It is half past twelve when Harriet arrives, exhausted and jittery, at Claridge’s, where Ralph is waiting for her. He kisses her swiftly on the cheek and ushers her through the foyer and into the dining room. Even though the day is bright, the chandeliers are sparkling with electric lights, making the white stuccoed arches gleam. The room hums with quiet, convivial conversation.

‘Am I late?’ Harriet catches sight of herself in one of the large mirrors on the wall. She has, since parting from her mother, applied a slick of lipstick and pressed a touch of powder to her nose and chin. Nothing too daring or ‘fast’, as Isabel would say, but enough to help her feel a little special.

‘No, not at all. I don’t think so.’

‘Thank goodness. Mummy has had me draped in ivory satin for what seemed like hours.’

‘Sounds horrifying.’

‘It was. And it’s all for your benefit, she says, so that you’re met by a vision of loveliness on our wedding day and not the despicable drab you’ll have to put up with thereafter.’

The waiter pulls the seat for her, and she sits down.

‘You’re hardly a drab, my darling. I wouldn’t be marrying you if you were.’ He sits and takes the menu from the waiter, nodding the man away.

‘Thank you. That’s what I told her.’

‘Intelligence and beauty; it’s a rare combination,’ he says, gazing idly down at the menu rather than at his bride. ‘Is it too early for champagne, do you suppose?’

It seems like only yesterday that they were emerging from the privations of war: meatless Tuesdays, endless dreary vegetables and unrefined flour in their bread. They had learned remarkably quickly how to be adventurous and indulgent again.

‘No, champagne would be wonderful.’

Ralph orders them both a meal of consommé, sole in cream, followed by stuffed veal breast with potatoes. Harriet talks of the dressmaker, and of her mother’s fussing. Ralph is amused.

‘I think Isabel intends for us to rival the King and Queen.’

‘She will make certain of it, and my life will be unbearable unless I fall into line.’

He raises his glass to her. ‘I suspect that even the great Gerald Littlemore trembles behind closed doors.’

‘I suspect you’re right,’ she laughs, enjoying the champagne and relaxing. ‘Not that you’d know it from the way she defers in public.’

The potatoes arrive served a la crème.

Harriet sighs as she inspects them. ‘Oh dear, I’m supposed to be slimming. And here you are, fattening me up like the prize heifer with all this cream.’

‘Why are you slimming?’

‘Mummy thinks I’m growing fat.’

‘Well, please don’t starve yourself on my account.’ He smiles, reaching out to squeeze her hand. He pats it as he releases it. ‘Besides,’ he continues, helping himself to another spoon of carrots. ‘Most men prefer a little flesh.’