The process of acquiring citizenship transpired to be as slow as Eric had predicted. I became accustomed to his monthly letters, detailing what frustrating stage my application had been halted at, usually sent alongside a plethora of new documents to be signed and dated. In addition to the administrative business, it was a continued comfort to hear about the improving lives of the children from the peninsula. Both had begun to attend a local independent school recommended by Mr Kohler, and Georg in particular was showing significant academic promise.

Happily, I did not have to spend any time convincing Elle that our future was in Switzerland. ‘As soon as I have my official papers,’ I had promised her, ‘we will begin construction on a safe haven just for the two of us. Imagine! Our own secluded paradise.’

She had positively beamed at the thought. ‘Oh Bo. It sounds too good to be true! And when you have your citizenship, we can marry . . . openly, officially. The day cannot come soon enough.’

I knew how desperately she longed to settle down. I willed the process of Swiss citizenship to be speedy, but in the meantime, I wanted to make her a promise. With the permission of Mr Kohler, I withdrew some funds from Agatha’s estate and made my way to a jeweller’s on Bond Street in London.

Although I browsed a plethora of rings, none impressed me. I had never spent such a significant amount of money before, and I was reticent to exchange it for some jewellery that, despite the price, was generic. I wanted the ring to carry some meaning. After an hour of staring and squinting through thick glass, I enquired if a custom piece could be made.

‘Anything is possible for the right price, sir,’ the jeweller replied.

I knew that the central stone had to be a diamond – the ultimate symbol of strength in love. As for the setting, I asked for seven individual points to be included, to give the ring the appearance of a glistening star.

‘Very good, sir.’ The jeweller grinned. ‘As the setting will be quite large, perhaps you would like to select a second stone for the points? Sapphire perhaps?’

I thought for a moment, conscious of the fact that the man was trying to extract more money, but desperate for the piece to be unique. ‘Is there a gem that represents hope?’ I asked.

The jeweller nodded. ‘Oh yes, sir. Emeralds. Traditionally they signify romance, rebirth . . . and fertility,’ he added, raising an eyebrow.

I clasped my hands together. ‘Perfect!’

It took several months to craft, but was eventually hand-delivered to the bookshop. When I unwrapped the box and looked within, I was lost for words.

That night, I took Elle out for dinner in the city’s Albert Buildings. She wore a teal dress which somehow made her blue eyes even more vivid than usual. As we shared a bottle of Côtes du Rhône by candlelight, I told her all about the future I planned for us on the shores of Lake Geneva. The rest of the dining room melted away, and I spent the evening lost in her aura.

‘I think our time is coming, Elle. We can finally leave the past behind.’

She gave me the same smile that had floored me as a boy in Paris. ‘Do you really believe it, Bo? I’m almost scared to dream.’

I took her hand. ‘We will have our happy ending.’ I gently manoeuvred myself onto one knee, and slipped my spare hand into my jacket pocket. I took a deep breath and stared into her sparkling eyes. ‘Elle Leopine. We are destined to spend our lives together. But until the day I can call you my wife, please accept this ring as a symbol of everything you are to me.’ I produced the box and opened it in front of her. She covered her mouth with her hands.

‘Oh Bo . . .’

I carefully slipped the ring onto her left fourth finger.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ she stumbled. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s utterly beautiful.’

‘Seven points for my Seven Sisters – my guiding lights that have led me to the diamond in the centre of the universe . . . you.’

When Rupert and Louise Forbes married, Flora signed over the ownership of Arthur Morston Books as she had promised. Happily, the couple asked me and Elle to remain as shop managers. They were content with the business we had succeeded in building, and were busy with the renovation of Home Farm. To add to that, Rupert’s role in the British Security Service had apparently become more demanding. Although he was passionate about literature, his country took precedence.

On a quiet January morning in 1947, I put my feet up on my desk and opened the Financial Times. As I was soon to be responsible for large quantities of capital, I did my best to keep up to date with the monetary markets – even if the majority of it was confusing to me. The paper was giving its review of 1946. It heralded the formation of the World Bank Group – a family of five international organisations formed to make leveraged loans to countries in need. In its first month, it had approved $250 million for French post-war reconstruction. My eyes widened as I read the article’s penultimate paragraph.

