Sarah was intrigued by the routine of the house as the week progressed. Most days there was no sign of Marina until she appeared in the sitting room at about six, exquisitely dressed for a cocktail party or a dinner, with a drink in her hand. She would sip from her glass and smoke several cigarettes, leafing through a magazine or a book while she waited for her husband. When George arrived he would kiss her lightly, enquiring about her day with a curious, old-fashioned formality that Sarah had experienced only in the pages of period novels. But with Camilla he was different, and there was a real bond of affection between them. At the breakfast table he hugged his daughter with enthusiasm and was obviously interested in her questions and opinions, and her plans for the day. He was a large, handsome man, a little too heavy but dressed in beautifully tailored suits that hid any excess weight. His hair was thick and wavy, and almost white, but his tanned face was without lines, as though someone had ironed them away and left his skin as it had been when he was a child. He wore a heavy signet ring with a coat of arms engraved on it. Sarah was fascinated by his smooth hands, and his fingernails which were shaped into neat, polished ovals. She thought they might have been manicured. When Camilla looked at him her face was soft and unguarded, and she liked to place her arm through his and hold his hand as she talked to him.

The Broughton-Smiths rarely spent an evening at home, however, and as soon as George had changed into evening clothes he left with his wife to attend whatever social event was on their calendar. At breakfast there was never any sign of Marina. But long after she had gone to bed at night, Sarah would hear her light steps as she retired, followed much later by the sound of George, climbing the stairs with a tread that sounded heavy, even weary.

‘They’re certainly busy, your parents,’ Sarah remarked on the second night of her stay. ‘When do you talk to them about what you’re going to do now? Or about anything?’

‘They’ve signed me up for an art-history course in Florence. You know that. One of those places where young ladies go if they haven’t got anything else to do. And then I’m booked on a dreary course in London, with typing and shorthand, and deportment and make-up lessons. It’s for well-bred girls who want to be a secretary for a minute and a half, before getting married. Awful. After that I can apply for one of the drama schools, once I’ve got a safety net of some kind in place.’

Sarah was taken aback. ‘Why don’t you go to university and join a drama group? There are always talent scouts at college productions.’