There was, as always, the dull set of chaperones; mothers and aunts, stout women with indistinct faces, dresses and hair. It was hard to believe they had ever been young, individual or vibrant. Had they once quivered in anticipation, dreamt, wept? Had they really? They always seemed to have sprays of artificial flowers pinned to their persons. On the waistband or the bosom. Dried flowers were depressing. Vivian didn’t like heavy handbags either, the type chosen for their usefulness rather than their beauty; the ruddy-cheeked, thick-featured chaperones all carried useful bags.

There were the inevitable groups of ageing men too, with thinning white hair and broadening waistbands. Their chins sank into their necks, then slid into their chests and bellies. Food seemed to be the only pleasure of the old. Vivian didn’t particularly care about food. She found the endless hours she had to spend at dining tables dull. She was often placed next to just this sort of gluttonous man. A lecherous old uncle or friend of the family; men Mrs Foster described as harmless but Vivian considered abominable. Men who she suspected had once flirted with her mother, or perhaps had been her mother’s lovers. No, that couldn’t be so, could it? One’s parents might have had intrigues, people did, but her parents? Was it possible? Likely? She didn’t want to think of it. These men often had false teeth, and they struggled when eating rolls, teeth slipping and sliding as they masticated. Their hands were forever clammy and banged down on top of Vivian’s to pet her unnecessarily when she was trying to slice through the beef wellington. They seemed to find breathing hard. It was all rather vile. The best she could ever hope for was that they’d fall silent.

And now, here in the ballroom, here were the real people. The people she had come to see. Her pretty friends. The handsome boys. The rich parents, with their dazzling power.

Vivian liked rich people. Properly rich. She’d been taught to think of them as more complete. They were tall and strong, not bent with bunions or bumpy with chilblains like the poor. They were carefree and frivolous, not oppressed with dull concerns like middle-class families so often had to be. The rich didn’t have to struggle with thoughts about whether there might be enough hot water for all, or clean and dry underwear and stockings for the entire week; issues that plagued her. The fabulously rich always had the proper outdoor and sporting gear, carriages or even cars waiting and a box at the theatre. It was delightful.

Of course, Vivian’s family were not what anyone would call poor, but they were far from rich. Vivian thought the respectable middle classes had a hard time of it. No one expected much of the dreadfully poor; they were able to drink or gamble themselves into sordid stupors; who could blame them? But being upper middle class was such an effort. There were standards that absolutely must be met; people expected certain things. Money had to be found for governesses and school fees, the maids and the sweep practically demanded Christmas bonuses, and if this meant one had to go without new party shoes (when absolutely everyone else had a pair!) then one simply had to bear it. The properly rich walked with wonderful posture and a sense that they had no clue that someone had to worry about laundry, cooking, bills and so forth. Frankly, Vivian ached to clamber up to their ranks. Ached.