The first president of the organisation, Eugene Meyer, is known by most as the publisher of the Washington Post in the United States of America. Mr Meyer spends millions of dollars of his own money to keep the money-losing paper in business, with the aim of improving its quality, and in the spirit of independent journalism. In this regard, one may surmise why Mr Meyer was the perfect candidate for the role of WBG president. Meyer comes from a charitable family. His sister, Florence Meyer Blumenthal, was noted for the philanthropic organisation she formed, the Franco-American ‘Blumenthal Foundation’, which still awards the Prix Blumenthal to young creatives.

I jumped to my feet and raced upstairs to show Elle the article.

She gave a startled laugh. ‘Goodness me! I haven’t heard Florence’s name in such a long time.’

‘Nor I,’ I replied. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it? We owe so much to her. I wish we’d had an opportunity to thank her for all she’s done for us.’ I sat down on our threadbare sofa, which Elle had tried to cheer up with a hand-knitted throw.

‘I know, Bo. But Florence died long before we were given the Prix Blumenthal.’

‘I think that makes my heart ache all the more,’ I replied.

Elle joined me on the sofa. ‘What about Eugene Meyer?’ she asked. ‘We could write to him and tell him about the difference his sister made to our lives.’

I sighed. ‘I have a feeling that the president of the World Bank Group is unlikely to receive our correspondence.’

Elle nodded, and thought for a moment. ‘Okay then. Let’s go and see him.’

‘What?’

‘Why not? Now the war is well and truly over, what do we have to lose? Plus’ – she smiled – ‘I’ve always wanted to go to the United States.’

I laughed. The idea of travelling freely to a new country without having to flee was still a novel concept to me. ‘It’s a nice thought, Elle. But I doubt Eugene Meyer will just agree to meet us.’

Elle gave me a pat on the leg. ‘Isn’t that what your high-flying Swiss lawyer is for? Can’t you have him write to Eugene’s office in America?’

‘Oh, I . . .’ The shop bell rang downstairs, indicating the presence of a customer.

‘Think about it!’ Elle giggled, as she stood up and walked out of the door.

It took Mr Kohler less than a week to hear back from Eugene Meyer’s personal secretary. She informed Eric that her employer was very fond of his late sister, and would be open to a brief meeting. Needless to say, Mr Meyer was incredibly busy. However, he would be in New York in one week’s time. Could we make it then?

I thanked Eric and put the telephone receiver back on its stand.

‘It sounds like it’s one week or never,’ I told Elle, who was waiting in anticipation.

‘I told you Mr Kohler would produce a result! I’ll pack the bags!’ she squealed excitedly.

‘Hang on,’ I laughed. ‘Are you sure that we can just up and leave? Who will look after the shop?’

Elle rolled her eyes. ‘Bo, we’ve hardly had a day off in a decade. I’ll telephone Louise. I promise you, there’ll be no issue.’ She ran up to me, grabbed my shirt and gave me a gentle peck on the nose. ‘We’re going on a holiday! A real-life holiday!’

Two days later, we found ourselves crossing the Atlantic on the Queen Mary. Although our second-class quarters were very comfortable, as were the ship’s lounges, I spent hours out on the viewing deck. There was something about the emptiness of the open ocean which soothed me. It had the effect of ordering my thoughts. It was akin to me rearranging the bookshelves after a day of customers browsing, but in my own mind.

Elle was ecstatic to be on board. It made my heart swell to see the joy she took from every aspect of the journey, whether it was the fresh coffee served at breakfast, or the jazz singer who performed in the evenings. After the four-day voyage, we checked in to the Winter Quay Hotel in Manhattan early on a Wednesday morning. Elle and I were taken up to our room in the ‘elevator’ by a young man in a red cap and jacket. He proudly showed us the skyline view from the twentieth floor, which was staggering. I am not ashamed to say that it had a dizzying effect, and I was forced to sit down on the bed. Once he had brought our bags in, the man in the red cap gave us a wide smile and stood expectantly by the door. Mr Kohler had prepared me for the uniquely American custom of ‘tipping’, and ensured I had some dollar bills to hand. I took one from my pocket and handed it to the man. He tipped his hat.

