He’d claimed me as family, as a real African. When Lucien had first spoken these words to me, they had stirred something deep inside me. I was glad to greet the doorman likewise.

‘Buwa,’ I said back to him.

He gave me a broad smile.

‘Go ahead.’

When I was very young, I’d been in and out of the public house to fetch small beer for Mrs Bradley. It was said that St Giles had one tavern for every two houses, but to me it had always seemed double that. Mrs Bradley had sent me along with a jug and the landlord had given me sweets while I waited for his wife to fill it. The taste of liquorice always took me back to those days, prompting memories of the sneaky sips of beer I’d taken on the return home, telling myself it was only to stop it from spilling.

The inside of this public house was different to what I remembered, though. Here was no back room where it felt like you’d wandered into the landlord’s home with his wife and daughters sitting in the corner. Instead, there was a long mahogany bar that took up the whole of the back wall. Stools with red velvet seat covers were set out for the solitary drinkers, and for couples and groups there were round tables and chairs, just like in the posh section at Crillick’s. High-back booths along the walls offered a little more privacy.

‘Take a seat, Zillah. I will bring you a glass of wine,’ Lucien said, but I shook my head. I’d been made welcome so far but I didn’t yet feel brave enough to be left on my own.

The bar had the shine of a French polish. While we waited to be served, I looked around and noted the prints on the walls, all of bare-chested men holding trophies. When it was our turn to order, Lucien introduced me to the landlord.

‘This here is Miss Zillah …’

He paused, waiting for me to supply my surname, but I’d never had one.

‘Zillah is all the name I need,’ I reminded him.

Lucien smiled at my boldness. I liked that it never seemed to threaten him.

‘Meet Augustus McTavert, London’s finest fighter.’

That explained the prints on the walls and how he’d made enough money for such a luxurious establishment. I smiled at Augustus. He was old but still powerful with a barrel chest. His face bore the scars of his past, the bridge of his nose flattened and his ears thick and lumpy like cauliflower.

‘Pleased to meet you, miss, but you mustn’t listen to this storyteller. My prize-fighting days is long gone. This one, though.’

He raised his fists to Lucien and the two men threw mock-punches at one another. I hadn’t known that Lucien boxed, but he did have the build for it.