Her voice was full of reproach. Connie turned to look at her. Such a diminutive figure, in her brown coat, with a funny matching hat like a tea cosy perched on her head. Connie wondered how old she was. Forty, perhaps, which would make her a similar age to her mother when she died, although the two of them couldn’t have been more different in looks, or personality.

‘I changed my mind,’ Connie said.

‘It’s natural to have second thoughts, but Barbara . . .’

‘Barbara?’

‘The lady you spoke to. I explained your situation and she agreed to give you another appointment. We can’t leave the decision for too long, you see.’

Connie did see.

‘Why don’t you give it another chance? We could sit down and thrash out the details. And . . .’ Dorothy paused. ‘There are always the other options.’

‘I don’t want any of them,’ Connie said quietly. As soon as the words escaped her, Connie realised they were true. She hadn’t known she would say them. She hadn’t even known they were inside her head.

Neither of them spoke. It was quiet. Downstairs, Connie could hear the deep rhythm of jazz. Leonard must be out.

The light clicked off. ‘And what about Johnny?’ said Dorothy, making no move to switch it back on.

‘He’ll be in touch.’

‘And if he isn’t?’

Was it Connie’s imagination, or had Dorothy’s voice hardened?

‘Then I’ll deal with the consequences.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Another pause, and then: ‘But you still need to think about Johnny. He’s young. A baby will hold him back. He’ll find out and then what do you think will happen? His life will be over. His ambitions thwarted.’

Above them Mrs Kolinski began to play. She was practising scales, running her fingers effortlessly up and down the keys. The scales transformed into a beautiful piece and they both looked up. Connie thought Dorothy must be as taken by the sound as she was, but when she glanced back, the woman’s face was blank, as unaffected by music as she was by art. It was hard to believe that Johnny was her son.

Dorothy spoke again. ‘You must understand that I am Johnny’s mother and his interests come first.’ She leaned forward and picked fluff from Connie’s sleeve. ‘But that’s not to say I don’t care about you. The thing is, sometimes men and boys need to get on with the important things in life and we must deal with these other decisions – these female matters – ourselves. Why don’t you come back with me this afternoon?’ She leaned a little closer. ‘I told you there are options. If you don’t want to take the medication, there are other things you can do.’