Another surge of people coming up the stairs pressed them back against the wall. Tom put out his arm to shield her, perfectly polite. He was cool again, just as he almost always was. She realised that the moment for telling him that she was sorry for New Year’s Eve had gone. She would never do it now. But how stupid. Why ever not?

Helen opened her mouth again, groping for the words to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry I slapped you like some affronted Victorian maiden. If only it hadn’t been then, Tom. So soon after seeing Oliver …

But someone else was demanding her attention. It was Darcy. He looked hot and uncomfortable.

‘Helen, I must be off. It’s too crowded for me. If you would like to stay, shall I find someone else to see you home?’

‘Darcy.’ Tom nodded his greeting. Then he leaned comfortably against the wall with his arms folded, watching them.

‘I’m sure Tom would,’ Darcy said helpfully.

‘Darcy.’ Helen broke in as quickly as she could. ‘I can manage a few hundred yards on my own.’ Affection for his old-fashioned concern, his quaintness, flooded through her. But it was increasingly mingled with mild irritation. There was something pedantic about Darcy too. ‘Anyway,’ she said hurriedly, ‘I’m ready too. Goodbye, Tom.’

She turned and almost ran. Behind her, Darcy looked faintly puzzled, but he followed with relief. Tom stood for a moment looking ahead into emptiness, but then he went away up the stairs to drink champagne with his elated actors.

Darcy and Helen stood together on Folly Bridge. The spring night air was cool and sweet-smelling and filled with the gurgle of water. Helen leaned over the parapet. Beneath her the foam showed creamy in the race around the piers of the bridge. Follies House was in total darkness. Everyone was still at the theatre. She concentrated on the sound of the water, letting her odd, prickly ill-humour slide away with it.

Her mind was almost empty when Darcy lifted her hand and laced his fingers into hers. He began to talk in a low, humble voice. He was apologising for dragging her away from the party, laying bare his own fear and shyness with painful, determined honesty.

‘Don’t think I like myself for it,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t think I wouldn’t be different, if only I knew how.’

‘Oh, Darcy, Darcy.’ Helen rubbed her face helplessly against the familiar rough tweed of his jacket. ‘Please don’t be so unhappy. Please. I like you so much …’ But, she was going to say, but I can’t do anything to help you, or make things between us any different from the way they are now.

Darcy denied her the chance. He pulled her to him with a violence that was startling in such a gentle man. His face burned against her cheeks and the bones bruised her flesh as he kissed her.