Merrin stood in front of the narrow full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door and stared at her reflection, unable to believe the transformation from her usual scruffy self into this person she barely recognised. She felt a flutter of joy in her stomach: this was how Digby was going to see her! She couldn’t wait. There had been times when, introduced to the double-barrelled girls from his old school or university who were passing through or here for the weekend, plain old Merrin Mercy Kellow had felt the punch of inadequacy in her gut. How Digby felt about her had never been in doubt, nor did she have the slightest misgiving over her decision to marry him, but she’d be lying if she said the polished Penelopes and vivacious Veritys who had skied with him, sailed with him and played tennis with him didn’t leave her feeling a tiny bit like an outsider. There was one notable supper at his parents’ kitchen table when all, bar Merrin, had been apoplectic with laughter over an incident she had not seen at an event she had not attended.

‘Sorry, Merry, are we being a little rude?’ The girl, Phoebe, had placed her hand on her arm. ‘Don’t worry, it was before your time.’

‘I’m not worried.’ She had sipped her gin. ‘And Phoebe, you’re not being a little rude.’ Her words, offered sharply yet calmly, had given her confidence that she could, when and if required, stand up to these girls of Digby’s inner circle.

The room had fallen silent and Mrs Mortimer had stared at her with an expression that Merrin found hard to fathom; she couldn’t decide if it was admiration that the quiet girl had found her voice, or fury. Not that Merrin had ever mentioned this to Digby, knowing they had a lifetime to catch up on activities and make their own set of memories, and also not wanting him to think she was one of those girls: clingy and insecure, even though she did on occasion let self-doubt infiltrate her thoughts and feel the sharp beginnings of becoming both.