Romy walked nervously through the Cathay Hotel’s golden atrium. Japanese soldiers were mingling with German, French and Chinese couples, the men in white dinner jackets and the women with pastel feather boas threaded over their arms and diamond necklaces at their throats. These couples chatted to elegant Chinese ladies buttoned into embroidered cheongsams and low-backed lamé ballgowns. The women preened and smoothed their dresses as Romy overheard a smiling waiter say in English, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll follow me, the show is about to start. I’ll escort you to your tables.’

Taking care not to meet anyone’s eye, Romy followed the scent of smoke and whisky through the heavy wooden door into the jazz bar. The room was all marble columns, guilded ceilings and dark wood-panelled walls. Her eyes watered from the sting of smoke and cloying perfumes.

Romy sat at the dark bar, sipping the Coca-cola slipped to her by the friendly barman. The sugar made her a little giddy and her heart raced in anticipation of seeing Li.

A group of Japanese soldiers were laughing and emptying a bottle of whisky at a far table. One man caught her eye and beckoned her over with his hand. Romy looked away, cheeks burning. She was a drab, bony woman with no money sitting at a bar…alone.

Romy sipped her cola and thought of Nina. Was this how she’d started? Every week Romy saw women come into the hospital with sick and lice-infested children dressed in clothes made from jute flour bags or old sheets. Men who’d had solid careers in Europe as lawyers, teachers and accountants sat at the bottom of the hospital steps rattling tin cups in the hope of catching a coin from the staff. There was a rumour a couple of the doctor’s wives worked the day shift at the brothel while their three children were at school. It was a rare soul in the ghetto who was not hungry.

Yesterday, when she’d seen Nina, she was preparing for a night out with one of her regulars. Her friend had lightened her hair and lined her eyes with kohl to look like Greta Garbo; she blew Romy a kiss as she painted her lips.

‘Don’t look so sad, Romy,’ she said, swaying her hips to bring a smile to Romy’s face as she slipped a pink silk cheongsam over her head and buttoned it up. Nina’s hips were rounded now and her breasts filled the dress nicely. She was taking care of herself and was healthier and more robust than most women in the ghetto. Nina had drifted from scrubbing floors in her boarding house—and almost starving to death—to relationships of convenience with a few lonely Japanese soldiers in exchange for bread, cheese, fresh fruit, a new coat and enough money to share around among the younger girls from the Heime so they didn’t have to do the same. Romy and her parents both wished Nina would come and live with them so they could share what little they had with her, but Nina insisted on her independence. Nina had become the queen of chameleons. Of survivors.

Romy closed her eyes, sipped her drink and allowed the fizz to fill her stomach. She let the music wash over her and ignored the Japanese soldiers and businessmen cutting into slabs of sizzling steaks at the table beside her as the lights dimmed and Yu Baihe was introduced to the stage.

The band started to play and Li stepped into the spotlight. She wore a long midnight-blue lamé gown that was scooped low at the back. The crowd cheered and whistled as a trumpet started to blast. Li put one hand demurely on the microphone and started to sing ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ in a low, husky voice.

The room fell silent. A service door built into the wood panelling to one side of the stage opened a little. From her position at the bar in the far corner of the room, Romy could see past the shadows to the profile of a man holding a jute bag filled with baguettes; an open basket of Kaiser rolls sat at his feet. Wilhelm. He leaned on the doorframe, smiling to himself.

Romy’s heart skipped a beat.

She tried to catch his eye, but he was too far away.

Li wiggled her hips and winked at the front table of Japanese soldiers before her face turned serious and she lifted her jaw to focus on someone else in the room. Li started to sing the finale with pure raw emotion; her throat sounded like it was burning.

Romy’s eyes started to water as she felt Li’s yearning with each word of ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ above the strings.

Romy looked from Wilhelm to the stage and back again. Li was singing to Wilhelm, her red lips parted, eyes shining with adoration. One of the Japanese soldiers narrowed his eyes, beckoned a waiter over and whispered something in his ear. Then the soldier stuffed a piece of paper in the waiter’s pocket and shooed him from the table as his eyes flicked briefly between Li and the tall delivery man standing just inside the half-open service door.

Romy had been so shocked by the look that passed between Wilhelm and Li she’d put her hands over her face and tried to collect herself. Whatever was going on with Wilhelm, Romy felt ready to talk about it without dissolving into tears and making a fool of herself. Perhaps she’d got it all wrong; perhaps he really was just exhausted from working so hard, along with his Pao Chia patrols. He never stopped—and when he did, he was all alone. Should she leave her quiet spot at the bar and try to find him?

