‘Do you hunt?’

‘I have.’ Whenever Vivian thought of hunting, she thought of whisky. Tangy, leathery, spicy. Male. The first and only time she’d joined a hunt was when she was fourteen. The men in their pink coats had looked terrific; she’d enjoyed it enormously at first. Not so much when the hounds started to tear at the fox, throwing it yelping into the air, catching it again in their slobbering mouths, tugging it between them. She was the youngest on the hunt so they’d daubed her forehead with its blood. The smell of the iron was too much, left her queasy, light-headed. She’d been given a nip of whisky. Her father thought the incident amusing and often recalled it at the dinner table when they had guests.

Nathaniel sensed her lack of interest and asked in a tone that was distinctly challenging, ‘Golf?’

‘It’s rather a man’s thing, isn’t it?’

‘It doesn’t have to be.’ He looked peevish. His vitality was in danger of flagging when confronted with her lack. Why suddenly was he so interested in her hobbies? What did it matter? He was wondering what she did with her time. She danced and dreamt. She shopped. She sat by her mother’s side and waited. ‘Then what is your sport?’ Truthfully, she didn’t have one but saying so made her seem small, inadequate. For all her energy, she hadn’t been encouraged to play an actual sport to any sort of level. It was not considered feminine. Her parents didn’t believe a girl needed to be channelled or challenged the way a son did. She had little to offer except her good looks and her embroidery (actually, she wasn’t too wonderful at that, but she was forced to persevere). She could play the piano (a little heavily, but hardly anyone ever complained) and she could sing. Yes, her singing voice was really quite lovely. It had never crossed her mind that this collection of attributes might not be enough.

Until now.

Nathaniel was big and bold, almost brutish. She adored that about him. He was a conduit to life. That was what a husband was. She had been to his house and seen the silver trophies on the mantelpiece in their second drawing room, the guns, bats and rackets on the shelves in the back rooms. He was vigorous, which made him promising in a way she didn’t quite understand. In a way that made her nervous and breathless when she was with him.

‘You’re a slacker,’ he muttered. She was stung, as he no doubt had intended.

He continued to dance in a deliberate silence, haughty and sulky; he couldn’t be bothered to speak to her. It was awful. She wanted him to like her so much. She’d thought he did. She’d been so sure. They continued drifting between the other couples but she began to lose the sense of him. She knew he was holding her but she couldn’t register it. What could she do? Her head was swimming; it was too hot in here. Intermittent smells hit, as couples danced past: lavender toilet water, male sweat. It was overwhelming. She needed air and a drink. No more champagne. She’d had enough. She ought to find a cordial but she didn’t want lime juice. It reminded her of childhood picnics. Immature. She didn’t want that at all.