She’d been rescued, Dora recalled, in the nick of time, though her rescuer was killed and she’d been chained to a tree. What would have happened to her if she hadn’t been found? Would she have grown to love this man’s son? Dora opened her bag, fished around for her cigarettes. Damn. She’d left them at home. She stood up, pushed back her chair and squeezed past her friends. She’d spotted a machine as they’d come in. Gold Leaf or Rothmans. No Benson and Hedges. She’d have to make do. She fed in the coins, pressed the button, delved for the cigarettes and walked back to the table, unwrapping the cellophane as she went. The conversation had moved on to Patty Hearst.

Dora hadn’t taken much notice of the Hearst case at first, but as the trial had gone on, she’d grown more interested. Had the young woman been brainwashed? Or had she committed the robbery of her own volition? Had she been raped by her kidnapper, or were they lovers?

‘A real conundrum,’ Derek was saying. ‘A lawyer’s paradise.’

‘POW survivor syndrome,’ Roger said. He worked in the student welfare department. ‘She showed all the symptoms, lowered IQ, raised pulse rate, cold sweats. Couldn’t talk. Depressed.’

‘Says who?’ Val asked. She leaned forward, reached for a bread stick and snapped it in two, offering one half to Dora.

‘Says one of the psychiatrists who spoke to her,’ Roger said. ‘But they wouldn’t admit that evidence.’

‘Could she have been brainwashed?’ Janet said. ‘I mean, people are.’

‘The Manchurian Candidate,’ Derek said. ‘Now that was a good film.’

‘They were communists too, weren’t they?’ Jackie said. ‘The Symbionese Liberation Army, or whatever they’re called. Brainwashing. The Reds do that sort of thing.’

‘Not all of them,’ Dora butted in. Uncle Otto was a communist, and many of his friends. They’d fought against fascism. All this Cold War stuff made people paranoid, dupes to propaganda, only Dora didn’t say that. She stubbed out her cigarette, nibbled on the bread stick, wished the food would hurry up.

‘But the brainwashing, now,’Janet said, ignoring Dora. ‘Stockholm syndrome and all that.’

‘Stockholm syndrome’s when the victim sympathises with the captor,’ Derek said.

‘And sometimes vice versa,’ Beryl said.

‘Rarer.’

‘But why would you want to sympathise with someone who terrorises you?’ Beryl said. She’d spilled some red wine on her jumper and was dipping the corner of her napkin in her water glass. She began to rub at the stain.

‘Salt,’ Dora said. ‘Put salt on it.’

Beryl mouthed Thanks. Dora was older than them, and she knew they treated her like a mother, not a peer, not someone with whom to share a confidence. She’d bumped into Beryl once, in Heal’s, shopping with her husband.

‘Ted,’ Beryl had said, turning to the man beside her. ‘This is Dora, my colleague.’