Vee knows she owes Leonie a lot. And she feels bad, watching her struggle for exposure for her writing, for an audience. The monthly column was meant to be a starting point, but it’s all Leonie has. Vee cannot imagine why. Plus, there was the abortion. Leonie insists that an abortion is – should be – nothing, but Vee isn’t so sure.

So Vee has done her best to be helpful, patient, sympathetic, within the bounds of what Leonie will allow. But that doesn’t mean she can’t stand up for herself when she needs to. And it doesn’t mean that she can’t be hurt, furious, in her turn.

Leonie sits down at the kitchen table. Without turning round, Vee can visualise the movements that go with the sounds: the scrape of the chair pulled out, the thump of sitting down, the sigh. ‘They weren’t that important, though, were they? I mean, the brilliant Veronica Moon doesn’t develop her own photos these days, does she?’

Breathe, Vee, don’t take the bait. ‘Just because the photographs I develop here are non-commissioned, it doesn’t mean they don’t matter. You of all people should know that.’

Leonie makes a half grunt of agreement. Her continuing failure to get her more radical work published has worn her down. Though she doesn’t see it a failure of her own, but of the establishment, and Vee thinks she is probably right. She reads everything Leonie writes, before she sends it off to wherever it’s going. She rarely makes suggestions. She mostly admires. But she does it sincerely. And she knows that’s what Leonie wants. Not as an ego trip – just confirmation that her words work. They call it the Doolittle test. Vee doesn’t mind. Sometimes her test for photographs is, ‘Would Barry recognise this subject if he saw this shot?’

The sink cannot be any cleaner. And it’s too tiring to keep this argument going, because what’s done is done. It’s seven years – longer than some marriages – since she moved in and they know how arguments end. Leonie never backs down. So Vee changes the subject.

She turns and smiles, pulls out the chair opposite Leonie’s. ‘Who was he, anyway?’

‘Who?’ Something else Vee has learned: Leonie is not graceful in victory.

‘The idiot who opened the darkroom door.’

Leonie shrugs. ‘Paul. I met him at Fen’s last year. You missed it, because you were selling your soul to the patriarchy, again.’

Ignore, ignore. ‘I think I was photographing David Steel.’

‘Like I said.’

Oh, for crying out loud. ‘He’s the new leader of the Liberal Party and he got the Abortion Act through Parliament. He’s hardly Hugh Hefner.’

‘Would you actually turn that job down? Or just put your bunny ears on and take the shot?’