‘You make it,’ he said lightly. ‘When it comes to cocktails, you’re the queen. I wouldn’t dare to compete.’

‘There speaks a man who knows his own skills and recognises those of others,’ said Laura, swinging around and letting her bias-cut flared skirt twirl around her shapely legs. ‘No wonder you’ve risen far in the ranks. Giving credit where it’s due will get you a long way.’ She dug around in the admiral’s fine antique cupboard for two suitable glasses, and held them up to the light of the sparkling chandelier. ‘Excellent. These’ll do.’

‘Anyone would think you did this every day of the week,’ said Peter, relaxing back on to the cream and gold cushions of the ample sofa. ‘Rather than drinking lukewarm tea out of chipped cups in the Wrens’ mess.’

‘Or even more lukewarm tea out of enamel mugs while standing around waiting for my next passenger to bother to show up,’ Laura reminded him, unscrewing the lid of a bottle. ‘Let’s not forget that, as it makes up so much of my working day. Ah, the glamour of it. Street corners of London I have known. Maybe I’ll write a book about them once the fighting’s over.’

‘You’re certainly the expert,’ Peter agreed. ‘In that and reversing into impossibly tight spaces.’

‘It’s why you love me, I know,’ said Laura, holding the glass of viscous liquid at eye level and deciding it was perfect. ‘I am under no illusions at all. My reversing skills were the top priority, I fully understand.’ She gave him a dazzling smile as she came across to the sofa, set both glasses down on the glass-topped coffee table and settled down beside him, snuggling close to him so that she could breathe in his distinctive scent – of his favourite cologne, a precious bottle of which he still kept at the admiral’s flat, his freshly laundered crisp white shirt, and that extra musky note which was unique to him. For a brief moment she shut her eyes.