Her younger sister, Marianne, a happily married nurse with a new 

baby, would come round at nights just to gloat at mum and dad‘s golden girl brought low.

But  every  now  and  then,  there  was  Dexter  Mayhew.  In  the  last  few  warm  days  of  the 

summer after graduation she had gone to stay at his family‘s beautiful house in Oxfordshire; 

not  a  house,  but  a  mansion  to  her  eyes.  Large,  1920s,  with  faded  rugs  and  large  abstract 

canvases  and  ice  in  the  drinks.  In  the  large,  herb-scented  garden  they  had  spent  a  long, 

languid day between the swimming pool and tennis court, the first she‘d ever seen that had 

not been built by the local council. Drinking gin and tonics in wicker chairs, looking at the 

view, she had thought of The Great Gatsby. Of course she had spoiled it; getting nervous and 

drinking  too  much  at  dinner,  shouting  at  Dexter‘s  father  –  a  mild,  modest,  perfectly 

reasonable  man  –  about  Nicaragua,  while  all  the  time  Dexter  regarded  her  with  a  look  of 

affectionate disappointment, as if she were a puppy who had soiled a rug. Had she really sat 

at their table, eating their food and calling his father a fascist? That night she lay in the guest 

bedroom,  dazed  and  remorseful,  waiting  for  a  knock  on  the  door  that  clearly  would  never 

come; romantic hopes sacrificed for the Sandinistas, who were unlikely to be grateful.