‘So where is it you and Digby boy are going to live again?’ Ruby asked from the sink, where she was now washing a pair of tights in washing-up liquid.

‘In a flat above the garages.’ She beamed at the thought of her very own sitting room and tiled bathroom. ‘But when his parents are away we’ll go into the main house. And don’t call him Digby boy!’

‘So, if Mum sees you around the big house when she is cleaning, will she have to curtsey? And what if she and Dad are invited to one of her Christmas soirees? Will she be a guest, but also have to carry the canapés on one of them big silver trays?’

Heather had worked for the Mortimers as a cleaner for many years, which meant that Merrin was in the oddly privileged position of having heard her parents’ unedited views on her soon-to-be in-laws.

‘Ruby!’ Heather leapt to the defence of her employer. ‘Just stop it. Loretta has always been very kind to me. Truly she has.’

Ruby laughed loudly. ‘God, I’m joking! I’m not keen on his mother, but I must admit I quite like old Digby. He told me he’d take me clay-pigeon shooting and I know if we lay bets I can make a fair few quid.’

Merrin laughed, knowing this was probably true. She had seen Ruby’s prowess on the pool table at the pub when the townies were there: ‘Oh, I use this stick? I mean cue? And I have to do what? Get the balls in the little pocket thing on the sides?’ Merrin would then watch the bets placed before Ruby did what she did best: clear the table with an impressive string of fancy shots.

‘And what do you call her, Merry? Mrs Mortimer? Loretta? Mother?’ Ruby raised her eyebrows.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ her mum cut in sharply and predictably. ‘She won’t be calling her Mother.’

‘She hasn’t said exactly.’ Merrin wished the woman had made her preference clear, but figured this was the kind of detail that would get ironed out after the wedding, when no doubt Digby’s mother would say, ‘Darling, call me Loretta . . .’ probably before giving her a warm hug to properly welcome her into the bosom of the family.

Whilst Mrs Mortimer had only ever been nice to her, Merrin still felt as if she were on trial, under the watchful eye of her future mother-in-law, who often asked her random questions like: ‘What do you think about private education, Merrin?’

To which she had stuttered her reply: ‘I’m . . . I’m not against it, really, but I think it depends on the child; some kids might like it, but others not, and I’d just want mine to be happy. . .’