‘Thank you, sir. Have a great stay.’

‘I feel like we’re on top of the world!’ Elle said as she pressed her face to the glass window and took in the overwhelming view.

‘Me too. But I’m not sure my stomach has accepted it yet . . . Now, I must get to the lobby and call Mr Meyer. Remember, he leaves this evening.’

‘All right, my love. I’ll unpack our suitcase.’

I made my way back down to the slightly sterile white lobby, and over to one of the wooden telephone booths near reception. I reached into my pocket and removed the number given to me by Mr Kohler. Then I put a quarter coin in the machine and dialled.

‘Hello?’ a man with a gruff American accent answered tersely.

‘Mr Meyer? It’s Bo D’Aplièse here.’

My name seemed to soften him. ‘Bo! You’re the guy that knew my sister, right?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, before correcting myself. ‘Well, no, actually. I don’t know if the situation has been explained to you, but I was one of the recipients of your sister’s Prix Blumenthal.’

He exhaled forcefully and I guessed he was puffing on a cigarette. ‘That’s great, great. Listen, just to save us both time, there’s no more funds from my sister’s will for previous winners. I hope my people told your lawyer that.’

I was shocked. ‘Goodness, you misunderstand, Mr Meyer . . . I just wanted to thank you.’

He snorted. ‘Thank me? I didn’t do anything for you, buddy.’

‘No, but your sister did, in ways that she never knew about. I had hoped to meet her in person to tell her.’

He sighed. ‘Sorry to say that you’re over a decade too late, kid.’

‘I know. I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m absolutely not here for any money. I just wanted to tell you how much your sister unknowingly changed my life.’

There was a pause before Eugene laughed down the line. ‘Well, how about that? Who knew that Brits really were that polite?!’

‘I’m not British, actually.’

‘Look at that, we’re getting to know each other already!’ He paused to inhale. ‘So, you wanna meet? I’m just about to leave my hotel for a story I’m working on this afternoon.’

‘That would be wonderful,’ I confirmed.

‘Great. I’m headed to 132 West and 138th Street. Meet me there in a half hour.’

The numbers meant nothing to me. ‘Where is that near?’

‘It’s Harlem, kid. Listen, just repeat it to a cab driver. There’s a diner close to the church. Have him drop you there.’

‘Will do. My wife and I will see you shortly.’

He gave a loud cough. ‘Woah, hold up. Wife? You didn’t mention a wife.’

I apologised. ‘Sorry, I should have been clearer. She was also awarded the Prix Blumenthal. She’d love to thank you as much as I would.’

Meyer tutted. ‘I mean, it’s up to you, buddy, but things could get a little hairy out on those streets today. It’d be safer to leave her behind. Either way, I’ll see you at the diner.’ Mr Meyer hung up the phone.

I returned to the room in a daze and told Elle about my conversation with Eugene. Although initially deflated, the promise of a trip up the Empire State Building that afternoon cheered her up.

‘What do you think he means when he says the streets could get dangerous?’ Elle asked.

‘I honestly have no idea. But I’ve got to get going. The last thing I want is to miss him.’ I gave Elle a kiss and hurried back downstairs. The doorman hailed me a bright yellow taxi cab, and I asked the driver to take me to 132 West and 138th Street.

He turned around to face me. ‘You sure, mister?’ he asked.

‘That’s what I’ve been told,’ I confirmed.

The driver shrugged. ‘Whatever you say.’

As we made our way towards Harlem, I noticed the enormous, glittering skyscrapers of Midtown start to recede.

‘Can I ask what brings you to this part of town, buddy?’ asked the driver.

‘I’m meeting someone here,’ I replied.

‘Huh. I’m guessing you’re not from round these parts. First time in New York?’

‘That’s right, yes.’

He chuckled. ‘I thought so. You don’t meet many folks from outta town wanting to come to Harlem.’

‘Why is that?’

‘All I’m saying is most tourists wanna see the Statue of Liberty, Central Park and the Met. They don’t want any of the real America.’

The neighbourhood we were entering seemed to be in a state of disrepair to say the least. The gleaming glass and neon lights of downtown Manhattan were replaced by boarded-up windows, rusting signs and overflowing rubbish bins. The cab made its way up a street called Lenox Avenue, and the faces we were passing were now predominantly black. My heart went out to the children sat on the steps of derelict houses, some of which frankly didn’t look fit to accommodate anyone.

