‘Bring the bread you didn’t eat,’ Tommy told her, as he settled the bill. ‘We’ll walk around the lake and feed the ducks.’

Arriving back at the Palace later, they saw a large car, driver in full livery, on its way out. Tommy took Crawfie’s elbow and guided her out of the way, but the car stopped and Lady Astor peered out of the car’s back window.

‘Tommy!’ she called. ‘And Miss Crawford, too. This is a very fortunate meeting. Do wait a moment.’ She leant forwards to stop her driver. ‘Turn around, would you? I shall stay a little longer.’

Tommy sighed. ‘Oh Lord.’

Lady Astor corralled both Tommy and Crawfie into an empty side room.

‘Miss Crawford,’ she began.

‘Yes?’ said Crawfie, wondering what this was all about.

‘We think you would be the person to share a few harmless anecdotes about the royal family in an article for a magazine.’

Tommy intercepted. ‘And who would we be?’

Lady Astor was pleased with her reply. ‘The Queen and the Foreign Office.’

Tommy shook his head. ‘Lady Astor, nothing will happen without it first coming across my desk, and my current position is an emphatic refusal.’

‘Excuse me,’ Crawfie said, looking between the two of them. ‘What on earth is this about?’

‘I can see the benefits to them, but what about you?’ George said that evening. They were sitting at the dinner table, and he had been listening to Marion’s news. ‘Will they pay you?’

‘Oh George, I don’t want paying, I am happy to help. My name won’t be on any of the stories and they will only be short recollections for a little article in a magazine that no one in Britain will ever read.’

‘Don’t be so sure. Has this sort of thing been done before?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘In that case, your wee stories will be worth a lot of money.’

‘I don’t want any …’

‘You say that now, my dear, but I can smell hocus pocus here.’ He scratched his chin, ‘Someone will be making a lot of money or they wouldn’t be interested in it.’

Marion shrugged her shoulders. ‘Mr and Mrs Gould want to meet me. They have asked if I could do the day after tomorrow.’

‘Then I shall come with you, to make sure no one is taking advantage of your goodwill.’ George emptied the glass by his side. ‘Have we any more whisky?’

‘I don’t think so. Sorry, I should have bought some for you.’

‘In that case.’ George rocked himself out of his chair. ‘I’m off to the pub. Don’t wait up.’

Chapter Fifty-Seven

The Ritz Hotel Piccadilly, May 1948

Bruce Gould, journalist and proprietor of the bestselling American magazine, the Ladies’ Home Journal, was checking himself in the cheval mirror of his hotel suite.

‘Honey?’ he called.

‘Yes, sweetie?’ His wife, Beatrice, came out of the bedroom. ‘Oh my, you look very handsome.’ She went to him and smoothed the shoulders of his well-tailored suit. ‘When did you get so adorable?’