Martin has fled his room at Teddy Hall to escape the drunken heartbreak of one of his friends, a hapless English student called James Montcrieff, who has broken up with his girlfriend. Martin offered him the sofa for a few nights. He’s been there two weeks. Drunk most of the time. So Martin has decamped to his friend Jon Fraser’s flat, in Wellington Square. Jon is a gangly second year student with a shock of red hair. Outside in the square, the last autumn leaves on the chestnut trees shine in the gaslight. Coals glow in the grate.

‘Could you turn that down, old man?’ Jon’s voice calls from the other side of the room. ‘I have to get this bloody essay finished by tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Sorry, Jon!’ Martin gets up and switches off the wireless. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Slowly.’ His friend leans back from his desk and stretches. ‘Have you ever read Valmouth?’

‘Is that the one about a group of centenarians in a health resort?’

Jon laughs. ‘Some of them are even older!’

Martin should be studying, too. Exams loom. But as Jon hunches back over his desk, he takes out her latest letter, lies down on the floor, his head cradled on a pillow, and lights a cigarette.

Dear Martin . . .

He has seen his name written by countless other people, on birthday cards or school reports; in letters from his mother; his sister Roseen or Aunt Dorothy. But seeing it written by her still makes his heart turn somersaults. The fluent, blue line of her cursive script is a river pulling him towards her. He already has a drawer full of her letters, each letter adding a chapter to the story they are creating. She has told him about her Dorset childhood and the books she loves; her favourite music; and her work in London; the places she dreams of seeing. No one has ever written to him like that. It’s not what she says; it’s how she says it. Her words ring off the page, as though she is right there, next to him, talking in that high, bright voice.

He gets up and pours a glass of vermouth, lights a fresh cigarette, takes out a sheet of writing paper embossed with the college’s coat of arms: a red cross surrounded by four Cornish choughs. Then lies back down on his stomach, smoothing the sheet down on the back of a coffee-stained copy of Illustrated London News. The cover photo shows German troops marching into the Sudetenland two weeks ago.

The talk at meals is all of war. But tonight he has only one thing on his mind. Unscrewing the top of his pen, he holds the gold nib in mid-air, searching for the right words. A ring of blue smoke hovers around his head, like a halo. He lays the burning cigarette in an ashtray, breathes in, then puts pen to paper.

Dearest Nancy,

I’m writing this on the floor of Jon’s little room in No. 11, Wellington Square. My own room has gradually become its old self of two years ago – a meeting place for many. My cigarettes disappear; the level of my vermouth drops and the table is covered with other people’s books. What I need is a hostess, a beautiful aide-de-salon.

He tells her what he’s been doing since their last tryst: hockey matches and motor cross trials; auditions for a play; parties he has been to; a film by a new director called Alfred Hitchcock; the latest college gossip. If only he had the eloquence of his famous uncle. But she’s stuck with him. He takes a drag of his cigarette, chucks back the vermouth.

I don’t know how to feel when you’re around. You turn me so inside out – no one has ever done it before. What is it about you? You are unparalleled. You leave me breathless. You are the most exciting thing in the world. I’m a little ashamed of writing what I needn’t mention really but occasionally my heart overflows with drops of ink for a letter to you. And I must write before the term begins in earnest. It is like offering up a prayer before going into battle. Though my prayer to you is only that you will understand how much I love you. When you are around, everything feels right. Your love is like a crown. If I could be with you right now I would frighten you with my passion. I can’t say more – you must feel it.

In the distance, the clock of St Giles strikes midnight. A group of drunken students pass under the window, shouting and laughing.

It’s terribly late now. I’ve wearied my right hand writing letters about hockey matches and things like that. Jon is writing furiously at his desk about ‘Ronald Firbank’. Not the actor. He has to deliver the essay tomorrow evening. Oxford is depressingly cold. Everyone else seems hearty and too pleased to be back here. Poor things, they can’t have anyone to make their homecoming so desirable. I suppose we shall have the usual – muddy games, the usual tiresome duties, and work which one must settle to and then enjoy.

