‘Hard to believe, but yes.’ She laughed. ‘So now you understand that things take time to change in Switzerland, which is frustrating because there’s so much more to do – statutory maternity leave, more nurseries, equal access to education, pay equality, among other things.’ She blew out a long trail of smoke to the ceiling. ‘But it’s about far more than legislation. Fundamentally, we need these basic rights so that we can take back control of our lives. We need easy and free access to contraception and the complete decriminalisation of abortion so we can control our own bodies, and we need to smash the system that casts women as unpaid workers in the home, raising children and doing the housework, all the while being controlled by their husbands. I mean, married women here must ask their husband’s permission to have a job or a bank account, and even then all their money is under his control. Did you know that?’

Sylvia shook her head, her pen flying across the page. She hadn’t known that, but it didn’t surprise her – it was only last year that financial discrimination against women was outlawed back home. When she’d opened a bank account several years ago, the bank had required her father’s signature as well as her own.

‘So it’s more than women’s rights – it’s women’s liberation. Liberation from the male-dominated society that has been imposed upon us for centuries.’ Evelyne sighed. ‘But unfortunately,’ she went on, Sylvia realising that questions were not going to be entirely necessary in this interview, ‘with this dire economic climate, it’s women who are bearing the brunt and it’s undoing all the progress that’s been made. Women are the first to lose their jobs and get sent back to the kitchen. Well, after foreigners of course.’

Sylvia raised her eyebrows.

‘Foreigners are even less appreciated in Switzerland than women. So as a foreign woman, well, you’ve haven’t much of a hope!’ Evelyne laughed and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Come on, I’ve had enough of this place. Shall we go and get a drink?’

The air was frigid as they hurried through the cobbled streets, but the cold seemed to suit Lausanne so much better than London. Rather than bone-chillingly damp, it was dry and fresh and easily fended off with her Afghan coat and woolly hat. Nevertheless, Sylvia was glad to step into the warmth of Le Barbare, a little cafe perched on the old market steps that could have been there for centuries. It was late afternoon and the snug interior was already busy, mostly with young people, beers and cigarettes in hand. A hum of chatter and laughter was the only soundtrack, though in one corner Sylvia saw a drum kit and assorted microphones, indicating live music had been and gone, but would likely come again.