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opposite sides of the room. It looked so obvious. Celia had already regained her composure as she turned from the window through which she’d apparently been staring at the cold grey sky with its fine drizzle, her greeting far too bright to be convincing.
    ‘Oh, hello there, dear! What a terrible day. I do hope it won’t be like this for Race’s fireworks on Saturday. I suppose we all do, don’t you?’
    ‘Are you comfortable in your room?’ Millie replied coldly, ignoring the false friendliness.
    ‘Oh, yes, very,’ Celia answered readily. ‘And thank you so much for putting me up. Race should have told you he was asking me back here for a few days beforehand, but it was all on the spur of the moment. I really hope you don’t mind.’
    ‘Why should I mind?’ It was a challenge rather than a palliative, but Celia gave a sweetly innocent smile.
    ‘I’m so glad,’ she said easily as she came across to the door, touching Millie’s arm in a friendly fashion as she passed. ‘I think I will just go to my room and freshen up before lunch.’
    To Millie’s mind, the way she said it made it sound as if it was her own room to lay claim to, permanently.
    Moments later Race followed her, passing Millie without a word to leave her standing alone in the lounge, staring at the spot where the two of them had so noticeably sprung away from each other, each hoping that she hadn’t noticed.
    Had they been kissing? She was sure they had, the girl’s lips lifted to his, bodies close so that he would have felt the firm lift of her breasts, she aware of his hips, his groin maybe? Had he been aroused?
    The thought made her feel sick. All she wanted to do was leave this house, leave him. But where would she go? Back to the East End where she had always been comfortable? It was what she would have liked to do, and she was sure one of her old neighbours would have taken her in. Except that she would have to explain herself to them and she didn’t think she could bring herself to do that – airing her dirty washing!
    It came to her that she had never been that happy here, not from the very start. The place was too rambling, too posh. She didn’t enjoy having a cook, Mrs Dunhill, from the village coming in every day to cook for them and do a bit of housework as well. Cook-General, Race called her, him trying to be posh, stupid old twerp! But it left Millie with nothing much to do. True, she’d never been given to housework and the place in London had usually been a mess, but here she felt a need to occupy herself, if only with housework or a bit of cooking. Now that even this was denied her, she felt it. She was bored.
    And all these parties – she’d been brought up to simpler things. Her idea of enjoying herself had been going to the pub with friends or to the pictures a couple of times a week. Then they’d been silent films. She’d only seen a couple of talkies before Race came into all that money and spoiled her life.
    Yes, she missed going to the pictures every Tuesday and Friday night. She missed the Saturday matinees at The People’s Palace or the Palladium up West. She missed sitting in the local of an evening with a few half pints of stout, with friends of her own sort who knew how to enjoy themselves, joining in a sing-song, all the old tunes. Then popping into the fried fish shop on the way home for a tuppenny bit of cod and a penn’orth of chips, eating it out of newspaper, trying to read the oil-soaked print as she did so, fingers all greasy, the acrid tang of vinegar assailing her nostrils – eating it off a plate came nowhere near the same joy – or buying a plate of cockles or whelks from the cockle stall outside the pub itself, swapping rude jokes while they sprinkled salt and pepper and vinegar over the chewy, juicy shellfish. Later, having married, she and her friends would pop into each other’s houses for a cuppa and a natter and talk about their husbands.
    Since moving here all that was gone. If she