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next door to Osborne’s, an exclusive gents’ tailors. Nick lifted the curtain for his companion – he had already forgotten her name – and let it fall before opening the door and being met by the sound of the music coming from below.
    For Nick, the music held almost as much attraction as the drink. It was New Orleans jazz, being played at its loudest on a gramophone: Bunk Johnson, Kid Ory, Louis Armstrong. Listening to King Oliver play ‘Canal Street Blues’ was an experience of which he would never tire.
    ‘Gosh, I like the music,’ his companion said. ‘Is this what’s called jazz?’
    ‘New Orleans jazz,’ Nick told her. So far there were only a few people in the bar, but it would quickly become crowded. He led the way to a table some distance away from the entrance.
    The young woman smiled as she sat down. ‘You’ve forgotten my name, haven’t you?’
    ‘Yes,’ he was forced to confess.
    ‘Oh well, it’s not surprising when I told you it under such chaotic circumstances,’ she said kindly. ‘It’s Doria Mallory. And the Doria isn’t a variation of Doris, which I hate, but the feminine form of Dorian, which is Greek.’
    ‘My mother and father are Greek,’ Nicholas told her. They had gone to Canada at the start of the war and he hadn’t seen either of them since.
    ‘My parents are as British as an oak tree, but my mother was determined to give her children names that she – and she presumed everyone else – had never heard before. My brothers are Pierce, which is also Greek, and Fabian, which is Roman.’
    ‘I’ve heard of Fabian. I think Shakespeare had a Fabian in one of his plays.’ He couldn’t remember which one.
    Doria laughed. ‘I shall write tomorrow and tell her – my mother, that is – that she’s not as clever as she thinks she is. Oh, and Pierce calls himself Peter, which rather annoys her.’
    ‘I don’t blame him.’ Nick was actually enjoying the sheer triviality of the conversation. The waiter, Albert, who Nick knew well, came and asked what they’d like to drink. He added a knowing wink and the suggestion of a grin when he glanced at Doria. Nick had never brought a woman here before.
    Nick ordered a gin and It and a Pimm’s. The evening called for more than his usual whisky and soda.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ Albert said with another wink.
    After he’d gone, Nick looked properly at Doria for the first time, while she searched for something in her handbag. He was taken aback by how pretty she was, how absolutely perfect. Her hair, curled tightly in childish ringlets, glinted like gold in the subdued light of the bar. Her wide, innocent eyes were bright blue and her cheeks a delicate pink. She was the ideal woman to be seen with to incite the envy of his male friends. Her picture would have looked well on an expensive box of chocolates.
    She looked up and caught him watching. Perhaps she saw the admiration in his eyes, because she said, ‘You’re not so bad yourself, Flying Officer Stephens.’
    He could have sworn he blushed. ‘Call me Nick,’ he said. ‘And I’m no longer in the forces.’ After losing his arm, he hadn’t expected any more flattering comments on his attractiveness to women. ‘How long have you worked in Dover Street?’
    ‘Eight months,’ she said accusingly, tossing the ringlets. ‘I’ve been trying to catch your eye since my first day. In fact, I’ve been flaunting myself in front of you quite outrageously, but apparently you didn’t notice.’ She made a face. ‘You didn’t even know my name.’
    ‘I do now,’ he assured her. Albert came with the drinks and Nick picked up the Pimm’s and drank it as easily as if it were lemonade. That was the trouble with fancy drinks; he found them impossible to sip slowly like whisky.
    ‘I followed you tonight, you know,’ Doria said, blue eyes sparkling. ‘I thought to myself, if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain – it goes something like that,