It’s strange and wonderful to know you so perfectly. I imagine myself with you the whole time. Feel your lips against mine. My hand touching yours. I can’t wait to see you again next weekend.

So very much in love and kisses in adoration, Martin.

22 OCTOBER 1938

Whichert House

The grandfather clock chimes eleven thirty on the landing. Martin looks at his watch, leaps out of bed, splashes water on his face from the jug and basin in the corner, then stands in his underwear, debating what to wear. Green and white check gingham shirt? Too old-fashioned. White dress shirt? Too formal. He throws both on the chair, rummages through the wardrobe.

It’s almost three weeks since he last saw Nancy. College work and organising hockey matches have consumed all his time. Today, he is back from Oxford and finally going to meet her parents. He can’t remember ever feeling so nervous. His stomach flutters like it used to when he had to get ready to go back to boarding school.

‘Don’t be such a girl,’ he chides himself, settling on a well-worn, blue cotton shirt; khaki twill trousers; an Irish tweed jacket; brogues from Church’s of Northampton. He studies himself in the mirror. Nancy once told him that, with his angular features, deep-set, dark eyes, sensual lips, and square jaw, he reminded her of a young Laurence Olivier. Not today. His hair is mussed up, his eyelids are heavy with sleep, his chin is shadowed with stubble.

He glances at his watch, takes his jacket off and covers his shoulders with a towel, then refills the basin with water, grabs his razor and some shaving soap, quickly shaves and splashes some eau de cologne on his cheeks. Then he lifts up his left arm, sniffs his armpit, and grimaces. With rapid movements, he unbuttons his shirt, sprays some cologne onto his right hand, rubs it into his armpit, repeats the process with his left hand, sniffs, then stands back from the mirror. He’ll have to do.

He finds Aunt Dorothy deadheading roses in the garden. She is dressed in a simple, but elegant, blue and white check dress, with a blue apron outside it. Her close-set, blue eyes twinkle like amethysts. Her face is tanned from gardening. ‘He’s missed you,’ she says, as Scamp races across the lawn to greet him, barking furiously.

‘I’ve missed him, too.’ Martin pets the dog then puts his arms around his aunt. ‘But not as much as I’ve missed you.’

‘How was the drive from Oxford?’

‘Twenty-seven minutes, door to door.’ He grins. ‘A new record.’

‘Does Teddy Hall have a course on racing driving these days?’ says a voice behind him.

Martin turns round to see his elder sister, Roseen, advancing across the lawn with a cup of tea in her hand. She’s a tall, rail-thin, self-contained woman with hazel-brown eyes that take in everything but give little away. She is perfectly dressed for the season: tweed jacket, woollen skirt, leather boots, a scarf wrapped turban-style around her head.

‘Sis!’ Martin hugs her. ‘I thought you had already left for London again.’

‘The weather’s so beautiful.’ She sips her tea. ‘I thought I’d take an evening train.’

Martin grins at her. ‘Well?’

‘Well, what?’ Roseen bends down and scratches Scamp’s back.

‘What did you think of her?’ Martin’s face brims with anticipation.

‘She’s delightful.’ Roseen finished her tea. ‘Funny. Intelligent. Good-looking.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘But we only had half an hour or so in the pub yesterday evening.’

Martin beams, then looks down at the ground, self-conscious, boyish. ‘I know this sounds really soppy, but . . . I’m in love.’

‘You’ve certainly been behaving oddly of late.’ Roseen pinches him.

‘More oddly than usual, you mean?’ Martin smiles. ‘How’s Andrew, by the way?’

For some months Roseen has been stepping out with Andrew Freeth, an up-and-coming portrait painter she met at an exhibition in London. ‘He’s fine,’ she says, lighting up. ‘We’re going to the Tate Gallery together next week. To see the Canadian exhibition.’

Martin looks at his watch. ‘God! Better be off.’

