“Ah,” she said by way of welcome. “I thought someone would be along sooner or later.”

“It’s Gretchen I’ve come to see.”

“She’s not here at the moment, but come in anyway.”

Martha led the way down the passage and into the studio. The doors to the kitchen and bedroom were—perhaps strategically—shut against the intimate evidence of shared occupancy. There were already touches of Gretchen about the place—the dead plant replaced with a jam jar of fresh flowers, the floor swept, the clutter corralled if not exactly tidied. They sat as before on the low couch, but this time there was no offer of coffee and no gift of florentines.

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“No. She comes and goes as she pleases. She’s not a prisoner, you know.”

“I never imagined she was. I’ve brought her some money. From her husband.”

Martha raised her eyebrows, clearly not expecting this degree of compliance.

“Well, that’s useful,” she conceded.

Jean had taken the envelope from her bag but kept hold of it, reluctant to surrender it to anyone but Gretchen.

“You can leave it with me. I won’t steal it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I was hoping to talk to Gretchen herself.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”

“I can imagine. But there is a conversation to be had about Margaret, sooner rather than later. Do you know what she intends?”

“I expect she’ll want her here.” Martha shrugged as if it was a matter of no great moment, one way or another.

“There is scarcely space here for a child,” Jean said, feeling that there was something surreal in this discussion, conducted without any of the relevant parties present.

“We might need to find somewhere bigger at some point, I suppose.”

“She is due back on Saturday.” Jean’s voice gave a squeak of impatience. Martha’s nonchalance was beginning to rile her.

“I know you don’t approve of me, Jean,” Martha said, folding her long legs under her on the couch. “I’m used to it. People have disapproved of me as long as I can remember.”

“One can hardly ‘approve’ the break-up of a family,” Jean replied stiffly.

She hated being aligned with the forces of narrow-mindedness and conservatism, even though that was where she felt most at home. She had quite admired Martha at their first meeting and she was intrigued rather than alarmed by lesbianism. As a touchstone, she imagined her mother’s opinion—and rejected it. She would be disgusted—therefore, Jean chose not to be. But none of this could be said.

“She was mine before she was his,” Martha was saying.

“But now there’s a child to consider.”

“I meant the child.”

Jean blinked, confused.

“She was named for us, you know. Martha and Gretchen.”

Jean was utterly unprepared for this and had no idea what to say.

“No, I didn’t know.”

In the silence that followed this exchange a pin-drop of sound came from behind the closed door. It was less than a breath, but Martha’s quick glance confirmed that she had heard it, too.