‘A French name will appeal to your clientele so much more than Ruby Morgan,’ Clarissa had said apologetically. ‘Trust me on this.’ And Clarissa had informed all her friends and acquaintances for miles around of ‘the wonderful new establishment’ that had opened its doors in Newcastle, suggesting that they pay Madame Beaucaire’s a visit and see for themselves. As well as that, some weeks into the refit of the premises, she had arrived on the doorstep with umpteen bags of exquisite clothes that she’d bought in London and only worn once or twice.

‘For you, Ruby,’ Clarissa had said carelessly. ‘I thought it might help if you have a rail or two of pre-owned bits and pieces, but whatever you do, don’t call them second-hand. Off-models is the term, all right? They’ll boost your initial stock, won’t they, and there are quite a few influential women in the town married to businessmen whose husbands are beginning to feel the pinch a little now the economy is struggling, who’ll still want their fashionable evening dresses and daywear but won’t want to pay as much as they once would have done. If anyone asks, as they undoubtedly will, you can truthfully say they’re off-models from London shops. They will simply adore that, trust me.’

Ruby had been overwhelmed by her friend’s generosity, especially as Clarissa wouldn’t hear of accepting a penny for the beautiful clothes. ‘Darling girl, they’d just have been disposed of by my maid,’ Clarissa had said offhandedly, ‘which is such a waste, after all.’

It was one of the moments when the huge divide between them had been brought home to Ruby; but the clothes were a gift from the gods, nevertheless, not only to sell but to examine in detail and take patterns from for her own pieces. Clarissa had advised her to be pricey – her intended market would expect it – but not as expensive as the shops in the capital, and with her friend’s patronage business had been brisk from day one. It still was. Her clothes spoke for themselves and her order book was full, so much so that she’d been able to go ahead with the second part of her plan and convert the annexe to the building into her workroom just before Christmas. This meant her tiny flat was free of the clutter that had occupied so much of it, and could just be her home at long last. She’d had a lovely time turning what had essentially been a workplace into her first real home where she had no one to answer to but herself.