When Leonie heard how Vee had left her job, after Dagenham, she had been that friend to Vee in her turn. Vee had written her a letter, tried to make the argument with her boss sound funny, and as though she hadn’t minded being told to stay in her place. She’d left out the part about her dad going to see Bob behind her back and asking him to give her another chance, or Barry’s ‘maybe it’s for the best’ attitude. Leonie had seen through her bravado and written back to say she should come and have lunch with her and they would see what they could do. She had put money in the envelope for her train fare. Vee thinks the official word for this sort of thing is ‘patronage’. Leonie says sisters help their sisters, and it’s just what men have been doing for each other always, and that’s how the patriarchy keeps itself strong. Vee’s father calls it ‘it’s not what you know, it’s who you know’, which Vee thinks is unfair. Because Leonie wouldn’t be much use to her – or she to Leonie – if she couldn’t take a decent photograph. Leonie had introduced her around, and she’s always the one who’s invited to take photographs at protests, meetings and marches. She doesn’t get paid for being there but she sometimes gets published: her photographs, grainy, in The Times and the Daily Express, make her the happiest she has been, and the fees puff her up with pride.

‘I’m going to write my next column about makeup, perception of beauty, how we should be enough without being expected to slap all that on our faces,’ Leonie says, and Vee thinks guiltily of the lipstick in the bottom of her bag. Old habits die hard, but she’s learning, sometimes the hard way. She wore a skirt to one of the first marches Leonie took her to. Leonie didn’t seem to notice, but another woman hissed at her. She always wears jeans now, when she’s going to do something with the women. She’s bought some dungarees but she doesn’t feel brave enough – or maybe qualified enough – to go out in them yet. She nods. Leonie adds, ‘So if you get any shots of anything I can use—’

‘I’ll give you first pick.’ Vee holds up her camera, grins. She loves the thought that she is going to be here, for this, and has a shiver of anxiety that adds to the excitement. She indicates her camera bag. ‘I’m ready.’

Leonie laughs. Her moods come and go, fast flares of misery and brightness. The trick is to take each one as it comes. ‘You call that ready?’ She opens her handbag – it’s bigger than the one she usually carries, more old-fashioned, plain black leather with a metal zip across the top – and Vee peers inside.