Eventually, the car approached an imposing gothic church, labelled Abyssinian Baptist on the sign outside. Someone was setting up a small stage with a microphone nearby, and I noticed several policemen buzzing around the area, their arms folded imposingly.

‘Here we are. 132 West and 138th Street, buddy,’ said the driver.

‘Thank you.’ I looked around the street. ‘I was told that there was a diner nearby?’

‘Oh, you must mean the Double R.’ He turned around and pointed behind my head. ‘It’s just over there.’

‘Great. How much do I owe you?’

‘Three dollars and twenty cents.’ I fumbled around in my pocket. ‘Just be careful out there today, mister. I’ve heard it could get a little heated.’

‘Oh, er, I will be. Thanks again.’ I paid and left the cab, not entirely sure what the driver, or Eugene Meyer, had meant.

As I walked back down Lenox Avenue towards the Double R, the street was getting busier, and some people with what looked like placards were beginning to gather in small groups.

The diner’s ancient electric sign buzzed and flickered comically, and the door frame was warped and rotten. With a small shove, I managed to gain entry, and was not altogether shocked to find that the interior was even shabbier than the outside. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and I was forced to wave my hand in front of my face to clear the fug. A few feet away sat a well-dressed man in a pinstripe suit with red braces and a woollen tie. I marked him out as having the only white face in the establishment.

‘Mr Meyer?’ I asked, approaching him.

He looked up at me through his circular spectacles. ‘Bo D’Aplièse, right?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I replied.

‘Helluva name you got there!’ he cried, gripping my hand tightly and shaking it. ‘Take a seat. By the looks of things, we don’t have long.’

‘Sorry, Mr Meyer, I’m not quite sure what you mean.’

He took a swig of his coffee. ‘Please, call me Eugene. Mr Meyer was my father. Plus, it kinda sounds like Mr Mayor . . . and he’ll be along in a minute.’

‘Very well, Eugene.’ I was really quite confused. ‘You mean, the mayor is coming here? To the diner?’

Eugene looked genuinely perplexed. ‘No offence, kid, but did my sister give her money out to dummies? No, Mayor O’Dwyer will be on that stage in the next fifteen minutes.’ Eugene pointed back towards the church. ‘I need to be out there when he speaks. I’m here in New York on Post business. I take a personal interest in this story.’

I turned back to face him. ‘Forgive my ignorance, Eugene, but what story is that?’

‘Black citizens being ghettoised here in Harlem. Have you seen the state of the housing out there? It’s goddamn abysmal. There’s horrendous overcrowding, and that’s not to mention the police brutality these people are up against. The cops treat their fellow human beings like animals.’

I put two and two together. ‘So there’s a protest happening here today?’

He clicked his fingers and pointed at me. ‘You got it. Mayor O’Dwyer is speaking. He’s a good guy, I think. The man’s made promises to the community and we at the Post want to make sure he sticks to them.’

‘May I ask why you take a personal interest in the story?’ I asked.

Eugene sighed and nodded. ‘Yeah. I’m Jewish. I’ve seen what the Nazis did to my people in Europe. I wanna make sure we don’t end up doing the same to African Americans.’

‘Of course,’ I stumbled, embarrassed that I was clearly ignorant about the situation.

Eugene spoke passionately. ‘In flies America the Brave to save the day on another continent, without a moment to consider how we’re treating our own damn citizens . . . It’s a travesty.’ He rubbed his face. ‘Anyway, you’ve got until O’Dwyer arrives. Tell me your story.’ He pulled a cigar from his pocket, clipped the end and lit it.

Feeling exasperated, I did my best to explain to Eugene the value of his sister’s contribution to my life, and, of course, to Elle’s too. To his credit, Mr Meyer listened intently, puffing away as I told him everything that had happened to me.

‘Ya know, kid,’ he said after I had concluded my tale, ‘I think Flo mentioned you before she died. The little kid that didn’t speak.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And look at you now, sat here singing like a canary! It’s a miracle!’

