She looked over at Anna, sitting neatly on the sofa. They were clearly at a similar stage of pregnancy, their bellies swelled not to the extent of the three women in the kitchen so many years ago but enough to be obvious, unless you were trying to hide it. But that’s where the physical resemblance ended. Anna was so thin, so young, all spindly arms and big eyes. Sixteen and pregnant? Sylvia couldn’t contemplate it – it was daunting enough at her age. She thought back to when she met Daniel, how surly he was, how preoccupied, and his words at the march: I just think everyone should be free to do what they want in life. Is this what he wanted – a baby, at just nineteen himself? Somehow, Sylvia doubted it.

For some reason the girl’s face stayed with her all night, as she slept in a corner of Monique’s living room, partitioned off with a tie-dyed sarong. And it was still with her in the morning, when Evelyne picked her up in her van to drive to the festival, which she explained was being held in a disused warehouse on the edge of town. Evelyne seemed less anxious than the night before, back to being the garrulous, energetic woman Sylvia remembered from her last visit, and she was clearly excited about the event she’d spent many weeks helping to organise. They were expecting hundreds of women from all over the area, she said. There would be small group sessions devoted to divorce, to sex, to marriage issues and family life, debates on abortion and contraception and homosexuality, as well as food and music and dancing. They’d even invited a ‘self-help’ guru from California to lead a session on getting to know your body’s intimate parts and reclaiming pleasure.

‘Nothing’s taboo!’ Evelyne said breezily, and Sylvia couldn’t help but laugh at what Jim’s mother would say if she knew what her daughter-in-law was doing instead of playing the dutiful wife as Jim showed them around the new flat. The thought reminded her of everything that had changed in her life since she was last in Switzerland and she wondered if she had inadvertently let the side down by becoming a married pregnant woman, if this radical young Swiss feminist would disapprove of her slide into convention.

Evelyne seemed to read her mind. ‘Congratulations, by the way,’ she said, nodding at Sylvia’s stomach. ‘It suits you.’ To Sylvia’s relief, there was no judgement in her tone.

‘Thanks,’ she replied. ‘It wasn’t exactly planned.’

‘But at least you had a choice.’

‘Yes,’ Sylvia said, thinking of the teary-eyed young girls in the clinic and the doctor’s stern voice and her inability to go through with it. ‘I did.’

‘And you’re not sixteen.’ Evelyne sighed, and Sylvia heard the stress come back into her tone. She didn’t need another opportunity to ask more.