‘You’re on!’ Cyril jabs Elizabeth in the side and she springs up, tossing the lid of the basket aside. Her sudden appearance provokes laughter, which increases as Margaret pops up beside her, but Elizabeth doesn’t even notice.

Philip is in the front row, sitting next to her mother, and he is looking right at her. His expression is astounded and a smile is just starting to curve his cool mouth.

Elizabeth’s heart swells. Her doubts are forgotten. All at once she can sparkle like Margaret. Her feet are lighter, her smile brighter. She can dance, she can sing. She can arch a brow and cast a knowing look at the audience.

She can make Philip laugh.

He is there. That is all that matters.

Chapter 2

Next to the Queen, Philip is trying not to make it obvious that he is nursing the hangover from hell. Why in God’s name did he drink so much last night? But it was his last chance to see Osla before Christmas.

It was fun, at least what Philip remembered of it. They danced at The 400 and then somehow a party congregated in Osla’s flat where they ate the Russian salad she made with powdered egg. Last night it hadn’t seemed disgusting, but the liquid paraffin dressing is still roiling in his stomach. He slept on the sofa and he should have stayed there instead of making the fatal error of returning to the flat in Chester Street where he found a letter from Mountbatten urging him to present himself at Windsor Castle as soon as possible.

Letters from Uncle Dickie are hard to ignore.

‘Your grandfather was a king,’ Mountbatten said the last time Philip had seen him. ‘You’re a prince, connected to most of the royal houses of Europe. But what have you got to call your own? Barely more than the clothes you stand up in.’

‘And that sweetheart of a car you gave me for my twenty-first birthday.’ Philip loves his MG.

Mountbatten was not to be diverted. ‘You know what I mean, Philip. You’re a personable fellow, and Lilibet will be Queen one day. Make yourself agreeable to her, as I hear you’re more than capable of doing. Dammit, you owe it to your family and to yourself. The war won’t last forever, and then what will you do? You’re not a British citizen and you won’t be able to stay in the Navy.’

Philip can’t imagine the war being over. It seems to have been going on forever. If Philip is as honest with himself as he tries to be, he has been enjoying the war.

There are flashes of terror, of course, but more of adrenalin and anticipation. In unguarded moments, the screams of injured men echo, and memories of flames and thrashing limbs and the vicious rat-tat-tatting of machine guns surge and spin in his head, leaving him stranded on the edge of an abyss, temporarily unable to catch his breath, but when that happens he simply pushes them away. It is war, that is all, and he hasn’t suffered so much as a scratch.