Who? Who could have given her so much money? And done it with such surgical coolness that she had never touched it, just found it magically lying in her account?

Helen thought back to the shame in Oliver’s face this morning as he had failed to meet her eyes. It must be Oliver. Oliver, trying to make some kind of amends. Oliver was the only person she had ever seen unthinkingly spending a hundred pounds on a single lunch. Oliver would be able to command that kind of money.

He had wanted to help her in some way, as unobtrusively as he could, and this was his way of doing it. What a collection of contradictions he is, thought Helen, before a host of questions came crowding in on her.

She must give the money back, of course, but how could she do it without embarrassment? Without answering tact with bristling pride? Evidently he had found her account and number without difficulty, but however could she find his so that she could slide the money back? She winced at the thought of pressing the pile of notes back into his hands.

What else could she do? Push it under his door? Leave it in his pigeonhole? Write him a cheque with a grateful note? Or wrap it round a brick and lob it through his window? A spurt of laughter bubbled up inside Helen. After the pressures of the day this last shock had left her feeling slightly hysterical.

Another uncharacteristic idea popped into her head. A drink, she told herself. That’s what you need. I’m sure Chloe’s got a bottle in her room that she’d be glad to share.

Chloe called out reluctantly in answer to her knock. ‘Ye-es?’

A moment later Helen saw why. Her hair was wound on heated rollers and her face was a stiff white mask. The rest of her was swathed in a vivid kimono. Through the face mask Chloe attempted a tiny grin and beckoned her inside.

‘All stops being pulled out, as you can see. It’s dinner with Stephen on High Table tonight.’

Helen nodded. She wished her friend wasn’t so interested in Stephen Spurring, but she dismissed it from her mind at once as none of her business.

Instead, trying to match the light-hearted tone, she told her, ‘I need a stiff drink. Can you help a friend in need?’

‘That’s not like you,’ said Chloe, ‘but, yes, sure. Gin?’

The drink did indeed make her feel better. The hysterical desire to laugh went away, and her hands stopped shaking.

‘What’s up?’ Chloe’s question was casual and her face was invisible, bent over the slow manicuring of her fingernails.

‘Trouble,’ Helen answered softly. ‘My mother’s lost her job. There’s no money coming in, so I’m going home to help out. No more Oxford. I was stupid to have come back at all.’