‘Will you be home for lunch?’ Aunt Dorothy snips a bud from a rosebush.

‘Not today, Aunt D.’ He plants a kiss on his aunt’s white hair, embraces his sister, then races out of the garden.

‘Good luck with the parentals!’ Roseen calls after him.

The Bomb gleams in the driveway. You can tell a lot about a man from his car. And this sleek, two-seater sports car with its V8 engine, curved fenders and spare wheel mounted on the back suggests both style and a hint of danger. Martin checks the fickle sky, then rolls back the roof and climbs into the car, Scamp scrambling in after him.

It’s only five minutes to Grove Road, though the way Martin drives it will take half that. Mustn’t be too early, though. Better to be fashionably late. A gust of wind stirs the branches of the beech tree. The leaves tremble. Impatient, he turns the key in the ignition. Pats the dashboard, revs the engine. The car vrooms. On the radio, Bing Crosby croons from ‘I’ve Got A Pocketful Of Dreams’.

Blythe Cottage is set back from the road, tucked away between two much larger houses, and Martin zooms right past the flowerbed bright with Michaelmas daisies and the peach tree her father has trellised on the wall. It’s far more modest than Whichert House. A cosy dwelling on a handkerchief-sized plot. But it’s her house. And that makes him love it.

Knowing he is early, Martin glances anxiously at his watch and checks his hair in the rear-view mirror. He’s light-headed and his stomach is tight as a drum. Climbing out of the Bomb, he skips through the gate and rings the doorbell. Nothing. He counts to ten. Rings it again. Nothing. Steps back and looks up at the windows. Sticks his hands in his pockets. Breathes deep.

The door opens with a waft of Chanel. Martin slides his arms around her waist and tries to kiss her.

‘Tino!’ She tuts, disengaging herself. It’s her nickname for him. Her special name, that no one else uses. ‘You’ll smudge my lipstick.’

Her parents are waiting for them in the living room. Nancy’s mother, Peg, is a tiny, slightly hunched woman, with white skin set off by too much red lipstick, henna-coloured hair, and the small, alert eyes of a sparrow.

‘Nancy’s told me so much about you.’ He hands Peg the roses. ‘Aunt Dorothy sends her regards.’

‘How lovely!’ Peg simpers. ‘Darling, fetch a vase will you?’ Nancy disappears into the kitchen.

‘Leonard Whelan.’ Nancy’s father holds out his hand. He’s a tall, slim man with an angular face and silver hair, impeccably dressed in a grey suit, with a gold half-hunter watch peeking out of his waistcoat. ‘LJ. To family.’

‘LJ it is, then. Pleased to meet you.’ Martin pauses, unsure. They give each other a firm handshake. Test one, passed. LJ ushers him over to an armchair. As he lowers himself into it, something sharp sticks into his buttocks and he leaps up; a pair of silver knitting needles poke out of the cushions.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ Peg rushes over, lifts the cushion, and pulls out the knitting needles, a ball of red wool, and a pattern book.

Nancy comes back in with a vase for the flowers, just in time to see the rumpus.

‘It’s fine.’ Martin chuckles. ‘I’m well cushioned.’

A ripple of laughter goes round the room. LJ goes over to the drinks cabinet. ‘Sherry?’

‘Please!’ Martin nods.

Over the fireplace, there is a small painting: a harbour scene, with brightly coloured boats. An upright piano stands in the corner. Next to it is a music stand with a flute resting on it. Sheet music.

‘Mummy and Daddy play duets,’ Nancy explains.

‘Piano. Badly.’ Peg points at LJ. ‘Flute.’

‘Nancy has a beautiful singing voice.’ Her father beams.

‘A musical family.’ Martin smiles at Nancy.

‘My family make pianos.’ Peg lights a long, slim cigarette, coughs. Nancy looks at her, askance. ‘Squires of Ealing? Perhaps you’ve heard of them?’

Martin looks blank. ‘No, I’m sorry.’

