She had to run to the bus stop, caught the number 12 by the skin of her teeth. She’d had no time for breakfast and her head ached. Mrs B. would wonder what had happened. Ada had never been late for work before, never taken time off. She rushed along Piccadilly. The June day was already hot. It would be another scorcher. Mrs B. should get a fan, cool the shop down so they weren’t all picking pins with sticky fingers.

‘Tell her, Ada,’ one of the other girls said. Poisonous little cow called Avril, common as a brown penny. ‘We’re all sweating like pigs.’

‘Pigs sweat,’ Ada had said. ‘Gentlemen perspire. Ladies glow.’

‘Get you,’ Avril said, sticking her finger under her nose.

Avril could be as catty as she liked. Ada didn’t care. Jealous, most likely. Never trust a woman, her mother used to say. Well, her mother was right on that one. Ada had never found a woman she could call her best friend.

The clock at Fortnum’s began to strike the quarter hour and Ada started to run, but a figure walked out, blocking her way.

‘Thought you were never coming.’ Stanislaus straddled the pavement in front of her, arms stretched wide like an angel. ‘I was about to leave.’

She let out a cry, a puppy whine of surprise. He’d come to meet her, before work. She knew she was blushing, heat prickling her cheeks. She fanned her hand across her face, thankful for the cool air. ‘I’m late for work,’ she said. ‘I can’t chat.’

‘I thought you could take the day off,’ he said. ‘Pretend you’re sick or something.’

‘I’d lose my job if she ever found out.’

‘Get another,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. Stanislaus had never had to work, couldn’t understand how hard she’d struggled to get where she was. Ada Vaughan, from Lambeth, working with a modiste, in Mayfair. ‘How will she find out?’

He stepped forward and, cupping her chin in his hand, brushed his lips against hers. His touch was delicate as a feather, his fingers warm and dry round her face. She leant towards him, couldn’t help it, as if he was a magnet and she his dainty filings.

‘It’s a lovely day, Ada. Too nice to be cooped up inside. You need to live a little. That’s what I always say.’ She smelled cologne on his cheeks, tart, like lingering lemon. ‘You’re late already. Why bother going in now?’

Mrs B. was a stickler. Ten minutes and she’d dock half a day’s wages. Ada couldn’t afford to lose that much money. There was a picnic basket on the pavement beside Stanislaus. He’d got it all planned.

‘Where had you in mind?’

‘Richmond Park,’ he said. ‘Make a day of it.’

The whole day. Just the two of them.

‘What would I say to her?’ Ada said.

‘Wisdom teeth,’ Stanislaus said. ‘That’s always a good one. That’s why there are so many dentists in Vienna.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘It’s a toff’s complaint.’

She’d have to remember that. Toffs had wisdom teeth. Somebodies had wisdom teeth.

‘Well,’ she hesitated. She’d lost half a day’s wages already. ‘All right then.’ Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

‘That’s my Ada.’ He picked up the picnic basket with one hand, put his other round her waist.

She’d never been to Richmond Park, but she couldn’t tell him that. He was sophisticated, travelled. He could have had his pick of women – well-bred, upper-class women, women like the debutantes she clothed and flattered and who kept Mrs B. in business. Ahead of her the park gates rose in ornate spears. Below, the river curled through lush green woods to where the distant, dusty downs of Berkshire merged into slabs of pearl and silver against the sky. The sun was already high, its warm rays embracing her as if she was the only person in the world, the only one who mattered.

They entered the park. London was spread before them, St Paul’s and the City cast in hazy silhouette. The ground was dry, the paths cracked and uneven. Ancient oaks with blasted trunks and chestnuts with drooping catkins rose like forts from the tufted grassland and fresh, spiky bracken. The air was filled with a sweet, cloying scent. Ada crinkled her nose.

‘That’s the smell of trees making love,’ Stanislaus said.

Ada put her hand to her mouth. Making love. No one she knew talked about that sort of thing. Maybe her mother was right. He’d brought her here for a purpose. He was fast. He laughed.

