She stands, staring, for several minutes, as people pass around her on the pavement.

Mr Mortimer’s letting agency next door is also closed, and a similar notice hangs in the window.

She turns to go. She does not know where to, or what she will do.

Ruby. Ruby Mills is walking towards her, in that slow, sultry, hip-swinging way. This is what attracted Ralph, of course. Harriet can see it. She can understand it.

Ruby has not been arrested.

She pauses, briefly, seeing Harriet, and then continues forward until she reaches her.

‘I understand the Angel is closed for a time,’ is all that Harriet says.

‘It is.’

‘What a shame. You’ll be returning to Southwark, then? Or are you still stealing from the jewellery shops this side of the river and making use of my name?’

Ruby smiles at that. ‘I thought I’d go to Debenham and Freebody later. Always my favourite. How about you?’

Ruby had seemed to Harriet like a soaring bird – free, wild and exciting. She had seen a face, outside Mr Enderby’s jewellery shop, so full of life and vigour. She had sat in a café, worshipping. Now, in the dreary daylight, she sees the tiredness, the heavy lids, the slight stoop of the shoulders. She sees a grubby, fast-living woman. Underneath the fashionable coat, red lips and bobbed hair, Ruby is dirty, unwashed, unremarkable.

And yet, here she stands, smirking as though she owns the street, holding Harriet in place.

Those lips had touched her cheek.

But that same mouth has kissed Ralph’s. The thought of it makes her ache in her belly for something she cannot describe.

‘I believe I shall go home,’ Harriet declares.

Ruby stares at her own feet for moment before straightening herself and looking Harriet square in the face. She takes in the pinched expression. There is unhappiness in Harriet’s eyes, and a puffiness to her cheeks suggests she has been crying. No wonder. Ruby has seen the newspapers.

Harriet Littlemore had no idea until recently what her fiancé was up to. And now the whole of London knows. The whole of England, even.

For all the money, the pearls, the honey-coloured coat and the smart family, Harriet is lost.

Ruby might almost feel pity.

But she is back with the Forties now. She was carried to her table at the Crown. They chanted her name. Ruby, Ruby.

She does not need this woman’s name, nor manner, anymore. She is Ruby Mills of the Borough. And she reigns supreme.

‘Home to Ralph?’ Harriet is not wearing her diamond ring, so perhaps not.

Harriet, on instinct, touches the pocket of her coat, frowning at the mention of his name.

‘No. To my parents’ house. My home.’