I blush, grateful for the compliment. Despite all the talks we have had about the need for self-fulfillment and the hypocrisy of convention, I am still not used to our separate arrangements. I ask the question I dread.

“Will the goat be at the party?” At the mention of your nickname, Clive pulls away. In the mirror I see him frown.

“She is certainly invited. That doesn’t mean she will come, of course. She’s quite the celebrity these days. Everybody wants to know her.”

I watch Clive concentrate on his cuff links. I am not fooled by his apparent indifference. I decide to delve a little deeper.

“Did I tell you she was certain Quentin would be a girl? I said I’d call her Clarissa if she were. She seemed to like that.”

I bite my tongue. I have dared to mention you and the baby in the same breath. To my surprise, Clive grins.

“She showed me a story she had written a few weeks ago that had a woman called Clarissa in it. I would be careful if I were you.”

Clive loops a twist of my hair that has fallen loose back into place. I reach up and touch his hand. He gives me a reassuring pat.

“Well, see you tomorrow.”

As I watch the door close behind him I am seized with a sudden panic. I know that even if I call him back he will not come. I remind myself that I must not stifle him, that if I want to keep him I must allow him to be free. I stare at myself in the mirror. Mother’s necklace shimmers and sparkles in the glass. I unhook it and lay it carefully in its box. I wind a silk scarf round my throat. Then I go downstairs to meet Roger.