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obeisance to its dominance, as virtually everyone seemed to be wearing it, but then she saw a woman walking in wearing Schiaparelli and she was lost, her breath catching and her gaze bewitched by the fluid movement of the silk dress with the most beautifully cut and elegant matching silk jacket worn over it. Everything and everyone else was forgotten as Amber absorbed every detail, her heart pounding in homage to both the fabric and the creative genius of the designer.

      ‘You prefer the Schiaparelli to the Chanel?’

      Amber was startled. She had been so engrossed in the outfit that she hadn’t seen Cecil Beaton turn towards her.

      ‘It’s silk,’ she told him simply, ‘and the colour …’ She shook her head, unable to find the words to explain the effect of seeing such stunningly vibrant colour at first hand instead of merely seeing a sketched impression of it in a magazine. It was so strong, so powerful, that it almost had its own physical presence. To get an acid yellow so pure was a work of art in itself.

      ‘I was wondering what dye they used. I’ve seen the outfit in Vogue but I hadn’t realised how different the reality would be.’ Just in time she realised that the photographer was looking slightly offended and assured him truthfully, ‘Your photographs are wonderful and truly capture the reality in a way that a sketch cannot.’

      Lord Robert had summoned a waiter and was ordering cocktails.

      ‘Dubonnet and gin for Mr Beaton and myself,’ he told the waiter, ‘half and half, and shaken very cold, and, er, a lemonade for the young lady.’

      ‘That is why photographs are the future of fashion magazines.’ Cecil Beaton was smiling approvingly at Amber now. ‘I keep on telling Vogue this, but do they listen to me? No, they do not, because they cannot move with the times. They are fools, but I shall be proved right. The camera can capture reality so much more sharply and clearly than a workaday draughtsman with his tubes of paint. Schiaparelli’s gowns are a case in point. As you have just said, it is impossible to replicate the true colour of her clothes without a camera. She is, of course, a true artist and a gifted one, but be warned, child, if you are looking to her for the future of your silk, then you are looking in the wrong place. It is my belief that Chanel, with her practical jersey and her clever mock simplicity, holds the key to the future of fashion. If you will take my advice you would be wise to direct your attentions towards silks that can be used to ornament the home rather than the human body.’

      He took a sip of his cocktail and then another, putting down his glass to light another cigarette before continuing, ‘We are entering a period of great change, and not just in clothes. Interior design is what you should be watching. It’s there that there will be the greatest demand for new and innovative fabrics. Having one’s home redone by a top designer is already all the rage in New York; people with the money to pay for it want a look for their home that is unique to them, but at the same time recognisable by the cognoscenti as being overseen by an expert, and having “style”. That is where you should be looking in future.

      ‘You should talk to Lees-Milne about it. He is mad about houses and knows all the best of them. Art school is all very well but it cannot give you the gift of a good eye or the true sense of knowing what is right and what is not if you do not already possess them, but something tells me that you do. Let your passion guide you. Passion should never be underestimated or ignored.’

      Amber listened to him, awed and humbled that he was prepared to take the time to give her the benefit of his advice. Suddenly her future, which had seemed so bleak and oppressive, now seemed full of wonderful possibilities.

      Shyly she confided to him, ‘My father used to say that we hadn’t moved with the times and that—’ She broke off as a ravishingly pretty woman, wearing a softly flowing loose dress, escorted by a slender foppish-looking young man with faunlike features, came towards them, exclaiming, ‘Robert and Cecil, how fortunate! I need you both to help me, and as you can see, Cecil, I have already commandeered your assistant. I found him in the foyer and rescued him from a pack of young ladies. Bryan and I are planning a party, for after the baby, you understand.’

      Amber couldn’t stop looking at her. She was dressed for the evening, in a gown of gold lamé over lace, over crêpe satin, over which she was wearing a brown velvet evening coat with a lining of peach satin fulgurante. On her feet she was wearing shoes of silver tissue flecked with gold. In her prettily waved golden-blonde hair were diamond stars that twinkled in the light of the chandeliers. On her fingers and wrists were more diamonds, and her lips were painted rose-brown to complement the colour of her gown and coat.

      ‘What, another party?’ Lord Robert was demanding, as he summoned a waiter, instructing him, ‘Mrs Guinness will join us for tea.’

      Amber was acutely conscious of how out of her depth she was.

      Lord Robert was still talking with Mrs Guinness.

      ‘It’s just as well you have married the Guinness millions and that Bryan is so adoring a husband, Diana,’ he teased her, before turning to the young man standing with her to tell him, ‘Saville, you must sit here next to Cecil, for if you don’t he will sulk with me.’

      Whilst the young man made his way to the seat, far from being offended by Lord Robert’s teasing, Mrs Guinness simply laughed and told him, ‘Well, so he should be, since I hope very soon to give him an heir.’

      Amber blushed a little to hear her speak so openly of her condition.

      ‘Then let us hope that it is a boy and that you deliver him on time and with far less fuss than poor Evelyn Waugh is making over his new book,’ Lord Robert grinned.

      Mrs Guinness shook her head. ‘Robert, that is very wicked of you.’

      ‘Wicked, perhaps, but also true,’ Lord Robert insisted. ‘Harold Acton told me that when he asked Evelyn what this new book of his was about, Eve told him that it is a welter of sex and snobbery.’

      Mrs Guinness gave a trill of laughter. ‘Oh, that is too naughty of him. He and Nancy are taking bets on which of them will have their new book denounced as a “sewer” first by Farve.’

      How very pretty and gay she was, Amber thought enviously. It was no wonder that the men were gazing at her so admiringly.

      ‘Now, Robert, I want you to listen to me,’ she was saying firmly.

      ‘Very well then,’ he agreed, ‘but first, Diana, most beauteous of all the beautiful Mitford sisters, pray allow me to introduce my protégée to you.’

      ‘Your what?’ she exclaimed merrily.

      Amber’s face burned, as much with self-consciousness at finding herself in the company of someone she had read about in the pages of Vogue and the social gossip columns, as with the idea of being Lord Robert’s protégée.

      It was Cecil Beaton who answered Diana Guinness, telling her drolly, ‘Miss Amber Vrontsky. Robert found the child in the National Gallery and has been teaching her to curtsy.’

      The blue eyes widened their gaze resting on Amber’s flushed face. ‘Oh, the curtsy. Yes, indeed, it is perfectly horrid. Muv threatened to ask my sister Nancy to teach me, but luckily for me Nancy made Muv cross with one of her teases so I went to Miss Vacani instead. You poor child,’ she addressed Amber directly for the first time, ‘and so pretty too. You will be besieged by admirers. You must come to one of my parties. I shall send you an invitation.’

      ‘What do you think of London so far, Miss Vrontsky?’ Cecil Beaton asked.

      ‘When I am in the art galleries or looking up at the wonderful architecture, I think London is the most magnificent city there could be, and I feel very proud.’ Amber’s voice faltered slightly as she continued, ‘But then when I look at all the poor people begging on the streets and I read in the newspapers that there is no work for them I feel ashamed.’

      There was a small silence and then Cecil Beaton said softly, ‘Out of the mouths of babes …’

      She had spoken too frankly, Amber realised guiltily.

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