‘I don’t know if I should. It doesn’t matter. It can wait.’ He gave his fake smile, the one she had seen a million times when he was placating their mum or listening for the umpteenth time to one of Nanny Pat’s stories.

‘For fuck’s sake, it does matter! Just say it! How much worse could things be for me right now?’

‘Is there any chance . . . I mean, I feel awkward saying this, but—’ He swallowed, and she saw him trying to draw moisture into his mouth, as if nerves had left him dry.

‘For the love of God, Philip, either say it or leave!’ Her reaction came, she knew, from a combination of tiredness and pure distress and, like most things about her day, was instantly regrettable.

He took a deep breath and clenched his fists, as if it took all of his strength to say the words out loud. ‘Do you think you might . . . I mean, is there any chance’ – he paused – ‘that you could be pregnant?’

Bessie actually laughed, a rounded snort of laughter at the absolute absurdity of his suggestion. His words were like a fist to the gut. She sat back on the floor and racked her brains, trying to remember when she had had her last period. She pictured walking into the office at the back of the changing rooms at Westminster Lodge and explaining to Mrs Brown that she couldn’t go swimming . . . When was that? And had she had a period since? She couldn’t remember! And the harder she tried, the sicker she felt and the more terrified – When was my period? When was it? She placed a hand on her forehead. It was this one small detail that might have put her mind at rest, and yet it evaded her. Her spine seemed to go soft. Please, God, please do not let me be pregnant. I would rather die!

A crack of lightning made her and Philip jump.

‘Thunder,’ he smiled, as if trying to reassure her, as a low, rumbling groan came from the heavens. He walked over to the window, where the driving rain had begun to hit the glass, larruping the side of the house at a fierce angle. Bessie started to laugh, her giggle quickly turning closer to hysteria, as she realised that the rain would wash away the splat of vomit down the front of the house. She wished with every fibre of her being that she had not sent that prayer out into the universe, beyond petrified that prayers might be rationed and it had been her one request used up. She knew her parents would be a lot less bothered by a streak of Cinzano vomit on their brickwork than they would by an illegitimate baby. Lawrence Paulson’s illegitimate baby. Lawrence Paulson, who was apparently in love with Michelle, the girl for whom he had made a mixtape.

‘Philip.’ Her voice was tiny. ‘I am really, really scared.’