Philip’s latest letter was from Paris. He stopped there on his way home and arranged to meet Hélène Foufounis or whatever she was called now. For reasons Elizabeth does not understand, Hélène, now divorced, has left her two children with her mother in London and is living on her own and working as a shop girl in Paris. Philip has told Elizabeth of the fun they are having, how they raced across Paris, he on a ridiculously small bicycle, while Hélène took the metro. Hélène won, of course, and was helpless with laughter at the sight of him pedalling frantically down the Champs Elysées, his knees practically up to his ears.

Hélène had actually dared walk into the Travellers Club where he was staying.

No women are allowed across its hallowed portals, so you can imagine the horror! I bundled her out pretty quickly and gave her a lecture on not intruding into an all-male sanctuary, though she didn’t seem to understand in the least.

He and Hélène lunch or dine together almost every day, delicious meals in marvellously cheap bistros where Hélène knows the owner, of course. They have taken a horse-drawn carriage across Paris. They have strolled over the Pont Neuf and under the lime trees in the Tuileries.

Elizabeth knows none of these places. All she knows is that Philip is having a good time without her and seems in no hurry to come home.

He kissed her, Elizabeth reminds herself again and again. It was her first kiss, and he would not have done it if he hadn’t been serious, would he?

She thought it was all settled, bar some complications to do with Greek politics, but then Philip disappeared. He told her he was going to collect his father’s effects, but he has extended his trip again and again, first to Germany and now to Paris. Elizabeth doesn’t mind him enjoying himself, of course she doesn’t. He probably needs some light-hearted fun after the emotion of going through his father’s things. And she isn’t jealous of Hélène, not really. She understands that Hélène is one of Philip’s oldest friends.

It’s just hard to convince herself that Philip is missing her as much as she is missing him.

‘He’ll be home soon,’ she tells her mother, praying that it will be true. She takes a bite of toast and waits until she has swallowed before adding, ‘I thought it would be nice to invite him to Balmoral this August.’

She is tired of waiting, Elizabeth realises. She wants things to be settled. There are too many distractions for Philip here in London. She longs to get away and take him with her, where they can think. The image of Balmoral rises before her: golden hills, clear air, the quiet broken only by the wind and the gentle rush of the Dee.

Across the table, her comment is met with an unenthusiastic silence. The Queen has been stirring her coffee and now puts the teaspoon into the saucer with a chink. ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

‘I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t.’

The Queen looks taken aback at the sharpness in her daughter’s voice. ‘I just meant that Philip isn’t … well, he’s not exactly …’

‘Not exactly what?’

‘Well … he’s not at home in the country, is he? Does he even shoot?’

‘He can learn.’

‘I just feel that he might not … fit in at Balmoral.’ The Queen is floundering under Elizabeth’s cool stare. ‘It might be uncomfortable for him.’

Elizabeth sets her knife neatly on the plate. Her face is calm, her movements precisely controlled as she folds up the napkin on her lap and puts it to one side. ‘What are you trying to say, Mummy?’

‘I know you like Philip, Lilibet, but Papa and I really don’t feel it would be a good match for you. I mean, he’s very handsome, I can see that, but you want more than good looks in a husband. You want someone who understands you, someone who belongs, and Philip doesn’t. He’s not one of us,’ she finishes with a helpless shrug.

‘She means he didn’t go to Eton,’ Margaret puts in from the other side of the table.

‘He’s a prince,’ Elizabeth points out. ‘I would have thought being royal would trump going to Eton.’

The Queen’s lips tighten. She is not royal by birth, and it rankles.

‘He’s a foreign prince. That’s not the same thing at all.’

‘He won’t be foreign when he has British citizenship.’

‘Attlee thinks the timing isn’t right for that. The situation in Greece is very precarious at the moment. George may be back as king but the communists are still strong. British troops are there supporting the royalists, but if a Greek prince suddenly becomes a British citizen, it won’t look good politically – or diplomatically,’ the Queen points out. ‘We can’t afford to look too involved in Greek affairs.

‘As far as the public is concerned, he’ll still be foreign,’ she goes on. ‘Most of his family are Germans, not to mention that ghastly old grandmother of his in Kensington Palace. His brothers-in-law were part of the Nazi regime. Philipp of Hesse could be facing a war crimes trial. It may be unfair but the people won’t like it, not after the war.’

‘Isn’t it more a question of what I would like?’ Elizabeth asks.

‘Papa and I only want what’s best for you,’ the Queen says irritably. ‘You’re very young still and you’ve barely met any other men.’

‘Mummy, that’s ridiculous,’ Margaret says. ‘Lilibet’s met bags of men.’

‘Thank you, Margaret.’ Elizabeth offers her sister a faint smile.

‘Well, if you’ll take my advice, Lilibet, you’ll be careful about encouraging Philip too much.’ The Queen pushes back her chair. ‘Fitting in might seem boring to you, but we all know what happened the last time a member of the royal family chose someone who wasn’t one of us!’

Margaret rolls her eyes after their mother. ‘The dreaded spectre of Uncle David and Mrs Simpson! I wondered how long it would be before she brought them up.’ She pours herself more coffee and glances at Elizabeth’s set face. ‘Don’t take it to heart, Lil. They’ll come around to Philip, if he is who you really want?’

‘Yes, it is. It’s him or no one.’

It’s a relief to own it to her sister. Philip is the only man for her. Elizabeth feels it deep in her core, an unwavering certainty that she doesn’t even understand herself. Sometimes Philip can be distant, at others warm and friendly. The mixture of boisterous fun and arrogant reserve is intriguing. She likes the unpredictability of it. It’s invigorating, never knowing what he will say or do. It keeps the blood fizzing along her veins.

Everybody else behaves to her in exactly the same way: they are often charming, always polite and deferential. At social occasions, the onus is on her to put people at their ease, but there is never anyone to put her at her ease. They treat her like a princess.

Philip treats her as Elizabeth.

It is not just that he is handsome. It is more that his vitality seems to suck the oxygen greedily from the room, leaving her short of breath. The very air seems to crisp when he walks through it. The light is sharper, smells are more intense. In his presence, Elizabeth is aware of her own body in a way she never has been before. She can feel the slow pulse of blood along her veins, the tiny fizz of awareness underneath her skin.