As they headed towards the door, Eustace told her that the house next door was once the home of Frederick and Norman Warne. She must have looked slightly bewildered because he added, ‘They published Beatrix Potter, you know.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m full of useless information like that!’

There were several people working on different projects in the studio and they seemed a little surprised to see her. Milly was introduced to a few but quickly forgot their names. The leading light was Stanley Richardson, a man who had apparently had a number of his paintings hung in the smarter London galleries.

‘Eustace tells me that you are an artist,’ he said. ‘Have you had any exhibitions?’

Milly shook her head. ‘My portfolio is a little thin at the moment,’ she confessed. ‘I studied for two years at Worthing School of Art and Science under Principal Salt,’ she said, ‘but since I left I’ve been working as a window-dresser in several large department stores.’

‘A window-dresser?’ Stanley seemed taken aback.

His tone was such that Milly flushed with embarrassment.

‘She’s frightfully good,’ said Eustace. ‘In great demand in both Worthing and Brighton.’ Stanley excused himself and went back to his easel. Milly felt like a fish out of water. She shouldn’t have come. She didn’t belong here, that much had been made very clear.

At Eustace’s invitation, Milly glanced over Stanley’s shoulder. The painting he was working on was rather confusing. In the centre was a woman’s face, but the eyes were missing, and the top of her head ended just above her eyebrows. The woman’s chin rested on a barrel and her left foot (missing the big toe) was emerging from the ground beside her. The sky was blood red as if it were sunset. As he picked up his paintbrush again, Stanley began working on the face of a clock in the top right-hand corner of the canvas. As she watched, he painted the two hands of the clock to say ten past five.

Milly was dying to ask what the picture represented but, after Stanley’s icy reception, she didn’t dare.

‘Roland old boy, said Eustace, moving on, ‘I’d like you to meet Milly. Milly, this is Roland Rotherford-Smuts.’

She shook hands with the tall, distinguished-looking man with deep-set eyes and dark slicked-back hair.

Roland’s painting was far more recognisable because he was painting a model who lay in a relaxed position on a couch on the other side of the room. Her name was Wanda and, as soon as she spoke, Milly knew she was an American. Her face was familiar but it wasn’t until a little while later that she realised that the face in Stanley’s picture and Roland’s work was one and the same.

Roland and Wanda took a break and shared some tea with Milly and Eustace.

Watching the artists at work fuelled Milly’s desire to pick up her paintbrush again. It had been ages since she’d had the time to paint.

‘What sort of art do you do?’ asked Wanda, as she joined them at the table.

‘Nothing as avant-garde as this,’ said Milly. ‘Landscapes mostly, but I also enjoy painting wildlife. I’m fascinated by anything in the natural world which can make itself look like something else; for instance, a stick insect that looks like a twig or a deer that blends so well with its natural surroundings that it becomes invisible.’

Wanda seemed impressed.

‘Do you paint?’ Milly asked.

‘Me? Lord no. I’m a poet.’

Milly smiled. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met a real live poet before.’

‘She’s brilliant,’ said Roland. He put his arm around Wanda’s waist and drew her close to him. Milly looked away as they started kissing.

After they’d spent about an hour in the studio, Eustace suggested that they leave. Milly excused herself to go to the toilet and freshen her make-up. As she walked to the sink, Wanda came out of one of the cubicles.

‘Enjoy yourself?’ she said as they stood side by side.

Milly nodded. ‘You’re all so talented.’

Wanda grinned. ‘I’m only the model, darling.’

They heard a commotion out in the corridor, then Stanley’s voice said, ‘Don’t do this again.’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Eustace retorted crossly. ‘Get a hold of yourself.’

‘This place is not a peep show,’ said Stanley. ‘If you want to impress your tarts, do it somewhere else.’

Milly felt her face heating up. Wanda moved to the towel rail to dry her hands.

‘Let me remind you who found you this place,’ they heard Eustace say.

‘That doesn’t give you the right to bring all and sundry here for a cheap thrill,’ Stanley hissed.

They heard the sound of two sets of footsteps and, just before a door slammed, Eustace said, ‘Now look here, Stanley, if you . . .’ Their voices faded.

Milly’s eyes were already pricking with tears. The artists didn’t want her there, so why had Eustace brought her? All she wanted now was to go home.

‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ said Wanda.

Milly smiled. ‘It’s all right. It’s not your fault. Anyway, it’s I who should apologise. I had no idea we were gate-crashing.’

‘Men can be such pricks at times,’ Wanda went on. ‘I for one loved having you here. Take no notice, darling.’

Milly blew her nose into her hanky. ‘Please don’t worry. It’s fine.’

Eustace was waiting by the door. They said their goodbyes and left.

‘I think we should have something to eat before we go back,’ said Eustace.

Milly would have preferred to go straight home, but he was probably right. They had had nothing all day and driving all the way back to Worthing on an empty stomach was probably not a good idea. He didn’t seem to realise that she’d heard every word that had passed between him and Stanley, and Milly preferred to keep it that way. She smiled. ‘A meal would be just perfect.’

‘I would offer to take you to a show, but virtually all the theatres are closed now.’ He sighed. ‘We’re living in momentous times.’

He found them a small hotel nearby. The restaurant was open to non-residents and the menu was à la carte. As soon as she sat down, Milly realised how hungry she was. She ordered the lamb cutlets while Eustace asked for the steak. He ordered wine, and when an old woman came round the table with some stem roses, he bought Milly three. A crooner sang as they sat. It was a pity their visit to the studio had been such a disappointment because Milly thought this was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her.

‘What did you think of today?’ he asked as they waited for their meal. ‘Can you imagine being in a studio like that?’

‘I think it would be fascinating,’ she said, not wanting to be drawn into a conversation about Stanley and his rudeness. ‘I enjoy doing the windows but this has rekindled my passion to be even more creative.’

He gave her a satisfied grin.

The waiter arrived with some bread rolls in a basket.

‘I really liked Roland’s wife,’ said Milly, taking one.

‘Roland’s wife?’

Milly was puzzled. ‘Wanda.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Eustace. ‘Wanda isn’t his wife. His wife is . . . well, I haven’t a clue where she is these days.’ Eustace leaned forward and whispered confidentially, ‘Roland and Wanda are both married, but not to each other. Wanda is his mistress.’