Eggs and toast were brought to them when they requested it at nearly midday. Vivian was conscious that the room smelt of sex; before the tray arrived she threw open the window and then hid in the bathroom when there was a knock at the door. The elderly chap who served cast a sly glance at the crushed and scrunched sheets, then winked at Howard. ‘I can always spot the honeymooners. You’re doing the right thing, son; make the most of it before you have to get back over there.’

It was impossible to correct him, on so many levels. Howard tipped the old man generously and poured tea. Vivian emerged from the bathroom wearing a lilac-coloured silk robe that drew more attention, not less, to her sharp nipples, her slim thighs, her round buttocks.

They needed air by supper time; besides, the chambermaid had to clean their room. A pub in Piccadilly that had once been Howard’s favourite seemed a good enough place to buy a whisky, wave away an hour whilst they waited for a table to come up. They talked and laughed, tried not to kiss, although all he wanted to do was hang on to her lips. Her rosy, perfect lips. Nowadays, if a girl allowed a uniformed man to kiss her in the street, it might still attract one or two tuts of censure, but largely people indulged. He would have kissed her in public too, even though he wasn’t wearing a uniform, but for the fact that she was wearing a ring. Not that anyone else would know it wasn’t his ring, but he did. He’d broken so many rules and yet he seemed to construct many of his own just as quickly. It was awful. He knew she thought so too when he caught her narrowing her eyes, betraying her resentment when she saw other girls free and easy.

They dashed across Piccadilly and into the Criterion at nine and were given a good table. Sole was served with buttered asparagus and it was delicious. They shared a bottle of white wine and he joined her in eating pudding; it seemed more polite than allowing her to eat alone. He thought she had worn an aura of solitude for a long time, for ever, and he didn’t want her to do anything alone again. The sweet meringue broke on his tongue, mixing sensationally with cream and raspberries, then clung to the top of his mouth. He poked at it with his tongue, which made her laugh.

Everyone was dancing. It was all they could do since 1914. He’d often had to remind himself that it wasn’t indifference, it was terror. They did it at tea dances, in hotels or clubs. They pulled out gramophones and rolled up the carpets in private homes. They whirled around together, clung to one another, turned up the music to block it all out. Howard hadn’t danced at all since the war broke out, but now he thought it might be fun. Love and wine had blurred the edges. He suggested a club and she quickly agreed. They could be part of that giddy throng; it seemed a tediously long time since either of them had been. Paying swiftly, they dashed outside. They seemed always to be in a hurry; it was as though they had a lifetime to cram into the three-day escape.