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chambermaid. But I have another position to offer you.’
    Sally, who was feeling dizzy, looked at the astonishing old woman with apprehension. What was she about to suggest? It might be anything.
    But Cora’s plan was music to Sally’s ears. The deep basement was part kitchen – if the guests had only known what it was like they would have paid not to dine at the hotel – part repository for old furniture and part cellar. Cora’s idea was to clear out part of this area, put in a bar and paint the place pink: La Vie en Rose would be created, bomb shelter and club in one. With a band or, at any rate, a pianist, so that people could dance – and a cabaret.
    â€˜You’ll do,’ said Cora. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t let in anyone I don’t like. Hand your uniform to Mr Bates. It’ll be ten shillings for cleaning and repairs. I’ll have the money now.’
    Sally handed it over. Cora put it in her pocket. She said, ‘There’s another artist, a singer who plays the piano. She’ll double as manageress so you’ll have to take your orders from her. I’m sorry about that but quite honestly, Miss Bowles, I couldn’t put you in charge of a rice pudding, and Vi Simcox, who sings under the name of Lola Laine, is a thoroughly competent young woman. She’s not exactly out of the top drawer but you’ll have to make the best of that’
    Sally went upstairs to her narrow bedroom under the eaves, penniless now and homeless. She stripped off the uniform and, no longer a maid but an artiste again, lay down for a long, daytime sleep.

Chapter 13
    She was woken by a voice saying, ‘Whoops! Sorry.’ She opened her eyes. The door was closing. ‘It’s all right,’ she called. ‘I’m getting up.’ The door reopened promptly. A small woman in her twenties with very blonde hair, very red lipstick and very high heels stood there. She wore a smart little burgundy hat on one side of her head. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you up,’ she said. ‘Bates told me you were here so I came up to introduce myself – Lola Laine, chanteuse, otherwise Vi Simcox. Pleased to meet you.’ She advanced, holding out her hand. Sally sat up and shook it. Then she got out of bed, picked up the skirt of the pink suit and put it on. Vi looked at it. ‘That’s a damn good skirt,’ she observed. ‘But it could do with a good sponge and a press.’
    â€˜It’s all I’ve got for the moment.’
    Vi looked at her impassively. ‘Let’s go down and have lunch,’ she suggested.
    â€˜Will that be all right?’ Sally asked. She was terrified of Cora Blow.
    â€˜I’ll square it with Bates,’ Vi assured her.
    Sally put on her pink jacket and followed her down the linoleum-covered stairs, which led from the staff bedrooms in the attics to the red-carpeted sweep of stairs that went down three further flights to the hotel foyer.
    â€˜Many in for lunch, Bates?’ asked Vi.
    â€˜An air vice-marshal, two counts and the exiled King of somewhere. I regret I can’t allow you to lunch in the dining room.’ And he looked calmly at Sally’s stained suit.
    It was at this point that Adrian Pym entered with a man carrying a bowler hat and a younger one in work-stained corduroys, who gazed uneasily around him at the faded grandeur of the Bessemer.
    â€˜Well, Sally,’ said Pym.
    â€˜Loomie, darling, lend me a pound,’ she responded.
    â€˜What will you do for me?’
    â€˜Anything you want.’
    He produced a large bundle of notes from his pocket and peeled one off. This he gave to Sally. As he turned to go into the dining room, she said, ‘Any news of Theo?’
    He sighed, ‘Really, Sally …’
    Sally and Vi got a bus to the Lyon’s Corner House. It was full of women with shopping bags and parcels and men in uniform.
    Vi said, ‘I’m gasping for a