‘It’s half seven now.’ He stubbed out the cigarette, waited a moment, steadying himself. ‘Let’s go.’ He stood up, placing the ashtray on the mantelpiece. ‘If you want to use the, you know, lavatory…’ He turned red. Why were men so squeamish about those things? ‘The bathroom’s down the stairs, on the landing below. I share it with my neighbour, Bob.’

She put out her cigarette as he grabbed his jacket and keys and opened the door for her.

She had a lemonade shandy. The pub didn’t serve food in the evening, but they rustled up a Scotch egg and a couple of packets of crisps. She was hungrier than she realised and devoured the egg, wiping her mouth free of crumbs, fishing in the crisps for the twist of salt, washing it all down with the shandy, listening to John as he told her about this coffee house he’d found, about his vigil last weekend, about the boys in the school who’d carved the CND symbol on their desks.

‘What did you do?’

‘I turned a blind eye.’ He nodded at her glass. ‘Another?’

The pub was round the corner from where he lived, old-fashioned with dark mahogany panels below the dado, the walls ochred with tobacco tar. She watched while John bought the drinks. She’d known him now for five months. Long enough to fall in love, to dream. He was chatting to the barman. He was obviously a regular here. If they went back to the flat, what would happen? They’d never been alone before. She curled her hands, her toes, pulled in her stomach, smiled.

‘You look happy,’ he said. ‘Happier than earlier. Here.’ He handed her the glass.

‘John…’ She leaned forward, pushing her shandy towards his drink. She was tipsy, light-headed. ‘For all we know, a bomb could be flying our way as we speak. It would only take a few seconds. We’d know nothing about it.’

‘Just as well,’ John said. ‘I can’t think of anyone nicer to be vaporised with. Besides, who’d want to live in a post-nuclear world?’ He drained his glass. ‘Drink up. Let’s go back to my rooms.’

She swallowed. She’d never done it with anyone. Her father had left it to Mrs H to spell out the moral code. No man likes second-hand goods. Sex could be brutal, she knew that. She’d overheard Mutti once, in those night-time mutterings when her mother and sister thought she was asleep.

‘The marriage act is not like this, Lieselotte. It is a beautiful thing.’

She left her drink on the table. He took her hand again as they crossed the road. It was dark, a clear night. Venus was glowing and other stars were beginning to appear.

‘I used to think I could count the stars,’ she said. ‘When I was little.’ Leaning out of her bedroom window with Lieselotte, You see the Plough? The Bear, Bettechen?