There was a new security man at the staff entrance, who didn’t recognise Helen until she showed him her pass with its proud words, Helen Angolini, Management Trainee, and the even prouder words, “First Class”. She’d joined a training program in which only one applicant out of a hundred was accepted, worked her way up from Third Class, through Second Class, and now she was on the last stage before a full appointment.

‘Not that I’ll ever get appointed if I’m late,’ she groaned to herself as she dashed for the elevator to the eight floor. ‘Can’t this thing go any faster?’

‘I didn’t think you’d be here for this function at all,’ said a voice beside her. It was Dilys, her fellow trainee, whom she’d overlooked in her agitation. They’d joined on the same day, soon become flatmates, and been “partners in crime” (as Dilys was fond of putting it) ever since. ‘You’ve just gotten back from Boston,’ she observed.

‘Right, and I was supposed to be going straight to my parents’ house from the airport. But Mr Dacre called and said to look in at the hotel first. That’s why I’ve still got my luggage with me.’

At that moment the elevator doors opened, and Dilys grasped Helen’s arm, steering her towards the ladies’ room. ‘Dump your things in here,’ she said. ‘And put your glad rags on.’

She was a petite blonde with a come-hither eye. Helen was taller, more statuesque, with shoulder-length hair as black as a raven’s wing, and dark, expressive eyes. In her mid-twenties her lush beauty was reaching its height, but she thought her appearance reflected too accurately her Sicilian ancestry, and longed for blue eyes and fair skin.

Yet while she might disparage her looks she knew how to dress them to advantage. Her warm skin cried out for deep tones, and now she looked through her luggage until she found a dress of dark red silk that caused her eyes to glow theatrically. A vigorous brushing made her hair gleam and bounce richly about her shoulders.