Fortunately she was looking at the drawings, spread across the low table in front of them, giving Ellie a moment to recover.

She picked one that was no more than a few lines suggesting the upraised bottom, the chubby legs of an infant almost ready to stand up and take her first steps.

‘This is Chloe? Your youngest child?’

Ellie looked at the picture. It was the daughter of one of the women she worked for in her ‘day’ job, drawn from memory without a thought.

How could she have done that?

‘Charming,’ Mrs Cochrane said, without waiting for an answer. Then, ‘I’m going to be frank with you, Lady March-’

‘Gabriella, please.’

‘Gabriella. I’ve been looking for someone who can write a regular lifestyle column for some time. It has been extraordinarily difficult to find a writer capable of finding just the tone our readers appreciate.’

Ellie was not entirely surprised to hear that; no one born since 1950 wrote that way.

‘There was always just a suggestion of the pastiche. A lack of sincerity.’ She smiled. ‘Sincerity is essential.’

‘Absolutely,’ she managed, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. Right now.

‘Of course I’m not interested in the rather dated diary format.’

Which was the sole reason she’d chosen it. And, from a point where she had been praying to whatever saint was supposed to be looking after the interests of neophyte writers to get on with sorting out that hole for her to disappear into, she was suddenly indignant. Why bring her all the way up to London for a ‘chat’ about her work, then tell her that it wasn’t what was wanted?

‘I’m looking for something less formal-something that will appeal to the younger generation of women we need to attract. Your writing has a lively freshness, a touch of irreverence that is quite striking.’