‘All right.’ She hesitated. ‘Has the Queen given her approval?’

‘Sure she has,’ Beatrice said, with absolute sincerity.

‘Good.’ Marion took a deep breath and signed on the dotted line.

‘Congratulations!’ Bruce popped the Pol Roger. ‘Your husband made you a great deal.’

‘Did he?’

‘He hasn’t told you?’

‘No. Not yet.’

Beatrice looked at George questioningly. ‘Are we spoiling something here?’

‘Not at all. I just wanted to surprise her.’

‘Well, tell the poor girl now!’ Beatrice put her hand on Marion’s arm. ‘You might want to sit down.’

‘OK.’ Marion took a seat, feeling suddenly anxious. ‘Tell me.’

George told her, very slowly, ‘You have just earned eighty-five thousand dollars.’

The shock was immense. Marion’s head began to spin and she thought she might faint. She quickly put her head on her knees and began to take deep breaths.

Beatrice found a tea towel in the kitchen and put it under the cold tap. ‘Here you are, put this on the back of your neck. Stay low and let the oxygen back into your brain.’

After a minute or so Marion managed to raise her head. ‘How much was that again?’

They told her.

She shook her head. ‘All that for a few articles?’

‘We have news on that, too.’ Bruce passed her a glass of champagne. ‘You have given us enough material for a book, and so’ – he paused for dramatic effect – ‘we are going to publish it as a book!’

‘A book? But you will not use my name, will you? I promised the Queen that no one would know that I had anything to do with it.’

Beatrice soothed her. ‘Honey, let’s get it looking like a book first and then the Queen will read it and she’ll love it. That reminds me – we would like to put photographs in, as well. I’m sure you have lots of sweet personal ones?’

Bruce grinned. ‘Sure she has. And let’s keep this all to ourselves until we publish. We don’t to want to spoil the surprise.’

Chapter Sixty-Four

Westminster Hospital, Christmas 1949

‘How are you today?’ Marion sat by George’s bed, her hand on his. ‘I’ve brought you a newspaper and some grapes.’

He gripped her hand. ‘Please get me out of here. I want to go home.’

‘And I want you home. I put the tree up and we have had Christmas cards from Lilibet and Philip and baby Charles, and from Margaret and the Queen.’

George turned his puffy face to see her better. ‘I want to go home.’

‘I know. We shall ask the doctor when he comes. The nurse said he won’t be long.’

Drowsily, George closed his eyes. He had been like this for two days now, sleeping on and off.

Marion always felt less upset when he slept. Awake, he often struggled against the pain and spoke in confused riddles.

She stayed with him, accepting a cup of tea from the kindly WRVS ladies who brought their trollies round each teatime. They always stopped for a chat. Today it was a mousy woman in her seventies, Marion judged, with her grey curls tucked under a hair net. She was Marion’s favourite.