‘The body of one too.’ Gales of laughter followed.

‘You two are awful. Her face is actually quite attractive – she has great big eyes and lovely skin. And her hair’s a lovely colour.’

Veronica snorted. ‘Her skin will be like leather after a few months here. She spent hours sitting out on deck on the ship out here. I’d be amazed if Dougie can manage to get it up for her.’

Evie was shaking with anger. What should she do? Stay hidden and hope they hadn’t noticed that one of the cubicles was occupied? Or brave it out and shame them? On a sudden impulse, and unable to stand the sniggering, she flushed the lavatory and pushed the door open. She had nothing to be ashamed of. Better to face down the three witches than cower in a corner herself.

Veronica was sitting on a chintz-covered armchair, her cigarette holder in one hand. Her eyebrows rose a fraction as she registered Evie’s presence but she made no other sign of acknowledgement. The drawling woman, a redhead, whom Evie remembered was called Dolly something, was perched on top of the dressing-table unit that ran along one wall, her legs swinging like a pendulum. The third woman, who’d been introduced as Flora Davenport, a petite blonde with narrow cat-like eyes and a tiny mouth, was standing in front of the mirrors, applying lipstick.

Evie could hear their collective intake of breath. Saying nothing, she moved over to the basins and washed her hands, taking her time and relishing the embarrassed silence. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dolly slither down from her perch while Flora appeared frozen in front of the mirror, the application of her lipstick forgotten.

From her corner seat, Veronica was the first to speak. ‘As I was just saying, Evie, you must come and join us in our next tennis game. Rowena’s ankle won’t be mended for some time yet so you could make up our four for doubles. You do play don’t you?’ Her tone conveyed the impression that she thought it unlikely.

Evie had been captain of the school tennis team and was a frequent winner of house and school tournaments. ‘Tennis isn’t my cup of tea,’ she lied. Without a backward glance she left the room.

Avoiding the gathering in what was designated the Small Drawing Room, Evie slipped through an open full-length window into the garden. Apart from a few people playing croquet on the lawns at the side of the building, there was no one outside in the grounds of the club. Brimming with hurt pride and suppressed rage, she settled herself on a wooden bench under a palm tree.

She must be the laughing stock of the club and probably half of George Town. It was obvious that in this narrow expatriate society, rumour and gossip spread like sparks in a tinder pile. Were the women right about her? Was she so unappealing that her new husband would probably have to shut his eyes and think of England in order to fulfil his marital obligations? Even here, alone and unobserved, her face still burned and her eyes stung with tears she was determined not to shed.