He’s worried, she can see. Normally she would do her best to stop him worrying. Normally she would be sensible and agree to go back. She knows Porchey can’t relax and enjoy himself as he deserves to. It’s not fair on him. She should suggest they all return to the palace.

But she doesn’t want to.

This is her one chance to be ordinary, to be invisible. It will end, of course it will, but surely she can be allowed a little longer?

‘Let’s dance,’ she shouts back, tipping the sailor’s hat to a rakish angle. ‘We’ll stick together that way.’

People are climbing up lamp posts and onto the dignified lions in Trafalgar Square, splashing into fountains and pulling each other up onto cars as makeshift stages to dance and kiss. Elizabeth watches one couple who have made it onto the plinth of a statue exchange a lascivious kiss, their hands roaming frantically over each other, and her eyes widen.

Porchey follows her gaze. ‘Oh I say,’ he says as he pulls her away. ‘We’d better leave them to it.’

Elizabeth nods, but as they romp onwards she can’t stop thinking about that uninhibited embrace. It’s like an itch behind her eyelids. What would it be like to be kissed like that? Her blood booms at the thought, and she thinks about Philip, still so far away.

The movement of the crowd is taking them back towards the palace. Elizabeth would like to go the other way, but the people around her have other ideas. Whooping and cheering, they surge back down the Mall, bearing Elizabeth, Margaret and the others with them.

‘We want the King! We want the King!’ the crowd shouts, and Elizabeth links arms with her sister as they look up at the palace. It is a view she has never seen before. The balcony looks so small, so far away. It is empty now, but inside her parents will be exchanging glances and getting to their feet. Her mother will be putting on her hat and gloves, making sure her lipstick is in place.

‘Isn’t this amazing?’ Margaret yells into Elizabeth’s ear, and Elizabeth nods and squeezes her sister’s arm.

By unspoken agreement, they join in with the calls for the King and Queen to appear, and when their parents do step onto the balcony, the sisters cheer themselves hoarse.

I will never forget this night, Elizabeth thinks. She can’t wait to write and tell Philip what it has been like. She can’t wait for the war with Japan to be over.

She can’t wait for him to come home and for the future to start.

Chapter 16

Buckingham Palace, January 1946

Elizabeth picks up Philip’s photograph as she has done so many times over the past two years. It is so long since she has seen him and tonight, at last, he is coming to supper.

Her heart is jerking high in her throat. Who is this man with a beard? What does she know of him, really? She has spent so long thinking about him. She has read and reread his letters, so she knows his father has died. She knows that while she has been waiting for him to come home, Philip has been to Ceylon and New Guinea. She knows he has rescued pilots from the shark-infested Java Sea, seen action again in Japanese islands, and has had nearly three months of shore leave in Australia while Whelp was refitted. He was on board the US flagship Missouri to witness the formal surrender by the Japanese.

She knows where he has been and how he has been and how he thinks, but she knows nothing of what he actually feels.

The letters that have arrived, boldly addressed to her at Buckingham Palace, are not love letters. They are friendly and chatty and entertaining, but Philip has always held himself back from committing feelings to paper.

But then, she has done the same, hasn’t she? She has had so little to hold on to. She has his photograph, and the memory of how he made her feel, of the blueness of his eyes, the direct gaze and the restless energy. It is not enough for her to make any assumptions.

Still, he is coming. In a few minutes she will know if her feelings for Philip are real or not

Elizabeth isn’t even sure which she wants to be true. Restlessly, she puts down the photo and goes over to the window to pull back the floral curtains and peer outside.

Surely he will be here soon?

What if he doesn’t come?

Outside, a fog has crept through the palace gates and is pressing against the windows. It is like a living thing, poking into crevices, probing for a way in. It smothers the yellow light from the lampposts and muffles sound. She stands at the window and rests a hand against the pane. The blank, silent world is the opposite of the joyous celebration of VE Day and, three months later, VJ Day, when she and Margaret once again slipped out into the streets to join in the fun.

Since then, there has been little fun. The country is in survival mode. Rationing is more severe than ever, and the winter has been brutal. There is no more of the rugged defiance that got them through the war. Now it is about endurance and the long slog back to prosperity.

For Elizabeth it has been about waiting. Oh, she has been taking on some new duties to help the King, and there have been visits to Balmoral and Sandringham and parties and dances to attend, but she has been going through the motions until Philip comes home.

Now he is here. He wrote to her from Portsmouth ten days ago. Elizabeth went straight to her parents and asked if she could invite Philip to a private supper. She could tell her mother was displeased and her father unenthusiastic. They have been hoping she would forget Philip.

‘He can come as long as Margaret is there too,’ the Queen said. ‘We don’t want to give the wrong impression.’

Elizabeth sighs and turns back to the room. She has her own sitting room now, with pink and cream armchairs and a selection of pastoral paintings on the walls. The mantelpiece holds Philip’s photograph and one of the palace’s vast collection of clocks. There’s an electric fire in the grate and Susan is curled in a basket nearby.

Margaret rushes into the room making Susan lift her head. ‘Lil, I think he’s here!’

‘How can you tell?’ Elizabeth asks. Her heart is beating very fast. ‘I can’t hear anything.’

‘Well, there’s a commotion downstairs,’ says Margaret. She studies her sister, head on one side. ‘Are you excited?’

‘I’m nervous,’ Elizabeth confesses with a shaky smile as she smooths down her dress.

‘You look very nice. That blue suits you.’

Blue becomes you, ma’am.

‘Thank you, Margaret.’

‘It’s freezing in here, though.’ Margaret hugs her arms together. ‘Can’t we have another bar on the fire?’

‘You know we’re supposed to be saving energy. I’m lucky to have an electric fire in my sitting room at all.’

‘Susan would like it warmer, wouldn’t you, Sue?’ Margaret asks the dog, who has rested her nose back on her paws and ignores her.

‘Margaret, no.’

‘Lilibet, don’t you ever get tired of being good and dutiful?’ Exasperation threads Margaret’s voice. ‘An extra bar for an hour or two to make the room more welcoming won’t bring the country to its knees!’

‘It’s a matter of principle. Besides, I’m not cold.’

Which was true. She was too nervous to feel anything except the churning in her belly.

Elizabeth had been inclined to be resentful when her parents had insisted that Margaret be present at her first meeting with Philip. Margaret is livelier and prettier and funnier than she is, and she is not good at sharing the limelight.