‘I just wanted to impress upon you that your sister truly did save my life. And my . . . wife’s.’

He gave me a firm slap on the shoulder. ‘I got it. Listen, I really appreciate you coming all the way over here to tell me in person. Florence’d be proud, I’m sure.’ He took a large puff of his cigar. ‘You know, she kept her maiden name after she married George. She was Florence Meyer-Blumenthal. I kinda wish the prize had been named the Prix Meyer-Blumenthal.’ He shrugged. Suddenly, there was a rapturous cheer from outside, and several individuals in the diner stood up to leave. ‘That’s my cue, kid. I gotta go. But hey, if you’re ever in DC, call my secretary. We can catch up over coffee. You can tell me more of your stories.’ Eugene reached into his pocket and placed two quarters on the table. ‘Maybe we could do an article on you?’

‘Oh, I’m not sure about—’

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he interrupted. ‘No one would believe the story anyway.’ He gave me a smile and a wink, before making his way out of the door.

As I sat alone in the red leather booth, I somehow doubted that I would ever meet Eugene Meyer again. My meeting had not brought the emotional catharsis I longed for. Like his sister, he clearly had a significant moral conscience, and the protest was obviously at the forefront of his mind.

There was another roar from the street. I stood up to investigate the commotion. When I left the diner, I was shocked to see that the crowd had increased tenfold in the twenty minutes I had been with Eugene. I found myself amongst a sea of protestors, many now waving their handwritten placards, which bore slogans like EQUAL RIGHTS! and HOUSING FOR ALL! From the direction of the stage, I heard a muffled Irish accent projected through the microphone, and I began to squeeze my way through the throng to catch a glimpse of Mayor O’Dwyer.

‘Harlem! ’Tis an honour to be here!’ the mayor cried, and the crowd cheered in response, galvanised by his presence. As O’Dwyer delivered his speech about housing reforms and better funding for schools, the protestors began to jostle forward as one, and I found myself packed in tighter and tighter. After the mayor had finished, he received a huge cheer, and was replaced at the microphone by a police officer, who began to talk through crowd dispersal. Almost instantly, the atmosphere changed. The air was thick with tension, and I became aware of a large number of uniformed officers who had surrounded the protest. With their blue caps pulled down and their wooden nightsticks brandished, they looked threatening.

I heard a woman near the front shout ‘MURDERERS!’ up at the officer on the stage. Then she turned to face the crowd. ‘Those cops attacked Robert Bandy – shot him when he was unarmed and just trying to save a woman’s life. Goddamn pigs!’

A wave of anger swept across the crowd, and the microphone was drowned out by furious cries. The mass of protestors began to undulate more and more violently. As I turned away from the stage to seek a way out, my gaze fell upon a young man shielding himself from a nightstick-wielding policeman. I didn’t know what he had done to provoke such a reaction, but the officer seemed incensed, and raised the nightstick above his head to strike a blow. The man’s cardboard placard provided almost no protection, and he was struck down in the dirty street, trying to shield his head from the continued beating. Others nearby witnessed the scene and began to panic. They quickly started to disperse, and soon the crowd began to stampede. From a nearby street, officers on horseback came into view.

The horses began advancing on protestors, and it was only seconds before a full-on crush developed. My heart thumped hard as I attempted to extricate myself from the crowd, some of whom were now openly clashing with the officers. The thud of nightsticks on human bodies was sickening.

I put my head down and did my best to fight my way through the assembled hordes. As I did so, the couple in front of me stumbled. After taking a few more steps, I became aware that they had tripped over a person who had fallen to the ground in the chaos. To my shock, that person was a small white woman.

‘Can you walk?’ I cried.

‘My ankle,’ she replied, wincing.

The woman was clearly in pain. ‘Take my hand,’ I said, grabbing her tightly and pulling her up to her feet. I placed my arm around her, and we fought our way through the throng.

‘My driver . . . he’s waiting for me on Lenox, over there at the end of the street,’ she gasped. I noted she had only a faint American accent.

‘Then let’s get you out of here fast; it looks like things are about to get even uglier,’ I replied.

All around us, violent skirmishes were breaking out as the protestors rallied and began to fight back against the police. As we neared the intersection, the woman pointed to an impressive-looking Chrysler car.