‘You didn’t know that, did you? Chestnuts have male and female flowers. I guess it’s the female that gives off the smell. What do you think?’

Ada shrugged. Best ignore it.

‘I like chestnuts,’ he went on. ‘Hot chestnuts on a cold winter’s day. Nothing like it.’

‘Yes.’ She was on safe ground. ‘I like them too. Conkers, and all.’

And all. Common.

‘Different sort of chestnut,’ he said.

How was Ada to know? There was so much to learn. Had he noticed how ignorant she was? He didn’t show it. A gentleman.

‘We’ll stop here, by the pond.’ He put down the hamper and pulled out a cloth, flicking it so it filled with air like a flying swan, before falling to the earth. If she’d known she was going to have to sit on the ground, she’d have worn her sundress with the full skirt, enough to tuck round so she didn’t show anything. She lowered herself, pulled her knees together, bent them to the side and tugged her dress down as best she could.

‘Very ladylike,’ Stanislaus said. ‘But that’s what you are, Ada, a real lady.’ He poured two beakers of ginger beer, passed one to her and sat down. ‘A lovely lady.’

No one had ever called her lovely before. But then, she’d never had a boy before. Boy. Stanislaus was a man. Mature, experienced. At least thirty, she guessed. Maybe older. He reached forward and handed Ada a plate and a serviette. There was a proper word for serviette, but Ada had forgotten it. They never had much use for things like that in Theed Street. He pulled out some chicken, what a luxury, and some fresh tomatoes, and a tiny salt and pepper set.

‘Bon appétit,’ he said, smiling.

Ada wasn’t sure how she could eat the chicken without smearing grease over her face. This was all new to her. Picnics. She picked at it, pulling off shards of flesh, placing them in her mouth.

‘You look a picture,’ Stanislaus said. ‘Demure. Like one of those models in Vogue.’

Ada began to blush again. She rubbed her hand over her neck, hoping to steady the colour, hoping Stanislaus had not noticed. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘No,’ Stanislaus went on, ‘I mean it. The first time I saw you I knew you had class. Everything about you. Your looks, the way you held yourself, the way you dressed. Chic. Original. Then when you told me you made the clothes. Well! You’ll go far, Ada, believe me.’

He leant on one elbow, stretched out his legs, plucked a blade of grass and began to flutter it on her bare leg. ‘You know where you belong?’ he said.

She shook her head. The grass tickled. She longed for him to touch her again, run his finger against her skin, feel the breeze of a kiss.

‘You belong in Paris. I can see you there, sashaying down the boulevards, turning heads.’

Paris. How had Stanislaus guessed? House of Vaughan. Mrs B. said maison was French for house. Maison Vaughan.

‘I’d like to go to Paris,’ Ada said. ‘Be a real modiste. A couturier.’

‘Well, Ada,’ he said, ‘I like a dreamer. We’ll have to see what we can do.’

Ada bit her lip, held back a yelp of excitement.

He pushed himself upright and sat with his elbows on his knees. He lifted one arm and pointed to the deep bracken on the right. ‘Look.’ His voice was hushed. ‘A stag. A big one.’

Ada followed his gaze. It took her a while, but she spotted it, head proud above the bracken, the fresh buds of antlers on its crown.

‘They grow them in the spring,’ he said. ‘A spur for every year. That one will have a dozen by the end of the summer.’

‘I never knew that,’ Ada said.

‘Bit of a loner, this time of year,’ Stanislaus continued. ‘But come the autumn, he’ll build a harem. Fight off the competition. Have all the women to himself.’

‘That doesn’t sound very proper,’ Ada said. ‘I wouldn’t want to share my husband.’

Stanislaus eyed her from the side. She knew then it was a silly thing to say. Stanislaus, man of the world, with his much-married aunt.

‘It’s not about the women,’ he said. ‘It’s about the men. Survival of the fittest, that’s what it’s about.’

Ada wasn’t sure what he meant.

‘Wisdom teeth,’ Ada said.

Mrs B. raised a painted eyebrow. ‘Wisdom teeth?’ she said. ‘Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes.’

