We pass the next two hours dancing, drinking, and exchanging words we can barely hear above the din of the party with a curious assortment of historical and legendary figures. The evening becomes ever more surreal, as a gigantic rabbit attempts the Charleston with Queen Elizabeth I, and at one point three Julius Caesars are spotted playing a game of poker on the bar. I find myself withdrawing, overcome by a melancholy brought on by the sight of such determination to have fun. And part of the frenzy, it seems to me, is to distract us from noticing what is surely the most poignant difference between this party and a similar event that might have been held six years ago: the room contains easily three times as many women as men. And among those men who have survived to be here, plenty carry visible wounds bequeathed to them by a dying bomb or a bullet. One can only guess at how many endure scars of the invisible kind.

“So, Beauty, I see the war has not changed you.”

The voice is instantly recognizable. I turn to see Gudrun behind me, sitting elegantly atop a bar stool, smoking a cigarette through a long black holder. She has had her glorious red hair cut and firmly set into ripples that gleam beneath the party lights. She is dressed in a glamorous satin dress without the slightest attempt at a costume. She looks a little thinner than when last I saw her. A little older, yes, but something else. There is a wariness about her now. A watchfulness. I cannot claim to be surprised. To be a German living in London through the war must have been a horrid experience.

“Hello, Gudrun. It is good to see you again. Is Mangan with you?” I peer past her.

“At such a charade? Huh! He would sooner eat his own foot. No, Mangan dislikes such gaiety these days. He is not in the best of health now, thanks to the wonderful British penal system. He prefers quieter occasions.” She draws deeply on her pungent cigarette and then exhales slowly, blowing smoke through her nose, letting the plumes drift away and watching them as they go, before she speaks again. “Besides, Mangan does not receive the number of invitations he used to.”

“Surely he was on Charlotte’s guest list.”

“Oh, yes. But he would never pay for a ticket. Neither would nor could, in fact. No, I am only here because my patron brought me. See, over there.” She points to a rotund man whose age and girth are making it difficult for him to stand the pace of the revelry. “He is a buffoon, but a loyal one. The only man left in London prepared to buy my work. He thinks one day Germans will be back in fashion.” She laughs at this, a dry, mirthless sound.