‘There’s Archer!’ she yelled above the melee. With a destination in sight, I swept her up in my arms and ran to the vehicle, wrenching open the rear door.

‘Thank the Lord you’re safe, Miss Cecily!’ shouted the driver, starting the engine. ‘Let’s get outta here!’

I made sure the woman was sitting securely in the back seat. ‘You take care, ma’am,’ I said. Before I could shut the door, I noted two policemen with nightsticks heading towards the car. I steeled myself, preparing to run for it.

‘Archer, wait!’ cried the woman. ‘Get in now!’ she screamed, yanking me firmly into the car beside her. ‘Go, Archer! Go, go, go!’

The driver gunned the engine and the car sped off. As we pulled away from the nightmare scene we had left behind, the three of us breathed a collective sigh of relief.

‘I can’t thank you enough for your help . . .’ the woman ventured.

‘It’s nothing,’ I replied. ‘I should thank you for yours just then.’ I leant back in the seat, allowing the panic to slowly dissipate from my body.

‘Can we take you somewhere?’ the woman asked. ‘Where do you live?’

I shrugged, not wanting to impose upon a stranger. ‘Just take me to the nearest subway stop.’

‘We’re just coming up to 110th Street station,’ the driver interjected.

‘That will suit me fine,’ I replied. The driver pulled the car over.

‘Can I at least take your name?’ Cecily said.

I hesitated for a moment, before reaching into my pocket and handing her my card from Arthur Morston Books. I gave her a nod, got out of the car, and slammed the door behind me.

That afternoon’s trip to the Empire State Building was postponed as I recovered from the trauma of the morning. ‘I’m only glad that you weren’t there, Elle. I’m not sure I would have been able to protect you.’

‘Oh Bo. I can’t believe it. This is supposed to be a holiday, and you managed to walk straight into danger.’ She gently stroked my hair. ‘But let’s try and forget the disappointment of Eugene Meyer and the drama of the protest, and enjoy our week away. It’s so special to be here with you.’

Elle and I spent the next five days exploring ‘the Big Apple’. It was an amazing city which pulsated with energy and gave the inhabitants the impression that they were in the centre of the universe. New York had the tallest buildings, the biggest shopping centres and the largest plates of food I had ever witnessed in my life. After years of British rationing, my eyes practically bulged at the size of the beef burgers and mountains of french fries which were presented to diners.

I think the thing I loved most about the city was the positivity exuded by its citizens. They had recently endured the economic downturn of the Great Depression and involvement in the second global conflict. Nonetheless, nearly everyone we met brimmed with a cheerful confidence, and it was a delight to experience.

One day before Elle and I were due to board the Queen Mary and return home, the telephone in our hotel bedroom rang.

Elle answered. ‘Hello? . . . Yes, he’s just here.’ She shrugged and passed me the receiver.

‘Mr Tanit?’ said a vaguely familiar English voice.

‘Speaking,’ I replied.

‘Oh, wonderful! I’m so thrilled that I’ve finally managed to track you down. I’ve telephoned just about every hotel in Manhattan!’

‘Apologies, but who’s calling?’ I asked.

There was a giggle on the other end of the line. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Tanit. It’s Cecily Huntley-Morgan here. I’m the silly woman you rescued the other day at the civil rights protest in Harlem.’

‘Oh, hello,’ I replied, a little surprised. ‘How are you?’

‘My ankle’s slightly bruised, but I’m feeling much better now I’ve found you! Your card had the address of your bookshop in London, but I wanted to thank you personally for saving me. So I’ve been ringing hotels to ask if they have a Mr Tanit staying.’

It was my turn to give a laugh. ‘That’s a very sweet thought, Cecily, but I did what anyone would. I’m glad you’re all right.’

‘That’s not true, Mr Tanit. People were clambering all over me. You, however, saw a fellow human in need and stopped to help. I am indebted to you, and should like to treat you to lunch.’

Cecily’s warm voice put me at ease, but I didn’t wish to be any bother to her. ‘That really won’t be necessary, thank you. I really do appreciate the sentiment, though.’

‘Sorry, I won’t take no for an answer. How are you fixed for this afternoon at the Waldorf?’

‘I . . .’

