‘What have I got wrong? Baby? Got rid of?’ Vee slides a look at her watch. They need to leave in an hour, at the most. It’s going to be a long evening in more ways than one. Leonie is bound to want to go to the after-party. Vee’s not a great one for the theatre, or parties, come to that, but this will be her first cover shoot and she feels as though she should make the most of the evening. She’d like there to be time for photographs outside the theatre, before it gets too busy. She doesn’t really know how famous Alison Steadman is. She’s well known enough to be on the cover of a magazine. Hopefully, anonymous enough still to stand in the street, the corner of a poster for the show in shot.

‘Paul might be the genetic father of the foetus I aborted. He might not. I don’t know and I don’t care.’

‘Well,’ Vee says, and then doesn’t really know what to add. She stands up, thinks about wiping the table down, but the mood Leonie’s in, she’d probably get a lecture on not subjugating herself.

‘It was only an abortion. And mine. You’d think it had been you, the way you’ve gone on about it. I couldn’t care less.’

Leonie had cared, very much, on the day of the abortion, holding tight to Vee’s hand, tears in her eyes. It could have just been the physical pain. Leonie would say she has no right to assume anything else. But the not washing, the constant eating, in the three weeks since would suggest a deeper misery.

‘We need to leave at six. Do you want to have a shower before I use the bathroom?’

‘Where are we going?’

Vee sighs. She knows Leonie knows this. ‘Hampstead Theatre. A play. Abigail’s Party.’ Leonie hates public transport with a passion, so she adds, ‘I’m driving. I’m photographing one of the actresses for This Month.’

A sigh, out-of-proportion deep. ‘That’s tonight?’

‘Yes.’

That shake of the head that Vee is so familiar with. ‘I don’t think I can, Vee. I’m not up to it. You know.’

If Vee doesn’t say something there’s a risk she will bite through her tongue. ‘You said you’d come. I could have asked someone else but you said you wanted to come.’

Leonie shrugs. ‘I have to read this,’ she says, putting her hand on a book that’s been sitting on the kitchen table for a week, a proof copy of something called The Women’s Room. ‘I’m reviewing it for Spare Rib.’