‘Why do I look so young?’ she thought crossly. ‘And why am I so fat?’

She removed the mirror from the wall, examining the full breasts, wide hips and sturdy legs which went purple and mottled in cold weather, and which fortunately today were hidden by black boots.

‘It’s a typical North Country figure,’ she thought gloomily, ‘built to withstand howling winds and an arctic climate.’

During her last year at school she had been unceasingly ragged for weighing eleven stone. Now, two years later, she had lost over two stone, but still felt herself to be fat and unattractive.

Her younger sister, Juliet, was waiting for her as she came out of the library. Far more fashion-conscious than Imogen, she was wearing drainpipe pedal pushers, brilliant coloured glove socks, and a papier mâché ice cream cornet pinned to her huge sloppy pink sweater. A tiny leather purse swung from her neck, and her blonde curls blew in the wind as she circled round and round on her bicycle like a vulture.

‘There you are, Imogen. For goodness’ sake, hurry! Beresford’s on court already and he’s bound to win in straight sets. Did you bring Fanny Hill?’

‘Blast! I forgot,’ said Imogen, turning back.

‘Oh, leave it,’ said Juliet. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ And she set off down the cobbled streets, pedalling briskly.

‘What’s his name again?’ said Imogen, panting beside her.

‘I’ve told you a million times — Beresford. N. Beresford. I hope the “N” doesn’t stand for Norman or anything ghastly. Mind you, he could get away with it. I’ve never seen anyone so divine!’

Last week, Imogen reflected, Juliet had been distraught with love for Rod Stewart, the week before for Georgie Best.