He smiled at her reflection. ‘You can still say that, after all these years?’

‘Sure I can. Now, would you do up my zipper?’

‘I love this dress,’ he said. ‘Now turn around.’ He zipped her up.

Together they stood side by side, looking at themselves in the mirror. They were both in their early fifties. Beatrice, with her slender figure, her well-preserved face, her hair dyed jet black and rolled into tight curls, was the perfect image of a successful New York woman, who balanced work with her wifely duties effortlessly. Bruce was still athletic-looking, tall, balding, but with an honest, open face that had stolen the trust of many. He was good at making money and was not ashamed to admit it. He also made it for those he exploited, so who was complaining?

He watched as Beatrice painted on her coral lipstick.

‘You’ve still got it, honey.’

‘Right back at you, handsome.’

There was a knock at the door.

‘That’ll be room service. I asked them to bring some coffee and cookies and stock up the cocktail bar.’

Marion and George had walked to the Ritz and were climbing the front steps. A uniformed doorman opened the door for them and Marion, who had been there before, walked straight to reception, quickly followed by George.

‘May I help you?’ the young woman on duty enquired.

George answered. ‘Mr and Mrs Gould are expecting us, I believe. Major and Mrs Buthlay.’

‘Oh yes, sir. Take the lift to the top floor. Their suite is the first door on the left.’

‘Do I look all right?’ Marion asked nervously, as they got into the lift.

George, without looking, said, ‘Top floor, please.’

The lift boy answered for him. ‘You look very nice, madam.’

George gave the boy a dangerous look. ‘And you look like a pansy.’

‘George, please!’ Marion was mortified.

She hadn’t wanted to George to come with her at all. ‘It’s just a meeting to see if we like each other,’ she’d said, earlier that day. ‘I will be fine on my own.’

‘I’m not good enough for you? Is that it?’ George had said, pushing his florid face in to hers so that she could smell last night’s alcohol.

‘No, dear, but I think you need to rest. You still don’t look very well, and …’

‘You are worried I will embarrass you in front of your posh friends?’

‘No, dear, not at all.’

‘Then get out of my way.’ He had shoved her so hard that she almost fell. ‘Where the hell is my good suit?’

The lift boy, now crimson, pressed the button to the top floor. He kept his eyes fixed on the door.

‘Top floor.’

George stepped out. Behind him Marion mouthed ‘sorry’ to the poor boy.

The first door on the left had a sign that read THE PICCADILLY SUITE. George pushed Marion forward. ‘Well, knock on it then.’

The room they walked into was grander than any of the rooms in the royal homes Crawfie had seen. It dripped with fresh paint, gold embellishments and the very last word in stylish furniture. It was all new. She almost lost her footing on the deeply tufted carpet.