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I wake to a note on her pillow.

Slept like a dream! Thank you – best wedding gift I could have asked for!

I smile contentedly – well, that was a job well done!

See you in the turret before the ceremony – I’ll text as soon as my hair is done. The keys to your new room are on the breakfast tray outside the door under the silver sugar bowl.

There’s a breakfast tray?

I swing my legs out of bed and hurry to open the door. Set neatly on a side table is an ornate tray straight out of Downton Abbey. I reach to touch the silver coffee pot – youch, still hot. How did they know what time I’d wake up? I wonder if they’ve refreshed it every half an hour? The ensemble is heavy to lift but I make it back inside and then hesitate, feeling this could end badly if I try and rest it on the bed. Instead, I set it on the writing desk and then peer under the covers of assorted delights – fruit bowl, yoghurt, a super-flaky croissant . . . There’s also a second note.

One last thing! Could you call Gareth and ask if he can bring one more table display? The owner’s dog peed on one. On the table. Don’t ask.

I shake my head. I don’t know how she copes, organising events, being responsible for every microscopic detail. At least she’s getting better at delegating, though that is especially stressful for the person she is putting her trust in as she has such high standards. I pour myself a cup of coffee, delighted to find the milk is also hot, and then pull the desk chair over to the window so I can look out across the grounds as I make my call to Gareth.

‘Morning!’ I sing-song.

‘Well, you sound happy.’

‘I slept at the castle last night – filling in for Charlotte’s mum.’

‘Ohhh,’ he says. ‘Is she going to be at the ceremony?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Mmmm,’ says Gareth – about the closest he’d ever get to bitching about someone.

‘So. Table displays. Do you carry a spare?’

There’s a moment’s hesitation. ‘What happened?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘How many?’

‘Just one. Well, I say “just” one – I know each one is artfully crafted.’

‘That’s okay, I can do it,’ he assures me. ‘I’ll come over as soon as it’s ready.’

‘Thank you so much! And sorry to hear that Freya couldn’t make it. We haven’t seen her in an age.’

‘Right,’ he says absently, his mind already on foliage accents.

‘Okay, I’ll let you go. See you later, propagator!’

He laughs. ‘See you, Amy.’

*

It is a bummer about Freya. Swedish environmentalist by day and major drinker on a night out. I wish I could be as uninhibited as her – she’s just so free and unconcerned with her looks, putting all her attention on Mother Earth. She likes stripy tights and wild swimming and never sugar-coats anything. Jay adores her deadpan delivery – he’s always suggesting they do open mic night as a comedy duo at the drag club, though she has yet to take him up on his offer to be the au naturel Yin to his bedazzled Yang-a-Lang-a-Ding-Dong.

Freya has never minded a jot that Gareth has three close female friends, probably because the pair of them are such an indisputably good match. I mean, they met at a talk on cryptogam diversity at the Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh, for goodness’ sake! Gareth was working there at the time, following his degree in horticulture, and living with his dad. Freya was looking for accommodation and his father had a spare room that she moved into that weekend. We heard her name a lot and then one day they became a couple. I remember the four of us visiting one spring and them taking us out driving in the Highlands – one minute we were cruising along, the next they had screeched to a halt like they’d spied the Holy Grail. We’d watched with utter bemusement as they set about foraging for some special brewable leaf with not a care for the surrounding thorns and nettles. It was official, we’d concluded, ‘He’s found his person!’

I always imagine their children will look and act like woodland sprites. The one glitch is getting them to live in the same country. Gareth is very invested in his flower shop in Battersea – his weekly window displays have started to be a thing and he wants to expand and open up a cafe. It’s such a lovely idea – all herbal tisanes and health-giving elixirs custom-mixed to suit your mood. We even have a name – The Botanist. I see the decor as primarily white and green with a few velvet-backed chairs in primrose yellow and cornflower blue. The flower shop offers such a fresh, dewy fragrance, just breathing in would feel like a tonic. The bold USP would be no wi-fi, no mobile phones – you come here to sit and sip amongst the plants, maybe order a little snack from The Forager menu, and relax.

I adore the idea of working there at the weekend and doing all the branding for his launch, actually using my work skills for something meaningful, as opposed to a diet food that tastes as delicious as its list of chemicals would suggest. So selfishly I hope he doesn’t relocate to Sweden, even if I can picture him perfectly in a cabin a-swirl with Northern Lights. Freya’s work is holding her there for longer and longer periods which is why she won’t be at the wedding, but she wouldn’t care for all the excess anyway so perhaps it’s no bad thing.

*

After breakfast, I answer all the last-minute guest queries and check in with Charlotte to see if I’ve missed any of her handwritten notes.

‘There was just the two,’ she confirms. ‘I worry about your phone, one more crack to that screen and you won’t be able to see any messages.’

