‘Oh goodness, you will outshine me. I only have one long dress and I haven’t worn it since goodness knows when.’

‘Surely you are out at parties in London all the time?’ She heard the teasing in his voice.

‘Oh aye, me and the Prince of Wales are always out on the town.’

‘Remind me to punch him on the nose the next time I see him.’

Marion laughed out loud. ‘I’d lose my job!’

‘Well then, I’ll just stick my foot out and trip him up.’

She heard the engine of her father’s car coming on to the drive.

‘I can hear my parents coming back. I’d best go.’

‘Six thirty. Don’t forget.’

She hung up, then checked herself in the hall mirror, worried that her mother would spot a change in her face. Apart from two little bright spots on her cheeks, she looked the same.

She opened the front door for her parents and found Maggie gripping her coat with gloved hands. ‘I hope you have lit the fire? Your dad and I are frozen.’

‘Welcome back, Mother. How were the shops?’

‘Busy. I would kill for a cup of tea.’

‘You come in and sit down. The fire is lit and I’ll make the tea.’

Maggie stopped shrugging out of her coat and eyed Marion suspiciously. ‘What has happened to you?’

‘Nothing. Let me hang your coat up.’

Maggie stopped her. ‘Not before you tell me what’s going on.’

‘Mother, nothing is going on. Now go and sit down.’

‘You have had a telephone call.’ Maggie moved the telephone back to its rightful spot. ‘I can tell. Who was it?’

Why did her mother have to know everything? ‘If you must know, it was George. He is taking me out on New Year’s Eve.’

Marion sighed now as she put the last of her clothes in the case, and sat on the edge of her bed. New Year’s Eve with George had been lovely. He had behaved so kindly towards her. He had looked so safe and handsome in his kilt and had complimented her on the new dress her mother had made her …

As soon as Maggie knew George was taking Marion to the New Year’s Eve Ball, she developed a spring in her step.

‘Marion, we are going shopping.’

The haberdashers in Dunfermline was a quintessentially female shop. The scent of ladies’ face powder and eau de cologne hung in the air. Three changing rooms were each hung with peach satin curtains and furnished with a large mirror and a petite armchair.

Mrs McGiver, small and plump like a tubby puppy, Marion always thought, welcomed them.

‘Mrs Crawford. Do come in. And Marion, too. Home for Christmas?’ She dropped her voice. ‘The Duchess’s dresses are divine. Where does she get the silk from?’

Marion didn’t have to ask Mrs McGiver how she knew who she worked for. One look at her mother’s guilty face told her. ‘I am not privy to that sort of information, I’m afraid.’