The festival was like nothing Sylvia had ever been to before. The large warehouse was loosely divided into different areas by makeshift walls made of cardboard boxes. Each one was dedicated to a certain issue, with participating women sitting cross-legged on the floor in a ‘circle of trust’. As Evelyne had promised, nothing was taboo, and it wasn’t long before the passionate women from the MFL had their visitors opening up about the things that were important to them: domineering husbands, medical issues that male doctors dismissed as unimportant, boredom and frustration over endless housework and child-rearing, or their inability to find a nursery place so they could get a job. Sylvia saw women break down in tears because they were pregnant and didn’t want to be, others picking up leaflets about divorce, contraception and commune living. Outside, in the car park of the warehouse, a folk band was playing while people sang and danced and laughed in the sun, and a group of young men stood talking under a tree, toddlers at their feet. Sylvia was struck by the atmosphere: one of warmth and understanding and solidarity, one where women could simply be themselves, unimpeded by society’s constraints or expectations.

If only real life was like this, she thought, her head conjuring a picture of Roger’s face when he took the Warburton interview off her; Jim’s voice when he said you’re going to have to give up your job anyway. If only everything wasn’t such a fight all the time.

The festival over, Evelyne wanted to relax the next day, so they didn’t go far in her van that Sunday. Lutry was a pretty medieval village just a short drive from Lausanne, and by mid-morning it was already full of people strolling along the lakeside, swimming, eating ice cream, making the most of the good weather. It was probably as hot as London – Evelyne had told her the drought was proving as damaging to Swiss farming as it was in the UK – but it felt different out here, without the airless smog and the bitter tang of exhaust fumes, with the breeze from the lake and the clear, clean water to dip toes into.

After everything Evelyne had told her about Anna, Sylvia yearned to talk to the girl directly – but she couldn’t. Anna didn’t speak English or much French, and Sylvia’s very basic school German wasn’t going to get her very far. So, with the two of them sitting together on the grass, while Daniel and Evelyne walked along the lakeshore, deep in serious conversation, Sylvia felt stymied – and she was sure Anna was feeling the same. The girl was looking at her, a shy smile on her face. She put her hand on her stomach, then pointed to Sylvia before making a thumbs up. Sylvia laughed, nodded, gestured back. ‘Okay?’