‘You are looking lovely, Vivian. I heard that you have been unwell.’ Miss Pondson-Callow had heard no such thing, but it was rather sweet of her to offer up an excuse for Vivian’s sudden absence from the social scene.

Vivian grabbed the lie. ‘Just a cold.’

‘But you are fully recovered now, I trust.’

‘Almost,’ piped up Mrs Foster. ‘Would you take some tea?’

‘How thoughtful, no, but a glass of water perhaps. Iced with a slice of lime, if you have it, lemon if needs be.’ She let out a little breath that clearly communicated that a lemon slice would be a profound setback.

The Fosters drank their tea, Ava drank her iced water. Vivian was relieved to note that it arrived with a slice of lime; she felt incredibly grateful to the kitchen maid. Mrs Foster and Ava made small talk about the weather and the theatre. The visit was progressing exactly as it ought.

‘I went to a variety show last night at the London Opera House. Too amusing for all the wrong reasons. The audience and actors were ghastly. Quite fascinating.’

‘Which one?’ Mrs Foster had no interest in variety revues, but she understood how important it was to make polite enquiries.

‘Do you care? Really?’ Ava showed her surprise. It seemed she refused to play the game. ‘You’d hate it, Mrs Foster, I assure you. It’s called Come Over Here. A case of sadly misspent energy. There were some tolerable numbers that almost compensated the patient spectator for sitting through the duller moments of the evening, but.’ She stopped emphatically, so sure she had Mrs Foster’s understanding and concurrence that she didn’t need to continue. ‘It was their two hundredth performance. Hard to believe.’ She groaned. ‘No. I wouldn’t bother if I were you.’

Mrs Foster was so astonished by the honesty and confidence of Ava’s damning review that the room fell silent. Vivian wondered whether anyone expected her to speak. She could ask if Ava had been to see . . . oh, what was the name of that show Charles Rushmore had recommended? The Blackest Hour? The Darkest Night? Before she could bring it to mind, Ava took up the mantle again.

‘You know they gave each member of the audience this rather strange little jar to commemorate the anniversary. I think I still have it.’ She opened her bag and fished for a moment, retrieving a small, delicate, rather pretty glass jar with a silver lid. Vivian was on the verge of admiring it when she noticed Ava’s bewildered, slightly mocking expression. Her excitement was ironic. ‘I hate this sort of nonsense, don’t you, Mrs Foster? Well, you must. Although you have a very young daughter, don’t you? Perhaps she might like this. To put her buttons in or what have you.’

‘How thoughtful.’

‘Nothing.’ Ava’s expression confirmed she really did think it was nothing.

‘Babe will be enchanted,’ Vivian ventured.

Mrs Foster shot a glare that was meant to silence her. She wanted Vivian to behave like a Victorian child, seen but not heard; by contrast, Ava looked genuinely delighted.