Vee nods. ‘I know that.’ She thinks of how she smiled at the security guard on their way into the Royal Albert Hall. After what she saw tonight, the insidiousness of it all, she won’t be doing that again.

‘Good.’ Leonie’s grin is back. ‘Anyway. I’m not going to come on to you, baby, you can sleep easy in your bed.’ She gets up, stretches, and kicks the pizza plate under the sofa. There are a few similar plates in the kitchen; Vee wonders if they ever make it back to the restaurant.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to write some opinions.’

‘Now? When you’re—’

‘What? Pissed? Horny?’ Leonie’s life may be cluttered but the desk beneath the window is neat. She switches on the anglepoise lamp, puts her hands flat against the desk and leans her weight down on them for a moment, head dropping. ‘Write drunk, edit sober. That’s what Hemingway said. But he was a know-nothing entitled prick so I say write any way you like, edit any way you like.’

She turns, waiting for a response.

‘I say photograph sober, develop sober,’ Vee says. She’s entitled to her work ethic.

Leonie nods. ‘Probably wise,’ and she sits down at her desk.

*

Vee is woken by the smell of frying bacon and the sound of Leonie’s loud, tuneless singing. It’s almost 10 a.m. Whether it was the wine, the thrill, the cold on the streets last night, or the lulling rumble of London traffic, she has slept like a stone. Leonie greets her with a smile, pours tea for her, and puts a plate of bacon sandwiches down on the kitchen table.

‘You were up early,’ Vee says. There are copies of the Telegraph, the Guardian and the Express on the table, along with a paper bag spilling apples and a box of Mr Kipling’s French Fancies. They’ve fast become one of Stanley’s favourites, and Vee feels a sudden ache at the thought of her father, who will be well into his Sunday morning routine now, cleaning out the fireplace and relaying it ready for later.

‘I haven’t been to bed, yet,’ Leonie says, ‘I’ll sleep later.’

Just the thought of working through the night makes Vee want to cry with a sort of empathetic tiredness. Leonie seems fine, though; there are bags under her eyes, and as usual, her hair could do with a wash. The tips of her ears poke through it, which Vee finds endearing. ‘Good writing?’

‘Best column yet,’ Leonie says, biting into a sandwich, ‘that bitch editor from yesterday is going to read it and weep.’