‘I’m not.’

‘I wasn’t born yesterday,’ Mrs B. said. ‘You weren’t the only one skiving off. Nice summer’s day. I’ve given Avril her marching orders.’

Ada swallowed. She should never have let Stanislaus persuade her. Mrs B. was going to sack her. She’d have no work. How would she tell her mother? She’d have to get another position, before the day was out. Guess what, Mum? I’ve changed my job. She’d lie, of course. Mrs B. didn’t have enough work for me.

‘You knew there were big orders coming in. How did you think I was supposed to cope?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ada said. She cupped her hand around her cheek, as Stanislaus had done, remembered the cool tenderness of his touch. Stick with the excuse. ‘It was swollen. It hurt too much.’

Mrs B. harrumphed. ‘If it had been any one of the other girls, you’d be out on your ear by now. It’s only because you’re good and I need you that I’ll let you stay.’

Ada dropped her hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Her body relaxed into relief. ‘I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to let you down. It won’t happen again.’

‘If it does,’ Mrs B. said, ‘there’ll be no second chance. Now, get back to work.’

Ada walked towards the door of Mrs B.’s office, hand poised on the handle.

‘You’re really good, Ada,’ Mrs B. called. Ada turned to face her. ‘You’re the most talented young woman I’ve known. Don’t throw away your chances on a man.’

Ada swallowed, nodded.

‘I won’t be so tolerant next time,’ Mrs B. added.

‘Thank you,’ Ada said and smiled.

Ada stretched her slender fingers, took a cigarette and drew it to her lips. Legs crossed and wound round each other like the coils of a rope. She breathed in, inclined her head with the smile of a saint, and watched as the plumes of smoke furled from her nostrils. She leant forward and picked up her Martini glass. The Grill Room. Plush, red seats, golden ceilings. She glanced in the mirrors and saw herself and Stanislaus reflected a thousand times. They became other people in the infinity of glass, a man in an elegant suit and a woman in Hollywood cerise.

‘You’re very beautiful,’ Stanislaus said.

‘Am I?’ Ada hoped she sounded nonchalant, another word she’d picked up at Mrs B.’s.

‘You could drive a chap to distraction.’

She uncurled her legs, leant forward and tapped his knee. ‘Behave.’

A whirlwind romance, that’s what Woman’s Own would call it. A swirling gale of love that snagged her in its force. She adored Stanislaus. ‘It’s our anniversary,’ she said.

‘Oh?’

‘Fourteenth of July. Three months.’ Ada nodded. ‘Three months since I met you that day in April, in the pouring rain.’

‘Anniversary?’ Stanislaus said. He smiled, a crooked curl of his lip. Ada knew that look. He was thinking. ‘Then we should go away. Celebrate. Somewhere romantic. Paris. Paree.’

Paris. Paree. She longed to see Paris, hadn’t stopped thinking about it, since that day in Richmond Park.

‘How about it?’

She never thought he’d suggest going away so soon. Not now, with all this talk of Hitler and bomb shelters. ‘Isn’t there going to be a war?’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should wait a bit.’

‘War?’ He shook his head. ‘There’s not going to be a war. That’s just all talk. Hitler’s got what he wants. Claimed back his bits of Germany. He’s not greedy. Believe me.’

That wasn’t what her father said, but Stanislaus was educated. He was bound to know more.

‘You said you wanted to go,’ Stanislaus continued. ‘You could see some real French couture. Get ideas. Try them out here. You’d soon make a name for yourself.’

Ada opened her mouth to speak but her tongue rucked up like a bolster. She bit her lip and nodded, calculating quickly. Her parents would never let her go to Paris, not with all this talk of war, much less let her go with a man. They knew she was courting, but even so. She knew they wouldn’t like a foreigner. She told them he brought her home each night, made sure she was safely back. She told him her parents were invalids and couldn’t have visitors. She’d have to miss work, invent some excuse for going away otherwise she’d get the sack. What would she say to Mrs B.?

‘Do you have a passport?’ Stanislaus said.

