They had not discussed the thorny issue of the van der Beers since that day. Camilla did not want to argue with her father, and she avoided any subject that might spoil the precious hours they spent together. She thought about him now, as she peered through the speckle and splash of rain on the window panes. The damp air had crept into her bedroom during the night, and she shivered as she pulled down the sash window, blocking out the noise and fumes of the morning traffic. Her head ached from the cocktails and the number of cigarettes she had smoked at last night’s party, and she had no idea what time she had got home. She wondered if George had gone to the office. It was Saturday, but he often worked at weekends. If he was still in the house, they might have some breakfast together, and that would make a good start to the day. But there was no sign of him in the drawing room. Disappointed, she made her way into the kitchen and put on the kettle. She pushed a slice of bread into the toaster with unnecessary force, and searched the fridge for butter and jam, and some milk. The kettle gave off a high-pitched whistle that drilled into her aching head. She snatched it up to pour boiling water over the tea leaves, and splashed some on her hand, swearing out loud in pain. Upstairs Marina was still asleep and would probably not rise until noon. Well, it didn’t matter. The last thing Camilla wanted was a pointless exchange with her mother, on the social possibilities of the weekend.

All she needed to do now was to get through the last weeks of her course. She had mastered the tedium of shorthand and typing, and her French was fluent. There had been superficial lectures on English literature, on the history of art, on table settings and soufflé-making. She had sat through them all, almost in a trance. Her peers were largely concerned with obtaining invitations to the most desirable parties in London, and spending weekends in draughty mansions in the country where suitable marriage prospects could be advanced. Camilla had little in common with them, but she threw herself into all that London had to offer, disappointing and then enraging her mother in her choice of companions.

‘You’re going around with the most unsuitable people, Camilla.’ Marina had looked her daughter up and down with distaste. ‘And those clothes are quite dreadful. Vulgar and cheap, and badly made. You look like a shop girl.’