‘No, no, not at all,’ Vivian assured her, genuinely surprised that she didn’t find it intrusive that an interest had been taken. In fact she found it was a relief.

‘It’s just I’ve been aware that since you moved here you don’t seem to have had many visitors,’ Mrs Henderson commented carefully. ‘I haven’t seen your mother.’

It was awkward. Vivian didn’t like people noticing her mother’s neglect. ‘No, she likes London.’

‘Or friends.’

‘I don’t really have any close friends here,’ she admitted.

‘But back in London, surely. Couldn’t they visit?’

Ava had visited in January. This was the ultimate compliment because, really, who came to the countryside in January. There was nothing to shoot. ‘Filthy month, diabolical,’ Ava had declared. ‘Promise me you won’t suggest a walk.’ She wrote regularly, pithy one-liners on fabulously funny postcards, and had promised another visit in the summer. Vivian thought of Emily and how she had only agreed to be her bridesmaid after Ava had. Emily had just got engaged to Charles Rushmore. She hadn’t written to Vivian to say so; Charles’s sister had. Vivian hadn’t received an invitation to the wedding. She imagined they’d have a very small do. Most were nowadays; no one wanted to be seen to be profligate, no one wanted to tempt fate by appearing too happy. Even so, it would have been lovely to get a letter from Emily saying as much.

It stung, actually.

There were other girls too, but Vivian hadn’t kept up with them. Blackwell seemed so far away from, well, anywhere. ‘There used to be so many friends, at the dances and theatres and such,’ she murmured. In truth, they had been friendly but they were not friends. It had been difficult to cultivate intimacy, as their mothers kept the girls close by their sides until they could be safely handed over to some man or other. It was accepted that only as a married woman would one have the opportunity to develop friendships, but the chances of doing so were severely reduced if banished to Blackwell. ‘I loved my season,’ Vivian confessed to Enid in a rush. Enid smiled encouragingly. The thought of it bubbled up inside, effervescent and delightful. The perfume and possibility, the dresses, the dances, the daring. ‘I was happy and enthusiastic the whole time. I enjoyed everything like mad. In retrospect, I suppose I should have played it a little calmer, a little safer.’

Oh Lord, what had made her say that? It was far too revealing, but somehow Enid’s gentle face and wild hair invited confession. To counter her words, Vivian broadened her smile, possibly too wide. Silly tears pricked her eyes like tiny sewing pins caught on flesh during a fitting. She turned to look out of the window, stare out across the field, until she calmed down. Its expanse struck her as brazen, defiant, cocksure. Despite her efforts to regain composure, she muttered, ‘Look where it has landed me, all that enthusiasm.’

Enid Henderson nodded slowly and gave a sympathetic, soothing smile. She seemed to understand it all and more. Enid was standing by the fire; she hitched up her skirt to let the heat reach the back of her legs. It wasn’t ladylike. She stared off into the middle distance. Was she thinking how Aubrey Owens’ marriage had been a speedy, shy affair, and wondering whether there had been some sort of scandal. Full blown? Near miss? There had to have been something.