‘I could remain single,’ she offered. Now that there was no baby, she wondered whether she really had to be married.

‘What a ludicrous thought. Impossible. Failing to marry is not an option.’

Vivian supposed her mother was right. It was ludicrous because what else would she do? Other women in her position might teach, but she had no education, vocation or inclinations to direct her into a career of any sort. ‘You cannot become one of those women who doggedly tells anyone who will listen that she had her chances but was fussy,’ snapped her mother.

‘No, I could not.’

‘For a start, they always seem so wild and unkempt.’

‘Unloved.’

‘Exactly.’

Colour throbbed first in her cheeks and then down her neck and chest. In fact, embarrassment seeped through the entire room.

‘Or you’ll become one of those other types of women,’ piped up Susan. Mother looked shocked to hear her voice. Frozen. When did she sneak into the room? What had she heard? What did she know? Mother scowled.

‘Which other types?’ Vivian asked warily.

‘The ones that are all a little bit too much,’ sighed Susan, suggesting she understood more than was ideal. ‘You know, the sort with sherry-coloured hair, white powdered faces, lipstick.’ Susan looked alert and excitable, which was a rare and – under the circumstances – loathsome thing. ‘You’ll be forever smoking, childless, wear your hats too wide, shoes too high, that sort of woman.’

‘I shan’t care if I am,’ Vivian muttered defiantly and untruthfully.

‘Why won’t you contrive to be respectable?’

‘Enough, Susan.’ Mother no doubt knew it was a question that was probably already being asked in various drawing rooms throughout London; she didn’t need it to be asked in her own.

‘No one visits any more,’ groaned Susan. She threw Vivian a look. She knew who was to blame. It was true: their ‘at home’ days had been dismal of late. No one called. It wasn’t clear whether people were embarrassed. Pitying? Disgusted? Vivian longed for company. They all did. It had become apparent that they needed other people to make each other bearable. Vivian had heard that Emily was visiting an aunt in Newcastle. She’d heard this not from Emily herself but through their maid, who was friendly with Emily’s maid. Vivian hadn’t been aware that Emily had an aunt in Newcastle. She hadn’t written. Vivian felt the loss of her keenly. With each moment of seclusion that ticked by, she wondered whether if it lasted just one more, she might fall to her knees, as they were all so clearly hoping, and beg forgiveness. She didn’t, because it would change nothing. She gazed out of the window despondently. The very neatness of the manicured lawns trapped her.

‘Look, an Oldsmobile, it’s pulling up outside the house. It’s stopping,’ she cried excitedly.

‘Is someone getting out?’ Mother asked. She sounded shrill, agitated.

‘Yes.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Susan, come away from the window at once. Pick up your embroidery. Vivian, keep your eyes to the floor,’ she hissed.