In the end, it was Stephen’s love of the arts that gave Ginie a social entrée of sorts. He was passionate about classical music, it was a passion combined with an impressive intellectual understanding. The difficult late Beethoven string quartets were his particular favourites. He collected composers’ autographs and had managed to hunt down both Mozart and Beethoven. Ginie didn’t share Stephen’s appreciation for serious music, but she liked new composers that broke the mould. She favoured contemporary artists and writers for the same reason – she was mad about all things new. Stephen and his brother, Sam, had just given a sizeable donation to Covent Garden opera and Ginie invited people who were involved in the arts to Grosvenor Square, particularly those just starting out.

One evening, Stravinsky came. It was something of a coup to get him to accept an invitation; Ginie was thrilled and nervous. She couldn’t wait to write to her mother about it. The dinner would be her return to the high society that was rightfully hers.

The weather the night of the dinner was terrible as a dense fog descended on London. It seeped into the house, under the doors and though the cracks in the window-frames, slowly filling the spaces between the furniture with a deep chill.

Ginie was ready an hour before the guests were due to arrive. She lay on a chaise-longue by the window with Caesar curled at her feet, her head wreathed in cigarette smoke. A magnificent star ruby, a gift from Stephen, glowed on her finger, the snake tattoo peeping out from beneath the hem of her silver lamé shift. She was watching the mist twine around the houses. The butler, Westaby, came in, soft-footed as ever. Ginie sat up. Caesar pricked his ears as she laid a hand on his head.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Madam,’ Westaby cleared his throat. ‘I just received telephone calls from Mrs Bedford and Mrs Alexander. They can’t get here because of the bad weather. They were most apologetic. . . We’ve taken away their places at table.’

Ginie thanked him and clenched her fists, inadvertently squeezing one of Caesar’s ears so hard that he yelped. The Alexanders and the Bedfords were her best guests. Without them the evening would lose its lustre and Stravinsky would be bored. She stroked Caesar’s head in apology, wondering if the fog was just an excuse and she was being snubbed again.

The bell rang and she hurried downstairs. Westaby opened the front door and Stravinsky walked in, the heavy fog in the street pouring around him, like water through a cracked vessel.

‘Good evening, Maestro,’ Ginie greeted him, holding out both hands. The star ruby glittered in the light. ‘Terrible weather, isn’t it? We are so honoured you came.’

Stravinsky was peeling off his gloves and cape and gave them to Westaby. He took Ginie’s right hand and kissed it, his moustache tickling her skin.