She grips the delicate handle of her teacup to stop her fingers from trembling and savours the tea, calming herself. Ruby is surely right – no one will ever know about it. No one will be looking for it, even. It was just one item from a large store, and she is not the sort of person who would be suspected of stealing. She closes her eyes and takes another reassuring sip of sugared tea. Life does need sweetening, now and then. Ruby is right about that, too.

When she lowers the cup, Ruby’s plate is empty again. She is studying herself in the mirror of a silver powder compact and applying lipstick. Sunlight falls on her hair, making it shine.

‘You look like a film star,’ Harriet says, recalling the comments of the tearful assistant in Hartleys. ‘Like you’ve just stepped out of the screen at the picture house and sat down here to tea with me.’

Ruby lowers the compact, her green eyes bright. ‘Do you think so? Oh, I’d love that. To be in a picture.’

‘You would be perfect, I’m sure of it.’

Ruby beams at her, and at her own reflection. ‘Yeah, I know.’

A waitress in black uniform and white apron hovers nearby.

‘Let’s walk, shall we?’ Harriet reaches for her handbag to find her purse.

They walk, arm in arm, along the pavement. Harriet does not notice where they are going, nor does she think that Ruby is walking in a specific direction. She is too caught up in Ruby’s chatter. Ruby is obsessed with the picture house. She prefers the American films, she says, the romances and dramas – although she likes comedy, too. She adores Katherine MacDonald and Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, of course, and Rudolph Valentino, who she saw only recently in Passion’s Playground, and whose eyes are so beautiful and soulful.

Harriet has been once or twice to the picture house with Ralph, but mostly she goes with girlfriends, and only occasionally. Ruby’s knowledge is impressive, encyclopaedic, and her delight is infectious. This is how she exists, then, when she is not stealing from shops; the make-believe world gives her such joy. The picture house is where she escapes from what Harriet imagines is the squalor of her everyday life. A life that has been hard, brutal even.

She doesn’t want to think about that. Doesn’t want to think of Ruby keeping company with someone like Billy Walsh, nor the men she encountered in the Angel. Nor Alice Dunning, with her coarse features and broken nose. She squeezes Ruby’s arm tightly. Perhaps she might help her in some way.

Ruby drags her to look at a copy of Picture Show on a stand outside a newspaper shop. She drops Harriet’s arm and picks up the magazine, better to examine the image of Mary Pickford that graces the cover.