‘We’re not well known, like Bechstein or Steinway. But they have a nice tone.’ LJ pulls a pipe from his pocket, a packet of St Bruno, pinches a measure of tobacco between his thumb and forefinger, presses it into the bowl of the pipe, tamps it down, strikes a match, puffs contentedly. He looks over at Martin. ‘Terrible news coming out of Germany.’

‘Shocking . . . ’ Martin is momentarily tongue-tied. ‘I think Chamberlain has acted disgracefully.’

Peg adroitly changes the subject. ‘How’s your Aunt Dorothy?’

‘Jam-making.’

‘My damson wouldn’t set.’ Peg smooths her skirt, takes another puff of her cigarette, coughs. ‘Not enough pectin, I think.’

Nancy waves the smoke away. ‘Mummy, must you? You know it’s bad for your asthma.’

LJ sucks at his pipe. ‘Nancy tells me you’re at Oxford?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Martin squares his shoulders. ‘Law and Modern Languages.’

‘You must be very busy.’ Peg stubs out her cigarette.

‘Teddy Hall, isn’t it?’ LJ lets out a ring of blue smoke.

Martin nods. He wants to take Nancy in his arms and swing her out of the door.

‘We lived in Oxford before we came here.’ LJ puffs away. ‘Nancy loved every minute of it, didn’t you, pet? Concerts, the Playhouse, punting on the river.’ He reaches forward and taps the bowl of the pipe on the ashtray. ‘So, what are your plans?’

‘After I graduate I’ll look for work in a law firm, I suppose.’

‘I mean today.’ LJ sucks on his pipe again.

‘We’re going for a picnic.’ Nancy looks across at Martin. ‘So we’d better get our skates on – or we’ll miss the sun!’

Outside Blythe Cottage, Martin opens the door of the Bomb and watches as Nancy turns sideways, lowers herself into the car, swings her feet in after her and smooths her dress over her knees in one fluid movement, like water sliding through a mill race, except Scamp is kissing her face. She’s wearing a new hat: a red, Robin Hood-style cap.

‘Is that new?’ He knows girls love you to notice their clothes.

‘Do you like it?’ She tilts her head to the side. ‘It’s French.’

‘Je l’adore.’ He closes the door after her, runs around to the other side, lifts Scamp off the seat and tosses him in the back.

‘Poor old Scamp.’ Nancy reaches back to pet him, as the Riley takes off, like a racehorse. At the corner, Martin presses the clutch, slips the gearstick out of fourth, revs the engine, double declutches, slides it into third, swings through the bend, accelerates, shifts up. Hedges scroll past. The sun breaks through the clouds. A herd of brick-red Hereford cattle amble across a field. Martin slows, then turns right down a narrow lane. The branches of the trees meet overhead, like the ribs of a Gothic cathedral.

Nancy giggles, holding on to her hat to stop it from flying off. He leans over and kisses her on the cheek.

‘Did I pass the test?’

‘The knitting needle test?’ Nancy’s laugh is snatched by the wind. ‘Definitely.’

At the village of Penn, Martin cuts the engine and clambers out of the Bomb. Scamp races off, in hot pursuit of rabbits. Martin grabs a tartan rug and they set off down a footpath towards Church Path Wood.

Deep in the wood, there is an ancient oak tree. Roughly the same distance from Blythe Cottage as Whichert House, it is the perfect cover for their trysts. Some say the oak dates back to the time of the Spanish Armada, more than four hundred years ago. It’s not the most beautiful tree in the wood. The oak’s limbs are crooked with age, like the arthritic limbs of an old man. There are gnarly lumps on its branches. Whole sections no longer bear leaves. But they have come to love the tree, as a friend and protector.

On one side of the trunk is a heart-shaped hole from a lightning strike. The wood is still blackened, though the seasons have long since washed away any trace of soot or charcoal. On stormy days, they have sometimes squeezed inside and stood pressed against each, kissing and giggling in the dark, like two children playing in a cubbyhole under the stairs, as the wind shook the leaves above their heads and the branches creaked and scraped against each other.

