She leaned her elbows on the table and put her head in her hands. Only today she had vomited in the toilet bowl, turning up the volume of her transistor radio to drown out the sound.

Stifling the sob that was rising inside her, she got up and crossed to the bed. Lying down, she focused on Johnny, imagining him in Paris. She tried to picture his face, but Victor’s smirk appeared instead. She could feel the imprint of his hands on her waist. He had bothered her for months, but he was going further and further every time they met. What if next time he touched her he felt the change in her body and guessed?

She shivered even though it wasn’t cold.

How could she think straight with a baby growing inside her? She saw it as a seed, throwing out shoots, tiny arms and legs, growing and ripening – and yet she knew nothing about having babies. What if it didn’t grow properly? What if it didn’t come out? She pictured the fruit rotting in the garden. No one clearing it away.

She had to tell her father. Or else she had to get rid of the baby herself. Doctors were never going to help her. She must find a different way.

From Mrs Kolinski’s flat upstairs came the sound of the piano. Chopin, a nocturne. The music soothed her, the notes tumbling, rising, spreading. She lay on her side on the mattress, absorbing the sound, trying to settle, but her mind whirled with contradictions and unsatisfactory solutions. From the other room, the clock chimed five.

At last she heard the front door opening as the men exited. She heard their voices too, greeting Dorothy on the landing. An idea struck Connie as the door banged shut. She swung her legs over the bed and onto the floor. Johnny hadn’t sent her his address, but he might have sent it to his mother. Despite their furious rows, surely he would be in touch. Maybe Connie should ask her.

She let the possibility simmer before storing it away. It might not come to that – any day her period could arrive. The tonic Doctor Franklin had given her would work. As if to ensure it, she took the bottle from her drawer and measured out a spoonful. It was bright red, like blood, and it tasted as bitter as poison. It occurred to her that the doctor had given her a purge to get rid of the baby because even though she hadn’t mentioned being pregnant, he had somehow known.