She and Zachary were teasing already, they were getting on. Christine was thinking judgementally that her mother didn’t actually know anything about the eighteenth century, just liked her idea of it. At first they were sitting in the dusk. Then while Zachary and Barbara were talking, Christine got up and went around switching on the lamps, prowling in the shadowy margins of the room, picking things up from the shelves and putting them down. From childhood, she had got into the habit of letting her mind drift while her mother spoke, not following her words, only letting their tone wrap round her, familiar and reassuring as a blanket. Zachary fitted in so perfectly, she needn’t make any efforts on his behalf. There was some latest new novelist he had read, who was the son of her mother’s friends. Barbara made a conspiratorial face of distaste. — But wasn’t his book boring? Such a shame, what a nice chap.

Zachary was delighted. It was boring of course, she was quite right. And then they discussed some marvellous French film that they’d both seen. Christine had seen it too but she didn’t say anything. Barbara eventually invited them both to stay to supper – Zachary was suffused with regret, he’d made other arrangements. Downstairs in the hall he and Christine kissed affectionately. She waved goodbye to him from the front door, then climbed the stairs again slowly, hesitating on the landing before she stepped into the drawing room, where her mother hadn’t moved yet to draw the curtains. The lamplight seemed weak, pouring into the night beyond, which was restless with rain. Barbara put down her book. — I like your new friend, darling, she said. — Such a nice chap. Very sweet.

— What’s that supposed to mean? You’re holding something back.

— I’m not holding anything back. I thought he was lovely. But he’s just a friend?

Christine knew her telltale face was hot. — Yes of course, just a friend.

— Because he’s not right for you: I mean, if there had been anything more to it. I can see how it wouldn’t have worked out.

It wasn’t unheard of for Christine to be explosive in that room. She had been known in her childhood for her tantrums – jagged marks on an Italian antique chest had never quite been polished out, where she’d scored them savagely in revenge for something, using a penknife belonging to one of her brothers. She had always been lovingly understood, lavishly forgiven — It’s because he’s Jewish, isn’t it? she cried. — I can’t believe this of you. What would Daddy say? I’m so ashamed.