The maître d’ glided over to him as he waited to be seated.

‘Sir Alan, do follow me. Mr Morrah sends his apologies. He is delayed at the office and will be a little late.’

Tommy’s irritation went up another couple of notches.

They reached a well-appointed table for two. ‘Mr Morrah’s preferred table,’ the waiter told him, as he pulled out a chair. ‘May I get a drink for you, sir?’

‘Scotch and soda, please.’

Tommy looked around him. Of course this would be Morrah’s preferred table: no one near enough to overhear but perfectly positioned to see and be seen by everybody.

Since Lady Astor had brought Mrs Gould to tea with the Queen, Tommy’s brain had been working overtime. He hadn’t seen Mrs Gould for several years, and in that time had had to brush her off twice. By God, the woman must have skin as thick as a hippo. Tommy found that people like Mrs Beatrice Gould were completely beyond his understanding of women.

The woman was ruthless. She was determined to get a series of syrupy columns about the British royal family in the periodical she owned with her husband, Mr Bruce Gould. the Ladies’ Home Journal was America’s most widely read magazine for women. Mrs Gould was selling the idea as a way of ‘enhancing the friendship between America and Great Britain’. She’d said, ‘Our people love the British and they want to see that the British love them too. Especially when so many American servicemen lost their lives in helping out with World War II. In a way, you owe us.’

Tommy shuddered. He knew exactly what Mrs Gould wanted: she wanted to sell magazines.

He had made sure he intercepted Lady Astor and Mrs Gould on the day of tea party, just as they were about to leave the Palace.

‘Goodness! Lady Astor. How lovely to see you. I didn’t know you were here.’ His performance had been charming.

‘Tommy, dear,’ answered Lady Astor, offering her powdered cheek. ‘We have had the most delightful tea with Her Majesty. May I introduce you to Mrs Gould?’

Mrs Gould reached out a gloved hand. ‘We met once at the Ritz.’

‘Oh goodness, so we did.’ Tommy smiled. ‘Would you care to join me in my office? I can offer tea, or something a little stronger?’

‘We must get on,’ Lady Astor demurred.

‘No, honey, wait.’ Mrs Gould had placed a hand on Lady Astor’s arm. ‘I would love a drink.’

‘Sorry, old man,’ Dermot Morrah said now, arriving fifteen minutes late. ‘What’re you having? Scotch and soda?’ He turned to the hovering waiter. ‘I will have the same.’

They exchanged pleasantries and enquiries about wives and children as they read the menu, Dermot eventually plumping for the steak and kidney pie while Tommy went for the pork.

Once the waiter had left, Dermot cut to the chase. ‘So, Mrs Gould tells me that you cleverly got her and Lady Astor to yourself?’

Tommy inclined his head. ‘That is true. They both enjoyed a small Dubonnet.’