Sighing, she gropes around under the water for the sliver of soap, contemplating it glumly when she draws it out. Once, a new bar of soap was a pleasure: the smooth pristine weight of it, the creamy suds, the heady fragrance of lavender or rose or lily-of-the-valley. Nowadays, with rationing still in place, they must eke out every last piece until it is like this one: cracked and almost transparent, riven with brown lines, grudgingly producing a meagre lather, barely more than a smear.

Rather like her attempts at conversation. Everyone else seems to find talking so easy. She has observed them at parties, laughing and chattering and flirting, but she just can’t do it. She knows she comes across as stiff and stilted but she is shy, and her position only makes things worse. Nobody knows what to say to the future Queen and she doesn’t know what to say to them, so the whole business is wretchedly uncomfortable.

She usually ends up making a beeline for Porchey, who is always happy to talk horses.

But now there’s Philip, of course.

She hopes he’ll be there tonight. He can always make her laugh. He doesn’t make her feel boring or standoffish. Under his intent gaze she becomes intriguing instead of uptight, and the muscles of her face relax into a natural smile.

He won’t monopolise her. Elizabeth half wishes he would, but he is careful not to give rise to any gossip. If he talks to her, it is never for too long and if there’s dancing, he only dances with her once.

Elizabeth has to watch him charming another woman as they dance past, and that woman is always, always beautiful and sophisticated. The other woman knows how to make Philip laugh. She knows just what to say and how to say it, how to tilt her head and smile and slide a glance under her lashes.

Whenever Elizabeth watches that other woman, she has to remind herself to smile at her own partner. It didn’t take long before someone told her how ‘very close’ Philip had been with Osla Benning, who is exactly as beautiful and assured as the other women Philip asks to dance. Osla is married now, Elizabeth is glad to know. She has met Philip’s old friend Hélène, too. Bright, bubbly, pretty, friendly … Hélène is everything Elizabeth is not, and although she is also married with children, she inevitably makes Elizabeth feel gauche in comparison.

With another sigh, Elizabeth gets out of the bath and wraps herself in the towel Bobo has warmed for her. The Scotswoman has been with her since she was a tiny girl, so long that Elizabeth cannot remember Bobo’s real name.

Used to being dressed, she lets Bobo fuss around her, zipping her into the dress and twitching the skirt so it hangs properly.

‘It’s a lovely dress,’ Bobo says approvingly. ‘The blue is very nice on you.’ She bends to pick up a pair of shoes and move them close to Elizabeth’s stockinged feet. ‘What do you think of these shoes with it?’