Before I met my husband, I dressed like Kate Middleton. Admittedly the high street was so in thrall to the Kate Effect at the time that it was difficult not to resemble the Duchess of Cambridge. I never deliberately set out to look like a lady-in-waiting, but a lack of confidence and an all-consuming feeling of self consciousness forced me to play it safe. I cinched my waist as if Gok Wan was about to start doing spot checks on me. I limped everywhere, ungainly in ‘dainty’ heels. My handbags were the size of suitcases, because I had to take emergency flats everywhere I went. Everything in my wardrobe felt formal, fitted and worst of all, ‘flattering’.

When I fell in love with Dale, I had a wardrobe wobble. For the first time, I felt so adored and sure of him that I had total style freedom. He was interested in fashion and art. I knew he wouldn’t go off me if I stopped dressing like Joanie from Mad Men and started experimenting with the looks I’d always longed to try. For a little while, I didn’t know where to start. I spent a lot of time staring at my fitted frocks murmuring “Who am I?”, like Derek Zoolander. Dale gently encouraged me, with an almost psychic knowledge of what would suit my mood as well as my body. Here a blue serge blazer with a luminous yellow lining, there a black sequinned cocktail dress, a pair of Topshop Startrite sandals for grown ups, a fur hood. He never said he wanted to dress me, but he helped me discover that I had the courage and confidence to dress myself.