, you know, who you meet in a place like the Angel. Such rich men. Men like Ralph Christie, for example.’

‘Ralph?’ Harriet blinks. ‘You met Ralph there? Oh no, I don’t believe it. It’s hardly Ralph’s sort of place –’ She is conscious that people might overhear.

Ruby is unconcerned by her evident discomfort. ‘It’s very much his sort of place. The champagne, the dancing, the women. Very generous he is, too, if he gets what he wants.’ She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a gold watch, as if to consult it. ‘Which, of course, he did, all night, because he fucking well paid for it.’

Two older women, arm in arm, turn their heads in alarm at Ruby’s profanity, as if they cannot quite believe such a word might exist in a place like Selfridges. One of them tuts. Perhaps she has misheard. They move away, just in case, to avoid having to overhear such language again. Later, they will murmur together about how vulgar young women have become in recent years.