Vee will have to use flash tonight, and it’s not her preferred approach. It never feels quite right to her. It’s not so bad using it indoors, when she has time to set up, to place reflectors and bounce the sharp explosion of light from the flashbulb away from the subject, and back again: she can control for harshness. Tonight won’t be like that. But the important thing is that she will be there and she will be making a record of what women can do. (Once you realise you’re living in a world designed for white men, you see discrimination, assumption, everywhere. Leonie says she and the others don’t see the half of it, either, because they’re white women, and that protects them from a lot of what’s going down for other sisters.)

The last time Leonie and Vee saw each other was three months ago, at the first Women’s Liberation Movement meeting. Vee had felt for the first time as if she belonged among the women she saw around her. They were all so different – races, ages, colours, roles in the world. But what they had in common was that they all knew they deserved their places. None of them was better than the other. Each deserved a chance, equal with each other, equal with the men. It had been a buzz. A high.

She’d stayed over at Leonie’s flat that night, gone home the next day with a sick hangover and a determination to do more photojournalism. (She’d said yes to the beer, passed on the joint.) But Leonie has been quiet since – no notes scribbled on the back of fliers, shoved in envelopes and posted to her – and Vee has not yet worked out how to do the job she wants to do without her friend. So it’s been back to weddings and christenings, and wishing she had the courage to take smiling brides aside and say: remember you have power of your own.

The cafe door opens. Vee’s heart gives a glad leap. It always does, when she sees Leonie.

‘Hey, sister,’ Leonie says, and hugs Vee, tight. She smells of lavender, as usual, and there is cold air coming off her. She sits, then puts her head in her hands for a moment before looking up with a smile. Only a small one. ‘Meeting went on.’

Leonie never apologises. Vee isn’t sure if it’s personality, rudeness, posh-girl confidence, or being liberated. ‘That’s OK,’ she says.

‘How are you?’