God, this is painful. Suddenly, talking is easier than playing this tortured game of pauses and sighs. ‘Christ, Ken, it’s 1979. I’m not marrying you because I’m pregnant. Or for any other reason.’

He knows her well enough to laugh, ‘Well, good. So . . . ?’

‘I suppose I’ll get it adopted. Just thought I should check if you wanted it first.’

‘Wow.’ He sits forward, rakes his hands through his hair, which is longer than Leonie’s, falling to a ragged line at his jaw. ‘Wow. I feel like I should, but . . . I don’t feel like I can. The job, you know? And the flat’s not exactly . . . I mean, I would if I could, but it’s just not . . . it’s not feasible.’

Leonie shrugs. ‘Thought I’d ask.’

‘But hey.’ Ken pulls his wallet from his back pocket. ‘I can help you out. If you need money for – until it’s . . . done.’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Leonie says, and she hauls herself to her feet. Even the good guys can get out of these things with three minutes of looking pained and an offer of cash. Time to go and see Vee, and then she’s got a meeting about the shelters. Real work. She’s wasted enough time on Ken.

15 May 1979

15 May 1979

1 p.m.

‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ And Vee is. It’s not like her to keep people waiting; she makes a point of her promptness – earliness, even. But this morning has been different, to say the least. She just photographed her first world leader.

‘You’re too important to remember your appointments with the little people now, I suppose?’ There’s a half-drunk pint of cider on the table in front of Leonie, a whisky chaser.

‘It’s not that,’ Vee says, ‘it’s just you’re normally late. So I thought I’d be on time, if I was late.’

Leonie laughs, and gets to her feet. She embraces Vee with what feels like a hard, clinging need. ‘I had an appointment. It didn’t take as long as it might have. I’m on time by chance. You can stay cool and comfortable in your world view, baby.’

‘Thanks. I think. I’ll get us some drinks, and then I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing this morning. You’ll laugh.’