Martin spreads the rug under the tree and they lie down, staring up through the canopy of leaves. A cloud floats across the sun, the sky blackens and a few drops of rain begin to fall. Nancy pulls her cashmere cardigan tighter around her.

‘What do you want to be . . . ?’ Nancy lets the question hang in the air.

‘ . . . when I grow up?’ Martin laughs.

‘Well, let’s start with when you leave Oxford.’

‘I don’t want to be a lawyer, for a start.’

‘That’s what you’re studying, isn’t it?’

‘I know. But I find it so dull.’ He sits up and lights a cigarette. ‘I’d love to write . . . ’

‘Poetry? Like your uncle?’

‘Not sure I have the talent.’ He blows a smoke ring, then swallows it. ‘How about you?’

‘I think I can confidently predict that typing in an insurance office is not going to be my life’s work.’ She sits up next to Martin, clasps her knees. ‘By the way, I got that part I auditioned for in London.’

‘That’s wonderful.’ Martin enthuses. ‘With the Players’ Company?’

Nancy nods. ‘It’s just a small, walk-on part. But I’ll have to attend the rehearsals, so I’ll get a chance to see how it’s all done. Luckily, they’re all in the evening.’

They fall silent, each lost in their thoughts. Then Martin reaches over and kisses her. Nancy closes her eyes and lies back. His kisses become more passionate, and he begins to slide his hand up her thigh. She pulls away, but he grabs her and carries on trying to reach up under her skirt.

She sits up abruptly and straightens her clothes. ‘Tino, we’re at the beginning of a journey.’ She takes his hand and strokes it. ‘There is so much more to find out about each other.’ She kisses him on the tip of his nose. ‘And if we go too fast, then the happiness . . . ’ she looks into his eyes ‘ . . . and pleasure that could be ours – should be ours – might be spoiled.’ She knits her eyebrows together. ‘I want us to be special.’

‘Me, too,’ Martin replies. He pulls a slim volume of poetry out of the picnic basket, searches for the page. She lies back, staring up into the branches of the hollow oak. A wood pigeon coos, as Martin reads, clear and unfaltering from ‘Our True Beginnings’ by Wrey Gardiner.

Her hands are clasped in the blue mantle of heaven

And the sea, her haven, is flecked with the white of love

‘That’s how I feel about us.’ He brings his lips to hers, his heart thumping in his chest at what he is about to say. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you, too.’ Nancy kisses him. Deep and long. ‘The very white of love.’

12 NOVEMBER 1938

London

Familiar stations flash by in a blur of rain. Seer Green and Jordans. Gerrards Cross. West Ruislip. Martin has managed to get back to Whichert House for another weekend before term ends in December. They sit side by side, legs touching, hands clasped. It’s Nancy’s daily commute to her job as a secretary at an insurance firm in Holborn. Now he is sharing it with her. At Marylebone, they get on the bus to Oxford Circus, sit up top in the front seat, like excited children, watching London scroll across the glass screen of the double-decker’s window. She has a new outfit: a little black dress, with a grey velvet jacket, which makes her look like a film star. She points out her favourite landmarks. This is her city, Oxford his. Each stone, each street has a story, a story they are becoming part of together.

‘Us on a bus . . . ’ Martin starts to hum a tune by his favourite jazz artist, Fats Waller. Nancy joins in.

Riding on for hours

Through the flowers

When the passengers make love

Whisper bride and groom

That’s us on a bus

They run down the stairs, laughing, and jump off the bus. But they are soon wrenched back to the dark clouds of the present. As they walk through Soho, a man in a threadbare overcoat bellows the Evening Standard headline: ‘Night of the Broken Glass. Read all about it!’

