Pansy, like Chloe, seemed to possess an unbelievable number of clothes.

‘No,’ said Helen a little sadly. ‘It’s nice to have things. I love clothes.’

Pansy glanced across at her and then scrabbled in another suitcase.

‘Do you? Would you like these? Kim bought these for me because she thought they were Oxford-y. I’ll never wear them, and they’d suit you.’

There were two Shetland jerseys, one in soft, sugared almond pinks and one in stronger blues. They had little round collars with picot edgings. She was holding out a skirt too, folds of pale grey fine wool challis.

There was a small, surprised silence.

‘I couldn’t possibly,’ Helen said stiffly. She would have loved to own such pretty things, but it was impossible. She was not so hard up that she needed to accept Pansy’s casual largesse.

‘What a pity, because I won’t wear them.’ Pansy shrugged dismissively and tossed the clothes back into the suitcase.

The silence was uncomfortable now.

Helen knew that she should go away, but it was unthinkable to leave without having mentioned Oliver. She had the impression that his name hovered in the air between them, waiting to be uttered.

‘Are you pleased about the part?’ she asked at last.

‘Oh, yes. So long as it doesn’t mean too much hard work. Still,’ Pansy was holding an evening frock up against herself, her head on one side to consider it. It was a frothy mass of Zandra Rhodes squiggles and ruffles, ‘… with two lovely men like that about, even rehearsing shouldn’t be too much of a bore.’

Now that the opening was here, Helen shied away from it.

‘Tom Hart’s rather exotic for Oxford,’ she said.

‘Mmmm. I wouldn’t choose him, though. Bit too saturnine and Jewish, if you call that exotic, for my taste.’

Of course, Helen thought, you do only have to choose. Not Oliver, please.

‘But Oliver, that’s different. Bit unfair of him to be so beautiful and a Mortimore, don’t you think? What can a girl do, confronted with that?’ And Pansy laughed, pleased with herself and with the pleasant prospect ahead of her.

Helen felt a slow, dull crimson flush creeping over her face. Her chest and throat felt tight, and her fingers itched with a sudden surge to slap Pansy’s bright face. The violence inside her astonished and frightened her. But this girl would take Oliver away, she knew that now, and in that instant she hated her. She must say something. Not let him go without a struggle.

Helen struggled to make her voice sound cool and light, but when at last it came out it shook and cracked.

‘Yes, Oliver and I …’ she faltered, not knowing how to put it.

Pansy swung round in genuine surprise.

‘You?’