A passport. ‘No,’ she said. ‘How do I get one of those?’

‘This isn’t my country.’ Stanislaus was smiling. ‘But my English friends tell me there is an office which issues them, in Petty France.’

‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ Ada said, ‘in my lunch hour. I’ll get one straight away. Will you wait for me?’ She’d tell her parents Mrs B. was sending her to Paris, to look at the collections, to buy new fabrics. She’d ask Mrs B. if she would really let her do that.

Only the man in Petty France said she needed a photograph, and her birth certificate, and seeing as how she was under twenty-one, her father needed to complete the form. They could issue it in twenty-four hours but only in an emergency, otherwise she’d have to wait six weeks.

‘But,’ he added, ‘we don’t advise travel abroad right now, Miss, not on the Continent. There’s going to be war.’

War. That was all anyone talked about. Stanislaus never mentioned war, and she liked him for that. He gave her a good time.

‘Can’t worry about what’s not here.’

The man frowned, shook his head, raised an eyebrow. Perhaps she was being a bit silly. But even if war was coming, it was months away yet.

She sniffed and put the papers in her handbag. She couldn’t ask her father to fill out the form. That would be the end of the matter. She’d never told Stanislaus how old she was, and he’d never asked. But if he understood she was a minor, he might get cold feet and lose interest in her. She was a free spirit, he’d said, he’d spotted it the first time they met. How could she tell him otherwise?

The solution came to her that afternoon, watching Mrs B. make out the bill for Lady MacNeice. Ada’s father wrote with a slow, careful hand, linking the arms and legs of his letters in a looping waltz. Ada had always been entranced by the way he choreographed his words, had tried to copy him when she was young. It was an easy hand to forge, and the man at Petty France would be none the wiser. She knew it was wrong, but what else could she do? She’d get her likeness taken tomorrow, in her lunch hour. There was a photographer’s shop in Haymarket. It would be ready at the weekend. She’d go to the public library on Saturday, fill in the form, take it in person on Monday. It would be ready in a few weeks.

‘Then it has to be the Lutetia,’ Stanislaus said. ‘There is simply no other hotel. Saint-Germain-des-Prés.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Have you ever been on a boat?’

‘Only on the river.’ She’d been on the Woolwich ferry.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘August is a good month to sail. No storms.’

Ada had it worked out. She’d have to tell her parents, but she’d do it after she’d gone. Send them a postcard from Paris so they wouldn’t call the police and declare her a Missing Person. She’d have hell to pay when she got back, but by then Stanislaus and she would be engaged in all likelihood. She’d tell Mrs B. she was going to Paris on a holiday and would she like her to bring back some fabric samples, some tissus? She’d say it in French. Mrs B. would be grateful, would tell her where to go. That’s kind of you, Mademoiselle, giving up your holiday. It would give her something to do in Paris, and she could pick up ideas. In the meantime, she’d bring the clothes she planned to take to Paris with her to work, one at a time. She sometimes brought sandwiches for lunch in a small tote bag. It was summer, and the dresses and skirts were light fabrics, rayon or lawn. She knew how to fold them so they wouldn’t crease or take up space. She would hide everything in her cupboard at work, the one where she hung her coat in winter and kept a change of shoes. Nobody looked in there. She would need a suitcase. There were plenty in Mrs B.’s boxroom which was never locked. She’d borrow one. She had the keys to the shop. Come in early on the day, pack quickly. Catch the bus to Charing Cross, in good time to meet Stanislaus by the clock.

‘Paris?’ Mrs B. had said, her voice rising like a klaxon. ‘Do your parents know?’

‘Of course,’ Ada had said. She had shrugged her shoulders and opened her hands. Of course.

‘But there’s going to be a war.’

