By London standards, it was a dark and stormy night. Nothing like the wild gales that battered our castle in the Scottish Highlands, of course, but violent enough to make me glad I was safely indoors. Rain peppered the windows and drummed on the slates on the roof while a wild wind howled down the chimney. If I’d been at Castle Rannoch, where I grew up, the wind would also have sent icy drafts rushing down the corridors, making tapestries flap and billow out so that it was almost as unpleasant indoors as it was out. But on this particular night I lay listening to the storm feeling snug, warm, comfortable and very thankful that I wasn’t at Castle Rannoch. I was instead in my friend Belinda’s mews cottage in Knightsbridge and enjoying every moment of it.

When I returned from America at the end of August—having been dragged there by my mother who was seeking a quickie divorce from one of her husbands—Mummy had immediately flitted away with the very briefest of good-byes as usual. She had abandoned her only child with monotonous regularity and barely a backward glance since that first time she bolted when I was two. But on this occasion she had actually demonstrated a spark of maternal feeling I hadn’t known she possessed. As she left Brown’s hotel she handed me a generous check. “Georgie, darling, I want you to know that I think you behaved splendidly in Hollywood,” she said. “I simply couldn’t have survived without you in that savage place.”

I went pink and didn’t quite know what to say as this was so out of character. “Golly, thanks awfully,” I managed to mumble.

“I have to go back to Max in Germany, darling,” she said, kissing me on the cheek, “but I don’t want you to think I’m running out on you. You do know you are very welcome to come and stay whenever you want to.”

“Thank you, but I don’t think Berlin would be to my liking,” I said. “Not since that horrible little Hitler chappie came into power. Too much shouting and strutting.”

She gave that tinkling laugh that had delighted audiences across the world. “Oh, darling. Nobody takes him seriously. I mean, who could with a mustache like that. He once kissed my hand and it was like an encounter with a hedgehog. Max says he’s good for German morale at the moment but he can’t last.”

“All the same, I’d rather stay in good old England for a while,” I said. “That time in America was quite enough excitement for me.”

“You don’t mean to go home to Scotland?” she asked.