‘Twinnie—’

Winnie put the book on her lap, and resumed eating, very fast.

‘Twinnie, it’s absolutely not about you.’

‘Except we’ve got exactly the same name, almost.’

‘That’s just a coincidence. Her lover’s the only one who calls her that.’

‘She’s fat.’

‘She’s not.’

‘So “cushioned” means “thin”, does it?’

‘No, it means “voluptuous”. And she’s having an affair with a married man, which I’m sure you’re not.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Well—’

‘You don’t know, because, as you pointed out, I don’t tell you anything, and thank God I don’t. Do you want that soup, because I’m not staying for the second course?’

Without receiving an answer, she swapped the bowl with her plate, and started spooning up the lukewarm contents.

‘The thing is,’ she said, between mouthfuls, ‘whatever you say, everyone will think it’s about me.’

‘Twinnie—’

‘Don’t call me that, please. I must have asked you about fifty times not to. And this isn’t actually very nice soup. I’m glad I’m not paying for it.’ She dropped the spoon with a clatter and stood up, the book in one hand and a certain amount of consommé de bœuf on her sweater. Avril looked up at her with amused wariness, as if observing a drunk on the Tube.

‘I wanted to tell you that Clive’s going to host a little New Year’s Eve party to celebrate the publication,’ she said. ‘I do hope you’ll come, and I also hope you’ll read it, and find out that there’s really nothing to get so annoyed about.’

Winnie’s snort made even the pianist falter. Resisting the urge to lean across the table and slap her sister, she walked away, the feeling of justified outrage propelling her up the stairs and out of the restaurant, and then bathetically back into it again, since she’d forgotten her coat and hat.

A wind like an Alaskan river was sweeping along the road and she leaned into it, re-running the conversation in a vehement mutter and this time trouncing Avril with a series of crisp responses that left her twin both defeated and apologetic. ‘I’ve been so dreadfully thoughtless,’ said Avril, tears in her eyes. ‘At last – something we can agree on!’ rapped out Winnie, rather like Gertrude Lawrence in Private Lives. ‘Yes, Avril has the cruellest mouth,’ she added, cleverly, turning her head to see the reaction of the other diners and instead meeting the alarmed eye of a small boy pushing a pram.

‘Hello,’ she said, attempting to rearrange her expression into something more friendly. ‘I hope your baby’s wrapped up warm.’ He broke into a wordless sprint and passed her at speed; the pram was full of coal.

‘Oh, damn,’ she said, recalling the dreary agenda for the meeting she would be having with the sector fire-chief, later in the afternoon. The inadequate night supervision of the local emergency coal dump was the second item, preceded by a discussion on what to do about the static water tanks in the district – they were all frozen solid and local children would keep breaking through the wire and sliding on them. And then there was next month’s shift schedule to draw up, and a letter to write to the council about shelter sanitation, and she could feel her adult-self reassembling, the pieces bolting together, armour covering the raging, skinless goblin she became when she was with Avril. ‘Just laugh at her,’ Winnie’s friend Elsie had once urged. ‘Laugh right in her silly mush, tell her you don’t care what she thinks of you.’