Martin counts out a handful of coppers, points to the headline. ‘At dinner the other evening, one of the college tutors was saying that all this about the Jews is propaganda by the Rothschilds and the rest of the bankers.’ Martin frowns. ‘To drag us into a war with Hitler.’ Martin shakes his head. ‘There are loads of students, too, who think Hitler is the best thing since tinned ham.’ Martin indicates the newspaper headline. ‘Tell that to my uncle, Philip Graves.’

‘The foreign correspondent?’ Nancy sounds impressed.

‘Yes. He was one of the people who helped expose that hateful book, The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, as a forgery!’

Nancy nuzzles against him. ‘You come from such a talented family.’

‘Somehow it seems to have bypassed me.’

‘You got the looks.’ She kisses him on the nose.

They have an hour until the performance begins. Nancy is taking him to a musical revue at the Players’ Theatre Club, in King Street, the company where she has got a small part in a production next season. They are making waves on the London theatre scene. Churchill is a fan and, through rehearsals, Nancy is meeting the actors, including the famous comedienne, Hermione Gingold.

She leads Martin through a warren of streets, their shoes keeping time together, his chunky Church’s brogues next to her tiny, brown boots, their soles touching the same pavement. Love is opening new paths, streets he would never have known if it were not for her, fields where they have walked hand in hand, cafés and bookshops he would never have entered without her, places that are now special to him because of her. And as they walk side by side, he thinks about the thousands of other places that they will visit, the lakes they will see, footpaths they will tramp. England. France. Perhaps Italy. Shared journeys stretching into the future.

‘How about this?’ She has stopped in front of a little Italian bistro on Greek Street: a bog-standard Italian with red and white check tablecloths; cheap Chianti in straw-covered bottles; framed photos of Italian tourist spots; wicker baskets of day-old bread. Martin stares at her reflection in the window. Another place, transformed by love.

‘Perfect.’ He puts his arms around her and turns her face towards his, bends and kisses her: a kiss that seems to go on and on.

They take a table by the window, it’s so cramped Martin hardly fits on his chair, but they have their backs to the other diners and can look out onto the street, watching their own private Movietone of London in 1938.

Nancy orders linguine with clams in a red sauce. Martin chooses lasagne. They share a salad – chunks of spongy tomato, wilted lettuce, some slivers of red onion, brown at the tips. As the tines of their forks touch, they burst out laughing, reach across the table, kiss. Then Nancy pulls away, her face suddenly anxious.

‘Do you think there’ll be another war, Tino?’

It’s a question that has been secretly nagging at Martin ever since Hitler invaded the Sudetenland, like toothache. But, until now, he has not shared his fears with Nancy. ‘I hope not.’ He squeezes her hand. ‘We have so much ahead of us.’

‘But I am not sure appeasement will work.’ Nancy frowns. ‘Not with Herr Hitler. He’ll just take it as a sign of weakness.’

‘I agree.’ Martin leans forward, intently. ‘What we need is tough, military sanctions. But through the League of Nations.’

‘Has the League of Nations actually achieved anything?’ Nancy regrets saying it as soon as the words leave her mouth.

‘I know that’s what people say.’ Martin’s eyes blaze. ‘But if you look at their track record, they’ve actually done a lot for peace. And, I mean, what else is going to stop barbarism from occurring?’

Nancy twizzles some pasta onto her spoon. ‘You know, when I was studying in Munich in 1935, we saw Hitler at the opera.’

‘Really?’ Martin is bug-eyed.

‘Mummy watched him through her opera glasses.’ Nancy grimaces. ‘Said he had beautiful hands. Pianist’s hands.’

The idea that Hitler has beautiful hands seems incongruous and repellent for a man who was currently tearing up the peace in Europe. But Martin says nothing.

‘You remember that little painting that hangs over the fireplace at Blythe Cottage?’ Nancy lays down her fork and spoon.

‘The seascape?’ Martin pours them both a glass of wine.

‘It’s by an Italian painter I got to know when I was living in Munich.’ She takes a sip of wine. ‘Jewish Italian. Paul Brachetti.’

‘Rhymes with spaghetti.’ Martin reddens with embarrassment at his lame joke.