‘Nothing’s going to happen,’ Ada said, though she’d heard the eerie moans of practice sirens along with everyone else, and watched the air-raid shelter being built in Kennington Park. ‘We don’t want war. Hitler doesn’t want war. The Russians don’t want war.’ That’s what Stanislaus said. He should know, shouldn’t he? Besides, what other chance would she have to get to Paris? Her father had a different view about the war but Ada didn’t care what he thought. He was even considering signing up for the ARP for defence. Defence, he repeated, just so Ada wouldn’t think he supported the imperialists’ war. He even listened now as her mother read aloud the latest leaflet. It is important to know how to put on your mask quickly and properly …

‘But they’re going to evacuate London,’ Mrs B. said. ‘The little kiddies. In a few days. It was on the wireless.’

Three of her younger brothers and sisters were going, all the way to Cornwall. Mum had done nothing but cry for days, and Dad had stalked the house with his head in his hands. Pah! Ada thought. This will blow over. Everyone was so pessimistic. Miserable. They’d be back soon enough. Why should she let this spoil her chances? Paris. Mum would come round. She’d buy her something nice. Perfume. Proper perfume, in a bottle.

‘I’ll be back,’ Ada said. ‘Bright and early Tuesday morning.’ Engaged. She had been dreaming about the proposal. Stanislaus on one knee. Miss Vaughan, would you do me the honour of … ‘We’re only going for five days.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Mrs B. said. ‘Though if you were my daughter, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight. War’s coming any day now.’ She waved her hands at the large plate-glass windows of her shop, crisscrossed with tape to protect them if the glass shattered, and at the black-out blinds above.

‘And your fancy man,’ she added. ‘Which side will he be on?’

Ada hadn’t given that a thought. She’d assumed he was on their side. He lived here, after all. But if he spoke German, perhaps he’d fight with Germany, would leave her here and go back home. She’d follow him, of course. If they were to be married, she’d be loyal to him, stay by his side, no matter what.

‘Only in the last war,’ Mrs B. went on, ‘they locked the Germans up, the ones who were here.’

‘He’s not actually German,’ Ada said. ‘Just speaks it.’

‘And why’s he over here?’

Ada shrugged. ‘He likes it.’ She had never asked him. No more than she had asked what he did for a living. There was no need. He was a count. But if they locked him up, that wouldn’t be so bad. She could visit and he wouldn’t have to fight. He wouldn’t die and the war wouldn’t last forever.

‘Perhaps he’s a spy,’ Mrs B. said, ‘and you’re his cover.’

‘If that’s the case,’ Ada said, hoping her voice didn’t wobble, ‘all the more reason to enjoy myself.’

‘Well,’ Mrs B. said, ‘if you know what you’re doing …’ She paused and gave a twisted smile. ‘As a matter of fact, there are one or two places you might care to visit in Paris.’ She pulled out a piece of paper from the drawer in her desk and began to write.

Ada took the piece of paper, Rue D’Orsel, Place St Pierre, Boulevard Barbès.

‘I haven’t been to Paris for so long,’ she said. There was a wistfulness in her voice which Ada hadn’t heard before. ‘These places are mostly in Montmartre, on the Right bank.’ Stanislaus had talked about the Seine. ‘So be careful.’

Their hotel was on the Left bank, where the artists lived.

Charing Cross station was a heaving tangle of nervy women and grizzling children, cross old people, worried men checking their watches, bewildered young boys in uniforms. Territorial Army, Ada guessed, or reservists. Sailors and soldiers. The occasional ARP volunteer elbowed his way through the crowd, Keep to the left. People took them seriously now, Air Raid Precaution, as if they really did have a job to do. A train to Kent was announced and the shambles surged forward, a giant slug of humanity. Ada stood her ground, shoved back against the crowd, banged her suitcase against other people’s shins. Watch out, Miss. The frenzy of the scene matched her mood. What if he wasn’t there? What if she missed him? She realized that she had no way of contacting him. He didn’t have a telephone. He lived in Bayswater, but she didn’t know his address. A woman pushed past her with two children, a boy in grey short trousers and a white shirt, a girl in a yellow, smocked dress. In fact, Ada thought, she knew very little about Stanislaus. She didn’t even know how old he was. He was an only child, he’d told her. Both his parents were dead, as was his much-married aunt. She had no idea why he had come to England. Maybe he was a spy.

