Florence and Mary wanted to hear every last detail about the film, the costumes, the hotel I was living in, the restaurants and nightclubs, the cars I had ridden in. They wanted to hear everything I could tell them about London. Florence, who had flung my fox fur around her neck the moment I took it off, demanded an exact description of the West End shop that had sold it to me. Mary asked me if the trains really went under the ground, or was that only in the pictures? They were so excited that they kept interrupting each other, their words tumbling out in a torrent. But both of them sat silent, their attention riveted, when I told them about David.

“So you’re walking out with the director?” asked Mary incredulously. “I bet they’re all jealous, aren’t they?”

“Not exactly, no.” Satisfying though her interest was, I did not wish to exaggerate. “David does not wish to have it discussed. He can’t stand gossip, he says, so I’m not sure how much the others know about—”

“Has he kissed you?” interrupted Mary.

“Oh, yes.”

“Properly, she means,” added Florence.

I couldn’t help smiling. In the world of Haverth girls, “properly” meant “improperly”. “Oh, yes,” I said again. “And he’s taken me to dinner loads of times, and he bought me this.” I drew back my cuff and showed them the gold and emerald bracelet. “It’s my Christmas present, a little early, he said.”

Mary was enchanted, but Florence hardened her features and studied me. “How old is he?”

“I’m not sure. Twenty-five or twenty six?”

“So he’s very successful, then. For his age, I mean. Must have rich parents.”

“Perhaps.” The idea that David might have parents, rich or otherwise, had never entered my consciousness. He never spoke of them, and since his whole demeanour was that of an entirely adult man, at ease in society, I had never thought to question how he had achieved this. “And he’s clever,” I added. “And makes films that people like. So investors give him money to make more films, and the films make money for him, and that’s how it works.”

“I see,” said Flo. “So how did he get into this pictures business in the first place?”

“I don’t know, Flo,” I told her truthfully. “We’ve hardly had time to discover every little thing about each other’s lives, you know.”

“I bet you haven’t,” she said airily. “Too busy doing something else! You know what people say about actresses, don’t you?”

“Flo!” scolded Mary. Her colour rising, she turned to me in concern. “Don’t listen to her, Sarah. She’s only jealous. Actresses these days are nothing like … you know.”

I sighed. “It’s all right. Flo doesn’t mean I’m the nearest thing to a prostitute, she means that people with old-fashioned ideas might think I am. Right, Flo?”

Florence did not reply.

“And anyway,” I continued, “David’s not like that at all. He’s the loveliest man you could ever hope to meet, and I’m the luckiest girl in the world because he cares for me.”

“Let’s hope he does,” said Florence. She took off my fur and handed it back, her face inscrutable. “It’s obvious you care for him. But you know, Sair, when Bobby Pritchard went out with Glenys Harding behind my back, when I was sure he was my true love, my mam said to me, ‘The heart can be mistaken.’”