The preparations for tonight had to be perfect: a long bath with scented salts, soft towels, and then clouds of lavender talcum powder. Vivian had found a dress that made everything else she owned – everyone owned – look insipid and lacking. She’d wanted a raspberry pink or even a scarlet. Her mother had declared that these colours were out of the question; she had to wear white, cream, silver perhaps. Mint was as far as Mrs Foster would go. Vivian was blond. Mint wouldn’t work. Mint would be ruinous. Eventually they agreed on a pearl-coloured silk. Mrs Foster found the most fabulous roll in a darling London store. Vivian was secretly impressed, although she didn’t indulge in a silly show of pleasure; she was cultivating a more sophisticated persona, and girlish shows of enthusiasm towards her mother over a roll of fabric were now unheard of (although she was still very willing to show displeasure).

A lot had depended on the cut. She was fed up of the same old pattern that she’d always worn, that every eighteen-year-old girl wore: short sleeves and round neck. Her mother had not suggested the local dressmaker for tonight; Hampstead was choked with women who, whilst undoubtedly competent with a needle, seemed very confused when Vivian tried to suggest they look at pictures in magazines for their inspiration. It was 1914! Queen Victoria was long dead. Her grandson was on the throne. Why couldn’t they see how things had moved on? Why were the old so slow? The dress had to be made in Bond Street. Fortunately, Mrs Foster agreed. There had been two fittings. It had cost an obscenity but was worth every penny.

Vivian’s underwear for tonight was thin white cambric lingerie from Eaton Lodge, the very place royalty had their trousseaus embroidered; no D. H. Evans mass-produced department store underwear for her. Mrs Foster knew the importance of investing and had not stinted; ever since Vivian had come out, she had been awfully well looked after. She had three or four pretty waltzing dresses, but this new one was her favourite. It had more. Held more. It was a promise.

She had enjoyed her preparations for this evening, which had begun at two this afternoon. Scrubbing, plucking, tweezing, brushing, painting and adorning all required time. She laid out her clothes, had the bath filled and steeped in it for simply ages. Nanny thought she’d catch her death bathing for such a long time and circled the room, wondering about lighting fires and muttering about the scanty nature of Vivian’s underwear. It was hard not to dismiss Nanny as a silly woman who didn’t understand. How she prattled on. Such nonsense. ‘Now remember, Miss Vivian, a girl can only be safe if she marries well, or at least carefully, and she’s not safe until then.’ Vivian did not appreciate Nanny talking about her prospects so openly. It was vulgar. ‘Everything has to be weighed up. His family, his wealth, his ambition, his character.’