This was daft. She shouldn’t go. She hardly knew him. Her mother had warned her. White slave trade. Stick a pin in you so you fainted and woke up in a harem. And all these people. Soldiers. ARP. There really was going to be a war. Stanislaus was wrong. Maybe he was a spy. The enemy. She shouldn’t go.

She spotted him. He was leaning against a pillar in a navy blue blazer and white slacks, a leather grip at his feet. She took a deep breath. He hadn’t seen her. She could turn round, go home. There was time.

But then he saw her, grinned, pushed himself forward, lifted his bag and swung it over his shoulder. A spy. A sharp prickle of heat crept up Ada’s neck. She watched as he wove his way towards her. It would be fine. Everything would be all right. He was a handsome man, despite his glasses. An honest man, anyone could see that. A man of means too. Nothing to worry about. Silly of her. His face was creased in a broad smile. He walked faster, pleased to see her. This, Paris, was happening to her, Ada Vaughan, of Theed Street, Lambeth, just by the Peabody buildings.

The Gare du Nord was full of the same sweating turmoil as Charing Cross, except the station was hotter and stuffier, and the crowds noisier and more unruly. Ada was transfixed. Why don’t they line up? Why do they shout? She was tired from the journey, too. She hadn’t slept the night before, and there wasn’t a seat to be had on the train to Dover. The crossing had made her queasy and the view of the white cliffs receding into a faint stripe of land had unsettled her in ways she hadn’t expected. Worry hammered in her head. What if war did come? What if they were stuck here? She couldn’t ignore the scrolls of barbed wire on the beaches ready to snare and rip the enemy. The hungry seagulls hovering over the deserted pebbles and bundles of scabby tar waiting for their morsels of flesh. The battleships in the Channel. Destroyers, Stanislaus called them, hovering hulks of metal, grey as the water.

Then Stanislaus had given her a ring.

‘I hope it fits.’ He pushed it onto her third finger. A single band of gold. Not real gold, Ada could tell that straight away.

‘You’d better wear it,’ he said. This was not how she imagined he would propose, and this, she knew, was not a proposal. Her stomach churned and she leant over the side of the ship.

‘I’ve booked the room under Mr and Mrs von Lieben.’

‘The room?’ Her voice was weak.

‘Of course. What else did you think?’

She wasn’t that kind of a girl. Didn’t he know that? She wanted to save herself for their wedding night. He wouldn’t respect her otherwise. But she couldn’t run away. She had no money. He was paying for all of this, of course he’d expect something in return. Mrs B. had hinted as much.

Stanislaus was laughing. ‘What’s the matter?’

She leant over the side of the ship, hoping the breezes would sweep out the panic lodged inside her head like a cannon ball. She was not ready for this. She thought he was a gentleman. Those society women, they were all loose. That’s what her father always said. Stanislaus thought she was one of them. Didn’t he see it was all a sham? The way she dressed, the way she spoke. A sham, all of it. She took a deep breath, smarted as the salty air entered her lungs. Stanislaus placed his arm round her shoulders. Free spirit. He pulled her close, cupped her face in his hand, tilted it towards him, and kissed her.

Perhaps this was what it took, to become a woman.

The hotelier apologized. They were so busy, what with all these artists and musicians, refugees, you know how it is, Monsieur, Madame … The room was small. There were two single beds, with ruched covers. Two beds. What a relief. There was a bathroom next to the bedroom, with black and white tiles and a lavatory that flushed. The room had a small balcony that looked over Paris. Ada could see the Eiffel Tower.

By night, Paris was as dark as London. By day, the sun was hot and the sky clear. They wandered through the boulevards and squares and Ada tried not to pay attention to the sandbags or the noisy, nervous laughs from the pavement cafés, or the young soldiers in their tan uniforms and webbing. She fell in love with the city. She was already in love with Stanislaus. Ada Vaughan, here, in Paris, walking out with the likes of a foreign count.

He held her hand, or linked her arm in his, said to the world, my girl, said to her, ‘I’m the happiest man.’

