She’d actually enjoyed writing it, vicariously living a completely different life if only on paper. Having no trouble at all imagining herself the ‘lady of the house’ rather than simply caretaking the place during the owner’s absence.

Then, since she’d done the work, she’d submitted it to the magazine, enclosing some of her doodly drawings as an afterthought-an impression of the gothic turret that adorned one end of the house, the cat sitting in the deep embrasure of an arched window, a toddler (Lady G’s youngest)-expecting a swift thanks-but-no-thanks return in the self-addressed envelope provided for the purpose. She’d had enough of them to know the form. But if you didn’t try, if you didn’t pursue a dream, hunt it down until there was no breath left in your body, let chances slip by, then what was the point?

The letter, addressed to Lady Gabriella March, inviting her for a ‘chat’, should have been enough. She would show it to the writers’ group and take a bow, point proved. Except it wasn’t.

This was a never-to-be-repeated chance to talk to the editor of a famous, if fading, magazine-which was why she was here, in the office of Jennifer Cochrane, a woman of advanced years but formidable character, who had the style, diction and classic wardrobe-including the mandatory double row of pearls-of one of the minor royals. One of the seriously scary ones.

Transformed by her disapproving sister, Stacey, into Lady Gabriella March for the day, it took all her concentration to put down the cup she was holding without spilling the contents over the designer suit that Stacey-another formidable woman-had lent her for the occasion. To then stand up and cross the inches-deep carpet in precariously high heels-also her sister’s-without falling flat on her face.