I take a step back and look at myself in the mirror. I’m not sure if I look like a romantic heroine, but I look like me, and that feels more important.

I glance at my watch and decide I will call in and see Ursula. There is plenty of time before my assignation with Ben and I’m quite looking forward to talking over the events of the night before with another woman.

I arrive at the summer house to find Ursula trying to set her typewriter on fire.

“You’ll need a lot more kindling if you’re going to get that to work,” I observe as she flicks another stuttering match at the smouldering embers underneath the bulky machine.

“I hate it,” Ursula storms, tossing down the matches and delivering a swift kick to the machine. This achieves little except causing a stream of expressive German as Ursula hops about clutching her toes.

“The work’s not going well, then?” I ask mildly.

Ursula glowers at me. “Do tell me, Sherlock Holmes – whatever gave you that impression?”

Turning her back on the typewriter with another muttered string of words I don’t understand, but that I’d be willing to bet my life are quite colourful expletives, she storms back to the rickety porch and pours herself a drink.

“The work is dead,” she cries dramatically.

“Oh dear,” I say.

“Oh dear,” Ursula mimics me sourly. She goes to the porch and pours herself a drink. “You English, always so cold and passionless.”

“I suppose we are.”

“Although…” A gleam flickers in her eyes and she takes a sip of her drink. “This experiment should take care of that, eh?”

I flush and she smiles.

“Don’t leave me up here drinking alone,” she says.

I make my way on to the veranda and accept the glass she pours me. Ursula settles herself in a chair and grabs a packet from the table beside her, tapping out a cigarette which she places between her lips.

“I thought you were against the whole idea of me having a romance with Ben,” I say. I hesitate. “Won’t it be painful for you? Because I would never—”

“Oh God,” Ursula says from around the unlit cigarette, “not that, I beg you.” She lights the cigarette with a flourish and inhales deeply. “I can’t bear one of those disgusting weeping scenes where we pledge not to let a man divide us.” She waves her hand in the air, leaving a thin line of smoke trailing behind.

“Well, I certainly wasn’t planning on weeping,” I say. “Were you?”

Ursula gives a reluctant bark of laughter. “No,” she says. “There will be no weeping on my part.”

“Good.” I smooth my hands over my trousers. “So, would you like to tell me why you suggested this scheme?”