He does not kick her. He walks back to his chair and sits down. She hears him strike a match to light another cigarette. She is unhurt – only embarrassed by the chicken-livered noise she has made. She draws a deep breath and lifts herself carefully, shakily, from the floor, with as much dignity as she can find. She retrieves her make-up and closes the clasp of her bag before turning to face him, chin lifted high.

He is watching her, expressionless.

‘Mortimer’s, you said?’ The sound that comes from her mouth is not her voice. It is hardly more than a whisper. She coughs.

‘That’s right. They’ll find you somewhere decent.’ He chats as though nothing has happened. ‘Then buy yourself something pretty.’

She nods. ‘Alright. I will.’

‘And Ruby… Don’t mess with me again.’

She forces herself to stand taller, stares at him for as long as she dares, and then walks out of the room, clutching her bag, trying to pull herself back to normal.

She has dealt with worse than Peter Lazenby. Far worse.

She’ll go to Mortimer’s, rent a flat, do as he’s asked. It might suit her to spend her evenings in Soho rather than Southwark. Even if Annie Richmond calls her back to go out with the Forties, they never go hoisting at night. Far better to drink champagne and cocktails at the Angel than bad gin at the Crown, listening to Edith Lennox whining about everything.

But she’ll go shopping first, whatever he says. She has money in her purse, after all.

Her stomach growls.

No. First, she needs to eat.

25

25

Friday, late morning

Harriet picks up a silk nightgown from the counter in Debenham and Freebody. The delicate fabric glides through her fingers. She touches the lace that decorates the edge of the décolletage and imagines it against her skin. Imagines Ralph’s face when he sees her wearing it. Then she remembers what happened when she wore that foolish and insubstantial dress at dinner a few weeks ago and snatches her hand away.

It will be different when they are married. She will be ready then.

‘Would you like to take a closer look, miss?’ The assistant behind the counter smiles pleasantly.

‘Thank you, yes.’ Harriet blushes and the heat rises on her neck.

The nightgown is plucked by its fine shoulder straps and laid out in full.

‘I should call it bridal,’ the girl says. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

It is lovely. Not quite white, but not dark enough to be cream, with scallops of lace.

‘Champagne, they call the colour,’ she adds, reading Harriet’s mind. ‘It will suit you, I think.’

Harriet asks the price and makes her decision. She shivers as the girl folds the gown lovingly, wraps it in tissue and fits it into a neat pink box.

*