It was a relief to relax behind a locked door, even though there was still no blood on the toilet tissue. She laid her hands on her belly. If there was a baby inside her, how big would it be? What would it look like? She imagined translucent skin and tiny fists and eyes screwed shut.

She stood abruptly, dislodging the image, turned off the taps and undressed. Easing herself into the water, she lay facing the window. The hot weather had broken and rain splattered across the frosted glass.

She had spent a miserable day in the bookshop, feigning a headache until her father had given her an aspirin and sent her to rest in the back room. There she had sat, questioning what she was going to do. If only Johnny would write. She felt heavy with longing, as if a lump of lead had fallen to the bottom of her stomach. She could drown with its weight inside her, like a sack of mewling kittens.

They’d had a kitten once. It had arrived on the steps of their house. Black with four white feet – and she and her mother had taken it in and called it Socks. ‘No pets allowed,’ her father had said, but though he was a stickler for rules, he had given in to the charms of Socks – and Connie’s mother. They had kept her, and fed her titbits, and made her a bed in an empty orange crate. If Kenneth noticed, he didn’t interfere and even Victor had succumbed, letting the cat sit in his lap when he visited. Mind you, Victor had been a better person then. Her mother had had a knack for bringing out the best in people. It was only after she had died that Victor had shown a different side.

Not that her mother had kept her thoughts to herself. Connie remembered a disagreement she had had with Dorothy. Her ex-husband had turned up out of the blue, drunk and hurling abuse at Mrs Kolinski. Her mother had called the police.

Connie’s mind turned back to Socks. One day, the cat had disappeared. Her father had said it was inevitable with a stray, and although her mother had agreed, she had continued to put saucers of milk outside the door, hoping Socks would return.

The water in the bath cooled, but Connie could still hear the drone of the men’s voices and catch snatches of their conversation. They were talking about the state of the basement flat.

‘I need to employ a cleaner,’ Victor was saying, ‘unless your Connie wants the job.’ He raised his voice, shouting through to her. ‘Hey, Connie, fancy earning a bob or two?’

Not on your bloody life. She turned on the hot tap to mask their voices and, for better effect, reached down to the transistor on the floor. She twisted the dial and out came Cilla Black blasting ‘Anyone Who Had a Heart’.