Mr Leighton had been in touch by letter to suggest Evie meet his wife for lunch, in order that Veronica might impart some advice about life in Malaya and what Evie needed to pack for the journey.

The women arranged to meet in the restaurant in Marshall and Snelgrove. Anxious to make a good impression, Evie wore her best suit, even though it was too warm that day for wool and it was a little dated. In her haste, she got on the Tube in the wrong direction and had travelled four stops before she realised her mistake. Late for the appointment, she had to miss her planned visit to the powder room to repair her lipstick and check that her slip wasn’t showing. As a result she was hot and dishevelled when she rushed into the restaurant, before remembering that she had no idea what Veronica Leighton looked like.

Standing on the threshold, Evie looked about, trying to decide which of the unaccompanied women might be the wife of a senior civil servant. She approached a matronly woman in her late forties, but it wasn’t her. About to enquire of a harassed mother with a baby – Mrs Leighton may well have a child – she felt a tap on her shoulder and almost jumped out of her skin.

‘Miss Fraser?’

Spinning round, she nearly crashed into the speaker, who took a step backwards. ‘Steady on!’ the woman said curtly.

‘So sorry. You’re Mrs Leighton?’

Slender and willowy, Mrs Leighton had the grace and figure of a ballet dancer. Her dark glossy hair was swept back into a tight chignon. Big almond-shaped eyes were highlighted with kohl and mascara, and her pale skin had a translucent glow that belied the fact she lived in a hot climate. Her mouth was a tight Cupid’s bow, glossy with the brightest, reddest lipstick Evie had ever seen. She was dressed in a deep green silk costume that looked as if it came from Paris, set off by a pearl necklace that left no doubt as to its authenticity. Automatically, Evie put up a hand to cover her own cultured pearls, then dropped it. There was no point. She knew she must appear cheap and shabby next to this exotic and expensively-dressed goddess.

Mrs Leighton looked Evie up and down critically – Evie detected a slight curl of the lip. Perspiration beaded on Evie’s forehead. Damn the silly choice of a woollen suit when it was early summer.

‘I’m frightfully sorry I’m late. I got on the wrong underground line.’

Mrs Leighton’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Always better to take a cab, darling,’ she drawled. ‘The underground’s so grubby.’

Evie felt shabby and awkward. In contrast, Mrs Leighton was like a rare butterfly.

With the slightest inclination of her carefully coiffed head, Mrs Leighton summoned the head waiter to show them to their table. It was a corner one with a good view of the room, yet a distance away from the mêlée. ‘Thank you, Robert,’ she said, breathily, conveying in her intimate tone that she was a familiar and much-valued guest.