The Gateways Club, or “the Gates,” as Ursula called it, had long been a haven for the arty crowd. She’d said that you truly were just as likely to bump into a truck driver or a bus conductor here as a writer or a criminal. It was the meeting place for the Chelsea Arts Club but also for the homosexual crowd, as well as one or two scurrilous characters, and that was what Alice was banking on tonight.

“Good evening, Miss Rousson,” said the muscle-bound doorman.

“Hello, Ronny,” Ursula replied, smiling as he opened the door and they stepped inside.

Green velvet curtains opened to reveal a wall of smoke and dancers, and, off to one side, a jazz band, the four musicians stooped like musical notes. It was a small space—just thirty-five by eighteen feet—and Alice stood entranced. It had been a real worry that she might get panicked underground, but she quickly forgot about that because this was unlike anywhere she’d ever been. Clusters of people fanned out like a spinning roulette wheel in the center of the room. Men and women sat at scattered tables, while others leaned on the wooden shelf that ran around the edges, resting elbows as they drank, cigarettes lengthening fingers. Glimpses of the walls showed murals of London—fashionable Londoners, scenes from the Gates and vivid renditions of city icons, all painted, Ursula had told her, by students from Chelsea Arts Club. It was a kaleidoscope of music and laughter, of dancing and conversation, like a colorful cabaret in full swing, and for a moment she forgot the reason she was there.

She followed Ursula, squeezing through the crowd as they headed to the bar at the other side and waited to get served. Ursula moved out of the way to let a man in a trilby and patterned scarf squeeze past, balancing a tray of drinks, then she shuffled closer to the bar.

As Alice stood and waited, she noticed her friend watching a group at a nearby table. They were playing a boisterous game of cards, the two men and three women heckling each other, then shrieking as a woman won. The men wore gauche suits, and two of the women didn’t appear to care that there was a luxury tax on cosmetics or a rationing on their clothes, still in fur jackets and glistening jewels. Their uproar died down and the winner collected her cards, slender arms and neck craned forward as she checked her fellow players had given up their money. Satisfied, she smiled and sat back in her chair, elegantly positioning a cigarette holder between her lips and turning sideways so one of the gentlemen could light it. The match flickered, illuminating her face, and she glanced up, catching Ursula’s eye where she stood at the bar. They held each other’s gaze for a second, then one of her companions said something to her and she turned away.