‘I believe I’ve been sent to this college as a punishment for something I did in a past life,’ she said, as she gnawed at a piece of chicken. ‘That’s the only way to explain it.’

Natasha had the same fear, but she didn’t voice it.

Lucy uncorked another bottle and continued. She found a lot about the college disgusting but what she found most disgusting was how all the girls from the country came up, got rich city boyfriends, as if it finally saved them and, of course, they stayed in the boy’s family home all weekend, being so impressed by the house, eating their expensive cheeses or whatever. It was boring, right? She wouldn’t do it. And these guys made such a production of introducing you to their parents. Who cares? Everyone has parents.

‘Do you have parents?’ Natasha asked.

Lucy looked directly at her. ‘No.’

‘Where in the countryside are you from? Your accent is familiar.’

‘I don’t know,’ Lucy said, ‘I can’t remember.’

She carried on as if there had been no interruption. What was most boring was how all these guys would leave college, develop certain financial ideas, marry women from their wealthy villages, buy them cars to shut them up when they had affairs. And the worst thing was they accused her of being shallow. Once you saw underneath, once the curtain had been lifted, the show was over. The place was a farce. How were you supposed to take it seriously at all? She hiccuped and began breathing into her glass.

‘Lucy,’ Professor Carr said, cheerfully, ‘is a writer.’

‘No, she’s not.’

‘She is. She reminds me a lot of a young Sontag.’

Lucy knocked over her glass. ‘That’s fine,’ she slurred, watching the fizzy liquid spread across the tablecloth. ‘Don’t worry about that.’

‘She’s written a play.’

Natasha froze.

‘The most important thing about these guys is not to get pregnant from one of them,’ Lucy said, ‘you just wouldn’t trust them, would you? You wouldn’t feel comfortable.’

Natasha stared at her.

‘What’s your play about, Lucy?’ Professor Carr asked.

‘I was crazy when I wrote that. I was really crazy.’

‘And you’re not now?’ Natasha asked.

‘No,’ Lucy smiled, ‘I’m feeling clear-minded now.’

Professor Carr, giddy, drove his hands still further up their legs.

‘What are you going to do when you leave college in a few months, Natasha?’ Lucy asked.

‘Natasha is going to the unemployment building,’ Professor Carr said, with confidence.

Natasha sat up straight. ‘I might become an artist.’

‘Oh really? And what will you make art about?’

‘My childhood.’

‘Oh God,’ Professor Carr muttered.

‘Maybe you could write a play? Do you like the theatre?’

‘Not really.’

‘Natasha doesn’t like anything,’ Professor Carr said.

‘I thought you might like it because you’re studying it.’

There was a long, grateful silence.

‘Thank you,’ Natasha said.

‘You have a reputation for being strange, you know.’

‘That,’ Natasha said, ‘is unproven.’

Lucy smiled at her in a secret way. ‘Anyway, I hate this college,’ she said. ‘I wish they would leave a window open or something so I could wriggle out and escape.’