‘And I’m the happiest woman.’

Breeze of a kiss. They slept in separate beds.

Left bank. Right bank. Montmartre. Rue D’Orsel, Place St Pierre, Boulevard Barbès. Ada caressed the silks against her cheek, embraced the soft charmeuse against her skin and left traces on velvet pile where she’d run her fingers over. Stanislaus bought her some moiré in a fresh, pale green which the monsieur had called chartreuse. That evening Ada crossed the length across her breasts, draped the silk round her legs and secured it with a bow at her waist. Her naked shoulder blades marked the angles of her frame and in the bathroom mirror she could see how the eye would be drawn along the length of her back and rest on the gentle curve of her hips.

‘That,’ Stanislaus said, ‘is genius.’ And ordered two brandy and chartreuse cocktails to celebrate.

Ada stared with hungry eyes at the Chanel atelier in the rue Cambon.

‘Bit of a rough diamond, she was,’ Stanislaus said. Sometimes his English was so good Ada forgot he was foreign. ‘Started in the gutter.’

He didn’t mean it unkindly, and the story Stanislaus told gave Ada heart. Poor girl made good, against the odds.

‘Mind you,’ Stanislaus winked, ‘she had a wealthy male admirer or two who set her up in business.’

Distinctive style. A signature, she thought, that’s the word. Like Chanel. A signature, something that would mark out the House of Vaughan. And help from an admirer, if that’s what it took too.

‘Paris,’ she said to Stanislaus, as they strolled back arm in arm through the Luxembourg Gardens, ‘is made for me.’

‘Then we should stay,’ Stanislaus said, and kissed her lightly again. She wanted to shriek Yes, forever.

On their last morning they were woken by sirens. For a moment Ada thought she was back in London. Stanislaus pushed himself off his bed, opened the metal shutters and stepped onto the balcony. A shard of daylight illuminated the carpet and the end of her bed, and Ada could see, through the open doors, that the blue sky was no longer fresh and washed. They must have overslept.

‘It’s very quiet out there,’ Stanislaus called from outside. ‘Unnatural.’ He came in through the open door. ‘Perhaps it was the real thing.’

‘Well, we’re leaving today.’

They were going home and Stanislaus hadn’t proposed, nor had he taken advantage of her. That would count for nothing if she had to tell her parents. She would lie. She had it worked out. Mrs B. had sent her to Paris with one of the other girls, for work. They’d shared a room. The hotel was ever so posh.

‘Get up,’ Stanislaus said. His voice was clipped, agitated. He was pulling on his clothes. Ada swung her legs over the side of the bed.

‘Wait here,’ he said. She heard him open the lock, shut the door behind him. She sauntered into the bathroom and turned on the taps and watched as the steaming water fell and tumbled in eddies in the bath, melting the salts she sprinkled in. How could she go home to a galvanized tub in the kitchen? A once-a-week dip with the bar of Fairy?

An hour passed. The water grew cool. Ada sat up, making waves that washed over the side and onto the cork mat on the floor. She stepped out, reached for the towel, wrapped herself in its fleece, embracing the soft tufts of cotton for the last time. Paris. I will return. Learn French. It wouldn’t take long. She had already picked up a few phrases, merci, s’il vous plait, au revoir.

She stepped into the bedroom and put on her slip and knickers. She’d organize a proper trousseau for when she and Stanislaus married. He’d have to pay, of course. On her wages, she could barely afford drawers. She’d buy a chemise or two, and a negligee. Just three days in Paris and she knew a lot of words. She glanced at the bedside clock. Stanislaus had been gone a long time. She flung open the wardrobe doors. She’d wear the diagonal striped dress today, with the puffed sleeves and the tie at the neck. It had driven her mad, matching up all the stripes, so wasteful on the fabric, but it was worth it. She looked at herself in the mirror. The diagonals, dark green and white, rippled in rhythm with her body, lithe like a cat. She sucked in her cheeks, more alluring. She was grateful that Stanislaus left the room when she dressed in the morning, or undressed at night. A true gentleman.

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