But when she looked up, Wilhelm was gone. She walked casually from the bar, through the atrium to the service passage she used to roam as a child. She tiptoed along the threadbare corridor into the hotel’s main kitchen, but there was no sign of him.

Romy returned to the atrium and stood there, motionless, as Japanese soldiers and wealthy couples streamed around her, dripping with furs and jewellery. The centrepiece flowers had gone, she saw, but people were still coming to the Cathay for a little magic. And Li—Yu Baihe—was part of that. It was her job to enthral the crowds and make them fall in love with her. Wilhelm was no exception—just another man in a besotted audience. Li had always been a performer. It was how she’d survived. Romy felt churlish for imagining anything else.

Still, her stomach curdled with a strange mix of longing and jealousy. Li had always had the knack of standing out in the crowd. But Wilhelm hadn’t even noticed Romy at the bar. When she had spotted Wilhelm standing in the doorway Romy had let herself imagine that his eyes would find hers across the hazy room and widen with delight. She picked at a stray thread on her brown suit. She looked so drab she was invisible.

Romy brushed aside her disappointment about Wilhelm and remembered the reason she’d come to the Cathay tonight: Li.

Now she’d seen her, it wasn’t enough to leave without speaking with her. Hugging her. She wanted to be sure Chang Wu was taking care of her.

She looked up at the glass pieces of the atrium ceiling and tried to think of a way to speak with Li—without placing her in danger. An elegant Chinese couple came out of the jazz bar and, as the woman pulled on her fur coat beside Romy, she said, ‘Yu Baihe is the best. I’m too tired to stay for the next girl.’

Where would she find Li now she’d left the stage?

The atrium was filling up, and Romy found herself knocked into a corner as people swarmed non-stop in and out of the jazz bar and restaurants. Greetings and farewells in many dialects filled the foyer. Romy looked up to see old Mr Khaira standing by the entrance to the hallway that led to the secret dressing room—as though he’d been stationed there. His sideburns had turned silver and his face looked sombre. Romy swallowed her joy at seeing his familiar face, remembering she had to be anonymous.

Mr Khaira’s eyes widened with recognition and he tried to suppress a smile before his brows became furrows. As she pointed past the doorway Romy leaned in to whisper, ‘Li?’

His eyes scanned the crowd and his legs twitched before he nodded and ushered Romy quickly into the hidden passage and closed the door behind her, leaving her to climb the dim stairs alone.

As she took the stairs two at a time, her stomach settled. She was just nervous and excited, that was all. She and Li hadn’t seen each other in a long time.

Romy stood outside the door to the dressing room, running her fingers over the letters she’d etched all those years ago: RB 1939. How naive she’d been, thinking this strange city Shanghai was a safe haven for her family, that it would last forever…

From the other side of the door came a wild cry.

Someone was hurting Li!

Romy pressed open the door a fraction. Li was sitting on the old table, the blue lamé dress pulled from her shoulders and scrunched around her waist, a pearl necklace draped over one bare breast and her jade lily pendant at her throat.

Li’s head was thrown back in ecstasy, her lips open and wet. Her long slim legs were wrapped around the waist of a man who was standing with his back to Romy, thrusting and groaning. His sandy curls fell across his collar, his shirt stretched across his muscular shoulders.

Romy’s breath caught as the couple groaned in unison.

She was unable to move her feet.

The same strong hand that had wiped away Romy’s tears many months ago—smelling of yeast and covered with flour—was resting at the nape of Li’s neck. The full lips she imagined might kiss her own brushed one of Li’s nipples.

The music from the gramophone was so loud—and they were so caught up in their own rapture—they didn’t notice Romy in the doorway.

She tugged the door closed and raced down the corridor. When she reached Mr Khaira, she stopped and begged him not to tell anyone she’d been there.

She was about to run through the foyer when Chang Wu stormed past them into the bar, shouting over his shoulder at the waiter, ‘Well, if she’s not in her room, find her!’

Romy froze. Her eyes were full of tears, but when she blinked all she saw was dark blood. Looking over her shoulder to make sure no-one was watching, she stole back past a suddenly white-faced Mr Khaira into the secret passage. Romy marched up the stairs and knocked on the door of the dressing-room door to sound a warning, before quickly running downstairs again to avoid being seen.

‘Please make sure they don’t get caught,’ she begged Mr Khaira, who was now doing his level best to blend into the wallpaper. Then, looking as casual as she could manage, Romy strolled with a group of departing guests across the mosaic floor into the night.