The door to Flat 2 opened and Eileen appeared wearing a yellow silk kimono. Black American, in her late twenties, she’d lived in London for the past five years, working in the theatre. Privately, Connie thought she was too good for her actor boyfriend: Leonard had a sallow face, mousy hair and pale eyes. He had a bad temper too judging by his perpetual scowl, and more than once Connie had seen a bruise on Eileen’s face.

Yet Eileen had a zest for life. She had a kindness too. When Connie’s mother died, Eileen had brought food. Connie recalled her standing in the doorway, clutching a casserole. Barefoot, dressed in white, with her black hair spread about her, she had been like an angel. She had taken the food into the kitchen and set it on the side before putting her arm about Connie and telling her how sorry she was. Most people tiptoed around the situation, barely mentioning Connie’s loss. Not Eileen.

Now Eileen grinned as she sailed past in a cloud of perfume and a wreath of smoke. Retrieving her letters, she picked out a slim blue envelope. ‘Wouldn’t you know it?’ she said. ‘A letter from America.’ She kissed it with a flourish.

‘What is it?’ asked Connie, eager for an excuse to turn from Dorothy.

‘An audition – at least that’s what I hope it is. On Broadway.’ She winked at Connie. ‘How about that?’

Eileen was heading for the horizon. Lucky her.

‘What does it say?’

‘All in good time.’ She glanced at the open door and slipped the envelope into her pocket. ‘Don’t want his nibs to find me out.’

She disappeared into her flat. A moment later and they heard music. The Beatles. That would be Leonard’s choice. Eileen preferred jazz. Once when Connie had been listening on the stairs, Eileen had come out unexpectedly and found her. She had invited her inside and introduced her to Billie Holiday. That voice, a beautiful, sultry sound. Connie liked the Beatles, but Billie Holiday had been something else.

Kenneth appeared, tying the cord of his dressing gown and scowling. He glanced at Dorothy, and not for the first time, Connie sensed a current running between the two of them as their eyes met. It was her mother who had suggested he and Dorothy were more than friends; her father had thought it more likely she was his spy. He said she had keys and snooped inside people’s flats when they were out.

Now Kenneth banged on Eileen and Leonard’s door, yelling at them to turn the music down. Connie gave one more despairing look at the empty post box and left him and Dorothy to it.

That evening, Connie sat on the edge of the bath with her head in her hands. The running water drowned out the noise of the men talking. Kenneth and Victor had turned up yet again.