‘They’re ready for you, Gwen!’

‘There’s really no need for all this …’ Gwen’s floating voice contains a hint of exasperation.

She appears at the top of the stairs. There is an audible intake of breath from Ted.

‘Oh now, Gwen, love …’ Jim claps his hands together as further words fail him.

Jack cannot breathe. He stares up at her. Short cap sleeves cover her shoulders and a square-cut bodice clings to her torso, nipping in at her waist, before flowing out in an emerald skirt that skims her hips to pool at her feet, a shimmering waterfall of velvet. Her freshly washed hair is scooped back and falls around her face in gentle waves. She has kept her make-up light: a touch of powder, a discreet coat of lipstick. She is, he thinks, perfection itself.

‘Will I do?’ The question reveals the fragility of her confidence. It is as delicate as finely blown glass – one careless touch and it will shatter.

‘Do? Will you do? By God, Gwen, you look beautiful.’ Jim turns to the two men beside him. ‘Doesn’t she look a peach, lads?’

Ted’s voice is rusty; his cheeks colour as he stumbles through his flattery. Jack remains silent. He does not trust himself to speak.

Gwen glides down the stairs, the velvet rippling with each step, clearly embarrassed by their overt admiration. Muriel drapes a fox stole around her shoulders and hands her a silver clutch.

The brass bell jangling above the front door instigates a flurry of activity. Muriel clucks over Gwen, checking she has all she needs, while Ted and Jack fall back into the shadows. Jack notices how Ted tugs at his own shirt, as if regretting his lacklustre appearance. Jim tussles with the wedged bolts on the little-used entrance until eventually they give way and, with a turn of the key, he pulls open the door to reveal a girl of Gwen’s age, dressed in pink satin. A car idles in the lane.

‘Hello, Lucy dear, don’t you look pretty as a picture.’ Jim is more jovial than Jack has ever seen him. ‘I won’t kiss you,’ he laughs, as he hands Gwen over the threshold. ‘I don’t want to leave a grubby mark on your cheek. Thank your parents for me, Lucy, and Gwen, I’ll pick you up at eleven.’

‘Oh midnight, please, Dad.’

‘Eleven and not a minute later!’

Though her father is ushering her out, his hand on her back, Gwen cranes around, searching for Jack. In a silent communiqué, her eyes slide towards Jim. Jack’s nod banishes the anxiety that fleetingly mars her perfection and the tension in her shoulders visibly eases as she accompanies her giggling friend from the house.