It was a long time since she’d been to a party like this, and she could feel her current self, the Winnie who drew up orders and joshed with colleagues, begin to slough away; how many times, as a gauche drama student, had she stood in just this position, sucking in her stomach and attempting to laugh at the same time as everybody else? That was exactly what she’d been doing on the night she’d met her husband; she could recall, suddenly, the taste of cheap sherry, and the dawning realization that the nice-looking young chap with the Labour Party badge was gazing at her and at no one else, and the precision of the memory seemed to jog something within her, so that she felt an unexpected shiver of the heart-strings, accompanied by a very definite sensation at crotch-level – a pleasurable tug – that made her shift and blush, though no one was looking at her. She had almost forgotten Emlyn as a solid being, awkward but gentle, his cold feet, the oddly biscuity smell of his hair, his ticklish middle: she’d been able to tease him into a defensive ball of arms and bony knees, begging for mercy. He’d kissed nicely, too. Last year, after a Civil Defence Social Night, she’d experienced the damp-lipped vacuum suck of the Chief Officer of Haringey Heavy Rescue, who had wanted to thank her very much indeed for her help in putting away the chairs, and it had roused nothing in her apart from the desire for a handkerchief. What if she turned her head now, and saw Emlyn?

She turned her head and saw Avril, svelte in a silver-grey dress, a fuchsia silk bow at her neck.

‘Twinnie! I’ve been looking for you – where have you been? This is my sister, everybody.’ The adjacent conversations stopped abruptly, and Winnie could almost feel the gazes shuttling between herself and Avril; Maxwell’s expression was one of baffled pique. Bet he wished he’d asked me some questions now, thought Winnie.

‘Come with me,’ said Avril, grabbing her hand and leading her back through the crowd. ‘Have you had a drink?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have another.’ She plucked a glass from a waiter’s tray and passed it to Winnie. ‘Clive’s raided the family cellars. I wish you’d said you needed a new dress, I could have weaselled one out of Saks, the head of gowns is a friend of mine.’

‘What’s wrong with this one?’ asked Winnie.

‘Nothing’s wrong, darling, it just looks as if you climbed into a box in 1937 and have only just found your way out. Come and stand here.’ She halted beside the empty Adam fireplace at the end of the room, and patted the mantelpiece, as if expecting Winnie to clamber up and perch on the end.

‘Why here?’

‘Because I want you to be able to hear my speech. Though my editor’s going to say something first.’ Under her words came the repeated pinging of metal on glass, and the roar of conversation gradually diminished, until only one querulous, elderly voice was still audible – ‘of course what we weren’t allowed to say was that Virginia was an ABSOLUTE BITCH … What’s the matter? Oh …’