‘Oh, but that means I’ve got to go home now too.’ Dot frowned. ‘At least let me walk you part of the way.’ We walked arm in arm up George Street and Broadway, talking about Fontaine’s tiny waist and the impossibility of maintaining a figure that slim.

‘She must starve herself,’ Dot said.

‘I wish I had that sort of willpower.’

Dot lived on the other side of Victoria Park in Camperdown, so we parted at the duck pond. I felt guilty for lying to her. I wished I could have confided in her, but I thought of how it would make our family seem, and since her father worked with mine, the gossip was sure to spread. I hurried through the warm evening. The streets had that quiet of a Sunday evening, with all of the shops shut and the only sound the chatter of birds in the softening light night. Why couldn’t my dad be the sort who stayed home with his family on a Sunday evening?

I was almost at the Town Hall when I realised I had a problem. I couldn’t go into the pub on my own, as it would draw everyone’s attention, but nor could I ask one of the regulars if my dad was there. They were likely to alert him and so he’d steer clear of this lady, if she was with him. I entered the corner shop opposite the pub and asked for a pack of cigarettes, thinking I might stand outside and smoke and not look out of the ordinary. The shopkeeper greeted me and I recalled the brand of cigarettes some of the girls from work smoked.

‘I’ll take one pack of Lucky Strikes and a box of matches, please.’

He slid me the cigarettes and my change, and I headed outside, tearing back the paper and foil of the pack and pulling out a single cigarette as I went. I had smoked before, but I had never bought cigarettes for myself, had never even lit one of my own before; there had always been a man to do it for me. The sulphur smell of the match was quickly eclipsed by the rich scent of tobacco and I held the cigarette carefully between two fingers as I had learned to do, pursing my lips as I blew out the smoke. I looked up when I heard a swell of voices—the collective slur and shout as the patrons scattered into the street like a handful of marbles. There was a scrawny pepper tree outside the corner shop and I slunk behind it, keeping my eye on the door of the pub. I recognised the voices of our neighbour Bert, of Johnno from up the road and a few of Dad’s other regular companions. Their hats were askew, their jackets worn loosely over shirts that were crumpled and stained. Several recognised me and came over to greet me.

‘Good evenin’, love.’