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learned to do well. But when I looked in the mirror, I was satisfied with the luscious red lips, even if black mascara on my eyelashes didn’t really go with my red-blond hair and coloring and the cocktail dress was not as slinky as I would have liked. It was one that the gamekeeper’s wife had run up on her sewing machine for my season. It was a copy of something I’d admired in a magazine, but somehow the combination of Mrs. MacTavish’s sewing skills and my taffeta didn’t make me quite look the same as the softly draped girl with the cigarette holder in Harper’s Bazaar . But it was the best I could do and I looked clean and respectable.
    My heart thumped wildly all the way in the taxicab. We passed the bright lights of Leicester Square with its theater marquees and bustling crowds and finally pulled up on a dark side street.
    “Are you sure this is it, miss?” The taxi driver asked in a concerned voice.
    I wasn’t sure. It looked awfully dark and lonely. But then I saw a blinking sign over an entrance. Club Rendezvous. “Yes, this is it,” I said. “Thank you very much.”
    “You are meeting somebody, I hope,” he said as I paid him.
    “Yes, I’m meeting a young man. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” I gave what I hoped was a confident smile.
    The taxi sped away, leaving me alone in the deserted street. It had rained again and the flashing red sign was reflected in the puddles as I crossed the road. I pushed open the door and found myself facing a flight of steps going down to a basement. Music spilled up to greet me—the wail of a saxophone and a heavy drumbeat. I held on to the rail as I went down the steps. This then was a real nightclub. I had never been in a place like this. The stairs were steep with worn carpet on them. And I was wearing my one pair of high-heeled shoes, in my attempt to look glamorous. I haven’t mentioned yet that I am apt to be clumsy in moments of stress. Halfway down, my heel caught in a threadbare patch in the carpet. I pitched forward, grasped at the railing and ended up slithering down the last of the stairs, arriving at the bottom in a most undignified way as I cannoned into a potted palm. I hastened to pick myself up before anyone observed this unorthodox entry. I was in a sort of dark anteroom with an antique writing desk and chair, mercifully unoccupied. The area was separated from the main area by a row of potted palms, one of which now had a frond hanging down, thanks to me. A man had just been emerging from the club beyond the palms. He was staggering slightly as if drunk and started in alarm when I came hurtling down the stairs toward him.
    “Let me give you a word of advice, girlie,” he said in slurred tones, wagging a finger at me. “Don’t drink any more tonight. You’ve already had enough. Trust me, I know.” Then he staggered past me up the stairs.
    I collected myself and smoothed down my skirt and my hair before I went through into the club itself. It was dimly lit, with candles on small tables and the only real light coming from the stage, where a girl was dancing.
    “Can I help you, miss?” A swarthy man in a dinner jacket appeared at my side. He didn’t seem to possess a razor.
    “I’m meeting someone here,” I said. “A Mr. Crump.”
    “Ah. I see.” He gave me something between a grin and a leer. “He’s expecting you. At that table on the far right.”
    The man looked up as I approached him and he rose to his feet.
    “Mr. Crump?” I said, holding out my hand to him. “My agency sent me. Coronet Escorts?”
    He was a ruddy, bloated sort of fellow with what he probably thought was a jaunty mustache but which looked more like a hedgehog perched on his upper lip. What’s more, he was wearing an ordinary day suit and a rather loud tie. I saw him giving me a long once-over.
    “You’re younger than I expected,” he said. “And you’re wearing more clothes too.”
    “I assure you I’m old enough to be a perfect companion for you,”