‘He was almost twenty years older than me.’ She takes up her spoon and fork and digs at her pasta.

‘In love with you, no doubt.’ Martin squeezes her knee.

Nancy ignores him by twizzling her fork and spoon. ‘He used to call me his little English rose,’ she says. ‘We would meet for coffee in the English Gardens. Talk about El Greco, his hero. God’s light, he called it.’ She smiles at the memory, then her face darkens, as though a shadow has passed across it. ‘One day, he arrived in a terrible state. They’d broken into his studio, smashed his paintings, daubed swastikas on the walls.’ She reloads her fork with spaghetti. ‘His paintings were what they called entartet. Decadent.’ Her laugh is a staccato howl. ‘Seascapes!’ She takes another sip of wine. ‘Three days later, we met again. A café near the station.’ Nancy lays her napkin on the table, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘He was carrying a battered suitcase and some parcels, wrapped in newspaper. His hair was a mess, his eyes were bloodshot.’ Her pupils darken. ‘He’d come to say goodbye.’ Nancy’s voice quivers.

‘Where did he go?’

‘He said he would try and get to Spain, first.’ She smiles. ‘He wanted to seeToledo, where El Greco learned about light. Then Lisbon. Maybe a ship to America.’ She looks across at Martin, tears in her eyes. ‘I tried to give him some money. But he wouldn’t hear of it.’

Martin reaches across the table and takes her hand. Suddenly, he feels much younger than the two-year age gap between them, less experienced. The only time he has been to Europe was when he was a schoolboy and he stayed in Zermatt at a posh hotel with his parents. She has seen swastikas daubed on the walls and helped rescue a Jewish painter.

‘I wish I could have met him,’ he says.

She opens her bag and takes out a handkerchief, blows her nose, then brightens.

‘We’re going to miss the curtain if I carry on like this any longer.’

‘Come then, my love.’ Martin kisses her hand and waves for the bill.

There is a play to be seen, friends to meet, songs to be sung. The crisis in Europe can wait.

‘Nancy, darling!’ a voice calls out across the packed room.

Martin watches as a tall, dashingly handsome man advances towards them. Something about his face seems familiar but Martin can’t place him. The only thing that is clear is that he is no stranger to Nancy.

‘Michael!’ Nancy holds her cheek out to be kissed.

Instead, he gives her a boozy kiss on the lips. ‘You look gorgeous as ever.’

Martin scowls. Nancy blushes. ‘Michael, this is Martin Preston. Martin, meet the incorrigible Michael Redgrave.’

Martin’s eyes widen. The famous actor! He stares at Nancy, impressed by this new side of her he has not seen before.

‘So, you’re taken already?’ Redgrave gives a crestfallen look. ‘Then I suppose I’ll have to find myself another redhead.’

He is about to turn away, when a bosomy woman swathed in what looks like a Turkish robe sashays across the floor towards Redgrave, like a Spanish galleon.

‘Dorothy!’ Redgrave hugs her. ‘Murdered anyone recently?’

‘Scores, darling.’ The woman pulls a wry grin, tips back a G and T.

‘Nancy, allow me to introduce you to the doyenne of crime fiction.’ Redgrave’s baritone booms across the room. ‘Dorothy Sayers. Nancy Whelan. Martin Preston.’

Martin bows slightly and holds out his hand. His uncle, Robert, has spoken warmly of the great detective writer and Martin has read all the Lord Peter Wimsey books. ‘I’m a huge fan!’

Sayers sizes him up. ‘Steady on, you’re sounding like an American.’

Martin feels embarrassed for a moment. Then laughs. Nancy joins in as Miss Sayers tips back the rest of her G and T, kisses Redgrave on the cheek, then heads for her seat.

It’s a tiny space for a theatre: just one half of a pub. The audience sit at tables, so close they almost touch the stage. Others stand at the back. Blue smoke hangs in the air. Waitresses weave in and out of the chairs. There is laughter; conversation; the camaraderie of the boards.

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