‘Leonie?’ Her friend turns towards her; that face so photogenic. Vee is proud, every day, that one of her photographs is Leonie’s publicity photograph, appearing small and slightly blurred next to her articles in This Month and as the main image in a piece she wrote for the Telegraph about the impact of the Equal Pay Act for all women. Leonie looks a little bit distant – she’s probably still thinking about her meeting. Vee cannot imagine how disappointing it must be to have someone reject your book, especially such a book as Leonie is writing. And she knows that once the action starts, Leonie will be full-throatedly alive – her disappointments put aside for the sake of the sisterhood.

‘Uh-huh?’

‘What do you call it . . .’ Vee makes sure not to drop her voice, because there’s no shame in asking a question about sexuality ‘. . . what do you call it when a lesbian admits it? I mean, what’s the expression?’

There’s an unhidden titter from the women sitting behind them. Leonie doesn’t turn around, but raises her right arm, lazily, rotates her hand, gives them the finger. ‘Telling other people is “coming out”. Admitting it to yourself doesn’t really have an expression. I suppose you’d call it waking up. Like, sexual awakening.’

And then the lights go down, and there’s a cheer and applause, and it begins. Vee tries to keep her critical faculties alive, remember why she’s here. She knows with all of her heart that women are more than their measurements and have easily as much potential as the men who patronise them and, knowingly or unknowingly, exploit them.

Vee is not going to be drawn into this.

She is only here to protest.

But oh, it’s captivating.

There are the lights, and the whole sparkle of it, and, when the women start to emerge, the sheer shining beauty of them. The audience, too – the way the people sound, gasps and applause, so thrilled, so excited. Plus – Vee hadn’t thought about this, really, until now – beyond this dazzling room, full of thousands of people, there’s a whole world watching.

Vee is holding her breath. She can’t take her eyes from the stage. And then, because she can’t help herself, she’s joining in the collective coo of approval when another beauty – no, not beauty, ‘woman who fits the conventional notion of beauty’ – walks onto the stage.