He walked her to their bedroom door, unlocked it. ‘I think I’ll smoke my pipe. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Does that suit?’ Vivian nodded, grateful for his discretion; somehow his disappointment in her musical ability had made it intolerable for her to undress in front of him. Even if she’d undressed in the bathroom she wasn’t sure how she’d make it from there to her bed.

Alone, she changed into her nightgown and pulled her dressing gown tight around her. Both were white silk and embroidered with small flowers and bees, very pretty. She unpinned her hair and arranged it around her shoulders. She sat on the dressing table stool and wondered where was best for him to find her? Should she stay there, brushing her hair, an artfully arranged tableau? The light was flattering. Or should she sit on the chair near the window? Or perhaps the bed? Which bed, and was it better to be in or on? She sat on the edge of the bed nearest the door, but her shoulders drooped involuntarily and a wave of depression soaked her; it seemed an unnatural place to wait for someone. She slipped between the sheets, but the heat was suffocating. She got out and opened the heavy drapes, then the window, just a fraction. The warm London night and noise fell into the room; she was glad of the company. The nets billowed. She decided to take off the dressing gown and return to bed in just her nightgown.

After thirty-two minutes, Aubrey came into the room.

‘Good grief, why aren’t the curtains drawn? You have the light on. People will see in.’

‘No, they won’t, we’re the third floor up.’ Regardless, he slammed closed the window, shutting out the noise and the air. He drew the curtains, turned out all the lights, except for the one on her bedside, and then went into the bathroom. She listened to him running a basin of water and washing himself. When she’d been alone she’d fingered his toiletries: his toothbrush, the sturdy, almost frightening safety razor and hair oil. They seemed alien on her washstand. They made her nervous. She hadn’t gained any warm sense of intimacy from touching his possessions; she’d felt that she was intruding. When he came into the room, she caught a faint whiff of carbolic soap and something spicier, too: gin on his breath.

Shockingly, he was wearing a nightshirt, not pyjamas; she had to suppress her giggles. Then he stunned her by falling to his knees next to the bed near the window and praying. She wondered what she ought to do. Should she get out of her bed and pray too? Would he think it poor form if she didn’t? She supposed he might assume she’d already said hers. Which in a sense she had; that morning she’d thanked God for a sunny day.

Eventually he got to his feet, neatly folded his dressing gown and placed it carefully on the chair seat. He then pushed his bed next to hers, managing this without too much effort, and climbed in beside her. She felt him tug at the tightly tucked sheets on his bed and at the ones on hers. It was all horribly fumbling and embarrassing. Why hadn’t he simply asked for another room? The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he rolled closer to her; she tensed her muscles so that she didn’t fall on to him and look too forward. He edged towards her and she felt his fingers on the trim of her nightdress. Clumsily he started to drag the material up her legs, the fabric rucking around her knees. She wiggled obligingly; she didn’t want it to rip as he tugged it up to her thighs. His fingers brushed against her skin and he pulled away sharply.