‘And was that your wife I spoke to a moment ago?’

‘It was.’

‘Perfect! I shall arrange a table for three, and see you at one p.m.’

Before I’d even had a chance to reply, Cecily had hung up the phone. I confirmed to Elle that I had been speaking to the lady I had scooped up and bundled into a car last week. Elle, in the spirit of embracing our time in the city, was thrilled at the invitation. ‘Why wouldn’t we go? Lunch with a local at a prestigious hotel? How enchanting!’

It was hard to argue with her reasoning, so Elle and I put on the finest clothes we’d dared pack into our suitcase, and by one p.m. we were outside the slender central tower of the Waldorf hotel. We made our way inside to the dining room – an echoing space with a glittering chandelier that was probably worth more than Arthur Morston Books’ entire stock. Cecily’s blonde coiffured ripples marked her out amongst the diners, and I identified her immediately. I took Elle by the hand and led her to the table.

‘Cecily?’ I asked.

‘Mr Tanit! Hello!’ She stood up and shook my hand firmly, before looking to Elle. ‘And you must be Mrs Tanit? I think I owe your husband my life.’

I laughed it off. ‘Oh, I don’t know if I’d be so dramatic.’

‘I don’t believe I am being dramatic. When people are scared, they take leave of their senses,’ Cecily said in a serious tone. ‘Look!’ she continued, and reached into her purse. She produced my business card and showed it to us. ‘I even wrote “kind man” on the back!’ She laughed. ‘I shall keep it with me forever, as a token of good luck.’ She gave me a wink. ‘Anyway, please take a seat.’ She gestured to the two empty red velvet chairs. ‘Now, let’s order some champagne! Waiter . . .’

Our lunch with Cecily Huntley-Morgan was a delightful affair. She told us all about her life: her broken engagement, her voyage to Kenya with her godmother Kiki Preston and her eventual marriage to a cattle farmer named Bill.

‘You were at the protest the other day, Mr Tanit. You therefore sympathise with the vile racial prejudice that plagues so much of this country.’ I hadn’t revealed that my presence on Wednesday was accidental. ‘I need not keep this information from you.’ She took a sip of the Veuve Clicquot she had insisted on ordering us all. ‘When I was living in Kenya, a young Masai princess named Njala gave birth to a daughter on our land. She abandoned her, so I took her in. I named the baby Stella. Knowing I was to return to New York, I was forced to hire a maid – Lankenua. As far as my family know, she is the baby’s mother, even though, to all intents and purposes, I am.’

‘That must be incredibly hard,’ Elle sympathised.

Cecily gave a shrug. ‘It is necessary. The bristling disapproval of society would be palpable. I could, of course, handle it with no qualms, but Stella, on the other hand . . . she already faces so many challenges as a young black girl. It is better for her that things are this way.’

‘You’ve done an amazing thing, Cecily.’ I gave her a sincere smile. ‘Without you, who knows what would have happened to little Stella. Thank you for showing her kindness.’

‘As you said earlier, Mr Tanit, I merely did what anyone would have.’

‘And as you replied to me . . . I don’t think that is factually accurate,’ I retorted.

Cecily chuckled and raised her champagne flute. ‘Well then. Cheers to kindness.’

Elle and I talked to Cecily about our life in Britain, working for the Vaughans firstly at High Weald and then at Arthur Morston Books. Cecily asked about Elle’s French accent, and we repeated the line that we both fled Paris due to the threat of Nazi occupation.

‘But recently, we’ve had some good fortune,’ Elle told Cecily. ‘Robert here has inherited some land in Switzerland on the shores of Lake Geneva. We hope to move there as soon as we can.’

‘How wonderful!’ Cecily replied. ‘Nature is so important, isn’t it? I imagine the still peace of the lake will be just the ticket after all you’ve been through.’

After a delicious pudding of deep-dish apple pie, it was time to part ways.

‘Thank you so much for lunch, Cecily. It’s tremendously nice of you,’ I said, shaking her hand.

‘Don’t be silly, Mr Tanit. I’m only too glad that I managed to track you down before you return to England. Although, if you don’t mind, I will keep that business card of yours. After all, one is never quite sure when one might need one’s guardian angel.’