She’d been a subject of that gossip – maybe she still was, because not everyone had come round and was friendly now – the woman half her husband’s age who’d wrecked a happy marriage. And if she’d done it once, she could do it again. Especially in the unnatural circumstances of where they were and how they lived, crammed together in constant contact. Bloody hypocrites. She’d seen the flirtations and guessed the affairs and those she hadn’t guessed had soon been reported, on the gossip-mill. At least she and Eddie had been honest. Refused to lie and confronted all the consequences: the bitterness and the recriminations and the nastiness – God, the nastiness! – which was more than any of them were doing.

Ann abandoned the unnecessary dusting, sitting in a chair – forward, on the edge, not relaxed – arriving at another ritual, the increasing (daily almost) reflection of what that honesty had cost. She told Eddie and Eddie told her that each had expected to happen what had happened but she knew that wasn’t true. She certainly hadn’t anticipated her family’s reaction. She knew they’d be upset, obviously – they couldn’t be anything else. But she’d thought they would have come round to accepting the situation by now, not gone on behaving like some parody of Victorian rectitude, practically refusing any longer to acknowledge her existence. Whenever her mother wrote, which was only ever in response to her letters, never initiating any correspondence herself, there was always the conclusion involving her father – ‘Daddy sends his regards’ – but Ann knew that was a lie and that her father had done nothing of the sort. And what father sent his regards, for God’s sake! It wasn’t a parody of Victorian rectitude: it was Victorian rectitude. And it was hurtful and unnecessary and cruel and was one of the reasons – one of the main reasons – why she was so miserable.

She looked across the room at the drinks tray and then at her watch and then at the drinks tray again and decided against it, pleased at her control.