The end of what? Their West End show? Or maybe their relationship. If she were Eileen she would get rid of Leonard sharpish, Connie thought.

‘Well, celebrate more quietly,’ snapped Kenneth. ‘I’ve told you before.’

Eileen smiled sweetly again. Seeing Connie, she waved.

‘Did you get your audition?’ Connie asked.

Eileen grinned and nodded. Lucky her, getting away from this place, this house. Imagine travelling all the way to America, to Broadway. Maybe after Paris, when they had saved up some money, she and Johnny could go to New York. There were so many places she would like to visit.

She made breakfast, cracking eggs and sizzling bacon, and frying a slice of bread in the fat as her father preferred.

‘Not eating?’ he said, shuffling into the kitchen.

Despite Doctor Franklin giving him the all-clear, he looked even more tired than usual. Sitting heavily, he tucked his serviette into his collar. He hadn’t shaved properly and wore yesterday’s clothes. Connie’s stomach twisted with guilt as she bent to kiss his cheek, breathing in the scent of the cologne her mother had bought him, and another, medicinal smell. Maybe the doctor had given him a prescription after all. It would be just like her father to pretend nothing was wrong.

‘I’ll have toast,’ she said, eyeing the runny yolk of his egg and placing the letter from York on the table.

His mood lightened as he picked up the envelope and sliced it open with a knife.

‘Good news?’

‘The book has arrived and it’s mine if I want it.’

‘What is it?’ asked Connie, leaning forward to see.

‘It’s a first edition copy of Wuthering Heights.’ He smiled at her. ‘Emily Brontë. One of your mother’s favourites.’

She nodded, remembering, and a lump formed in her throat. The book would be expensive and hard to sell in the shop.

‘What’s the condition?’

He scanned the letter, reading out extracts. ‘Two twentieth-century inscriptions of ownership, in pencil . . . joints and spine ends expertly restored . . . front board professionally reattached . . . altogether a very good copy.’ He looked up, eyes sparkling. ‘How about that?’

‘Sounds perfect,’ said Connie, pleased to see him animated. ‘When are they planning to sell?’

‘The owner is away. So, the beginning of August.’

‘In that case, you could combine fetching the book with a visit to Aunt Maud like we said. Imagine! You could take three weeks off.’

‘I was thinking about that,’ he admitted, peering over his glasses at Connie. ‘Although I’d much prefer it if you came with me.’

She bit into her toast. If her calculations were correct, the beginning of August was two months before the baby was due. Even if she could hide her condition from her father, she’d never be able to avoid the eagle eye of her aunt.