[Jayne Osborn]

I was dressed demurely in a pleated skirt and polo-neck jumper, with my grandmother’s pearls and her marcasite watch. I own only ‘insensible’ ones, but the charity shop had yielded a pair of navy court shoes. Perfect.

My friends chipped in with advice: no cleavage, minimum make-up, keep schtum about the piercing. (It had almost healed anyway, and if I sat still it didn’t hurt too much.)

The IN and OUT driveway unnerved me. He swerved onto the gravel, insisting that I “Chill, for God’s sake! - and why are you wearing a coat all buttoned up on a warm day like this, anyway?”

Afternoon tea was the ordeal I’d anticipated, and on my way to the bathroom before we left I overheard his mother on the phone in the kitchen, “...Oh no, ... over my dead body... she’s a right frump!”