‘Miss Gillies!’ She turned at the sudden mention of her name to find a familiar-looking man coming towards her through the crowd, one arm raised up as if to catch her attention. ‘It is Miss Gillies, isn’t it? They said you were here.’ He squinted. ‘Only . . . your hair is different, I think?’

The party dropped away as her past caught up with her at last.

‘You?’ she asked, her voice barely more than a breath.

‘So you remember me, then?’

The ice cube on her back was nothing to the freeze, now, in her veins.

‘I wanted to talk to you about the factor. Ask some questions—’

‘Ah, I’ve got it!’ the man dressed as the king exclaimed, butting in. ‘You’re Mr Thompson, of Thomson and Thompson. The double act. Thick moustache, bowler hat. Confused expression . . .’

Effie watched the man frown back at him distractedly. ‘What?’

‘You know – Thompson, from Tintin.’

There was a pause. ‘Actually, Your Majesty, it’s Mr Bonner. From The Times,’ the reporter said in a sardonic tone.

The king frowned, peering at him through narrowed eyes, before a slow smile began to open up his face once more. ‘Oh, very good! I like it. Yes. Mr Bonner from The Times. How novel!’

‘Effie?’

She felt another hand on her arm and turned again, this time to see Sholto staring at her with a look of disbelief. And something else, too . . . concern?

‘What are you doing here?’

She no longer had any idea what she was doing here. She had never imagined a party might be like this. She wanted to tell him she’d come to show him she and Sibyl were friends. That she’d come for him, but—

‘My God, your hair . . .’ he said quietly, a hand automatically lifting to touch it. ‘What did you do?’

A part of her brain wanted to ask if he liked it; the dress too? She wanted to tell him Sibyl had done it all for her so that they could be friends at last. But she couldn’t find her words. Mr Bonner from The Times was here, and he’d been looking for her.

‘Did Sibyl do this?’

She managed to nod. Why wasn’t he pleased?

‘Effie . . .’ His eyes lifted off her, looking around the room for someone. Who?

‘I say, Sholly old chap, who are you supposed to be?’ the king asked him now. ‘Isn’t that rather your usual get-up?’ He gestured at Sholto’s outfit of a black tailcoat and white tie.

‘Lord Chatterley,’ Sholto muttered. ‘Before the accident.’

The king laughed. ‘Ha, splendid, old boy. Good call, yes, before the accident. Makes all the difference tonight; you wouldn’t catch me at knee-height to this crowd, I can tell you. I know you don’t like these themes.’

‘No, Ernest, I don’t,’ Sholto said tersely, his eyes already back on Effie. He looked desperate.