Daisy was looking through her closet for an outfit Eva could wear to the beach picnic. Eva was not a pretty girl, and the frills and bows that decorated many of Daisy’s clothes only made Eva look frumpy. Stripes better suited her strong features.

Eva’s hair was dark, and her eyes deep brown. ‘You can wear bright colours,’ Daisy told her.

Eva had few clothes of her own. Her father, a Jewish doctor in Berlin, had spent his life savings to send her to America, and she had arrived a year ago with nothing. A charity paid for her to go to Daisy’s boarding school – they were the same age, nineteen. But Eva had nowhere to go in the summer vacation, so Daisy had impulsively invited her home.

At first Daisy’s mother, Olga, had resisted. ‘Oh, but you’re away at school all year – I so look forward to having you to myself in the summer.’

‘She’s really great, Mother,’ Daisy had said. ‘She’s charming and easygoing and a loyal friend.’

‘I suppose you feel sorry for her because she’s a refugee from the Nazis.’

‘I don’t care about the Nazis, I just like her.’

‘That’s fine, but does she have to live with us?’

‘Mother, she has nowhere else to go!’

As usual, Olga let Daisy have her way in the end.

Now Eva said: ‘Snobs? No one would be snobby to you!’

‘Oh, yes, they would.’

‘But you’re so pretty and vivacious.’

Daisy did not bother to deny it. ‘They hate that about me.’

‘And you’re rich.’

It was true. Daisy’s father was wealthy, her mother had inherited a fortune, and Daisy herself would come into money when she was twenty-one. ‘It doesn’t mean a thing. In this town it’s about how long you’ve been rich. You’re nobody if you work. The superior people are those who live on the millions left by their great-grandparents.’ She spoke in a tone of gay mockery to hide the resentment she felt.

Eva said: ‘And your father is famous!’

‘They think he’s a gangster.’

Daisy’s grandfather, Josef Vyalov, had owned bars and hotels. Her father, Lev Peshkov, had used the profits to buy ailing vaudeville theatres and convert them into cinemas. Now he owned a Hollywood studio, too.

Eva was indignant on Daisy’s behalf. ‘How can they say such a thing?’

‘They believe he was a bootlegger. They’re probably right. I can’t see how else he made money out of bars during Prohibition. Anyway, that’s why Mother will never be invited to join the Buffalo Ladies’ Society.’

They both looked at Olga, sitting on Daisy’s bed, reading the Buffalo Sentinel. In photographs taken when she was young, Olga was a willowy beauty. Now she was dumpy and drab. She had lost interest in her appearance, though she shopped energetically with Daisy, never caring how much she spent to make her daughter look fabulous.

Olga looked up from the newspaper to say: ‘I’m not sure they mind your father being a bootlegger, dear. But he’s a Russian immigrant, and on the rare occasions he decides to attend divine service, he goes to the Russian Orthodox church on Ideal Street. That’s almost as bad as being Catholic.’