She spent the night in bursts of restless sleep and wakefulness, images of angry red slogans and steam rising from the fondue pot and Daniel’s bitter smile merging into some strange triptych in her mind. The next morning she ditched the suit for a pair of flared jeans, a turtle neck and a purple bobble hat her mother had crocheted for her, and arrived back at the flat at 9am when Evelyne and the girls – and Daniel, she was surprised to see – were loading banners into a battered old van.

‘Right, everybody in!’ Evelyne said.

‘Wait!’ Nina tugged her arm. ‘This is an important day in the life of the MFL. We need a photo. Here,’ she thrust a camera at Daniel. ‘You take it.’

They lined up in front of the building, insisting that Sylvia be included, and smiled as Daniel snapped a couple of shots, his expression impenetrable behind the camera.

There was a boisterous atmosphere in the van on the way, and when they arrived in the Swiss capital, Sylvia could tell they were all desperate to get out and march. They parked near the train station and Sylvia took her share of the equipment from the van, slung her bag over her shoulder and followed the others into Bern’s Old Town. They’d passed the famed Röstigraben linguistic border somewhere near Fribourg, and here felt like another country entirely, even though they were only forty or so miles away from Lausanne. All the street signs were in German, and the architecture was darker and more austere than Lausanne’s pastel shutters and wrought-iron balconies. Here, the centuries-old stone houses had tiny attic windows, umber roof tiles and gargoyles. Trolley buses rattled up and down worn cobbles, while on each side of the street covered walkways protected pedestrians from the light snow that was falling languorously from the grey sky. Sylvia adjusted her hat over her ears and looked up, feeling the snowflakes on her face with an unexpected sense of joy.

Soon, the street opened out into a large rectangular space lined with cafes. They turned right and reached another square dominated by the Swiss parliament, an imposing building with columns on its facade and a domed roof. On one side of the square, a small stage had been set up, decorated with banners. People were milling about, some holding signs, others just standing in small groups talking and laughing. There was a visceral hum in the air, a collective energy building up as everyone waited for something to happen.

Mon corps, mon choix! she read on one banner. ‘My body, my choice!’ Avortement – oui! said another. ‘Abortion – yes!’