I feel bad. I promised I’d get a new one before the wedding for this very reason but can’t seem to do the deed.

‘It’ll last today and I’ll be with May most of the time anyway so ping her if you need me.’

While Charlotte gets back to her eyelash extensions I have a long, steamy bath, which feels deliciously decadent after my claustrophobic shower cubicle at home, and then tend to my make-up, going for a warm glow, cat-eye flicks and an ultra glittery peach lip.

Okay. I think I might have to pare back that metallic shimmer and eyeliner wing but the lip gloss part works.

I reach for one of the complimentary glass bottles of sparkling mineral water. This is so much better than getting sweaty and grimy on a train in from my place. I’m going to save putting on my dress until the last minute so I don’t catch it on anything as I drag my case along to the next room. I could go there now but I want to wait for May to arrive so we can be wowed together.

Or not.

Our room turns out to be an attic nook with a slanting, head-bumper of a ceiling and chaste twin beds.

‘And so the relegation begins,’ May complains.

‘It’s cute!’ I say, but as we prepare to change into our wedding outfits I feel the need to prop open the door with my shoe because it seems like the kind of place you’d send naughty children, only to forget about them for a decade or so.

Still, I’m extremely grateful not to have to trek back into London after what promises to be a night of great excess. Oh, and love and refinement, I remind myself as we hear the wafting strains of the string quartet. I adjust my posture – shoulders back, extend a swan-like neck . . . Suddenly it all feels rather grand and serene, bar the mocking peacock calls. I think they just heard the one about the bride who asked if they could be trained to fan out their tails on cue.

But who needs a peacock when you have Jay? While Gareth is in charge of the floral arrangements and May is security (should anyone other than her get out of line), Jay is head of neck-cricking, as everyone will be doing a double take at the sight of his outfit. I can say that with confidence despite having no idea what he’s planning on wearing.

Mind you, May is giving him a run for his money in a sharply tailored lilac suit with satin lapels and cropped trousers, her blue-black hair shorn around the ears but flopping over her right eye. She winks at me as I strike a pose in my dress – the floaty, girlie incarnation of the same fabric.

‘The structuring holding everything in place?’ she asks, checking the side seams.

‘Yup, feeling secure,’ I say, resetting my boobs and then twirling so she can see the silk flare out.

‘Nice. And I’m glad to see you persuaded Charlotte to go for the nude heels.’

‘I caved on the lilac nail varnish, though – it is her special day.’

‘Is it?’ May looks less than thrilled.

‘Don’t start,’ I say. ‘Is that your phone vibrating?’

She nods. ‘Tis her ladyship. Apparently she’s found a pair of binoculars in the turret – says she can’t see us at our designated spot . . .’

‘Oh crap!’ I say, looking at my watch. ‘We’ve got to run!’

We hurtle down the stairs, across the hall and down the front driveway, turning to wave blindly up at the turret.

‘Smile, May, for god’s sake,’ I elbow her.

‘I’m trying!’ she says through gritted teeth, then turns away with a sigh. ‘It’s just that she was my first girl crush, you know?’

‘I know,’ I nod in sympathy. ‘I think she was mine too.’

May’s head snaps to me.

‘In a pre-teen crush kind of way,’ I explain. ‘Her hair was so pretty and swishy and she always smelled like candyfloss.’

‘You don’t think you’ve been missing a trick all this time?’ May ventures with a smirk. ‘I mean, you’re kissing all these boys and seeing these terrible scenarios play out, maybe you ought to try something different?’

‘I can’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind,’ I confess. ‘I used to look at you and Teagan and it seemed a far more harmonious existence.’

‘Until it wasn’t.’

‘I know. I’m sorry that didn’t work out.’

‘We should never have got married,’ she tuts as the first gaggle of guests appear on the horizon. ‘It was just so thrilling to think that we could. 2014 – suddenly all these same-sex couples are at it and we wanted to be part of the historic movement. We just got carried away with it all.’

‘Totally understandable.’

‘Word is that she’s on the verge of doing it again.’

‘Really?’ I grimace. ‘How does that make you feel?’

‘Oh, you know, discarded, like I was a trial run. Jealous that she’s moved on and I haven’t – the usual.’ She shrugs.

‘Oh May.’ I pull her into a hug and kiss the top of her forehead.

‘Oh my god! Did you two get together?’ Ex-classmate Clancy Hetherington scuttles up to us. ‘I always thought there was a certain frisson.’

May and I exchange a look and then burst out laughing as she totters on her way.

‘Something to think about!’ May notes and then grips my arm. ‘Oh my god, look. Is Melanie Barnes finally preggers? She’s been trying since she was fifteen!’

We welcome a mix of familiar and unfamiliar faces, young and old, friendly and snooty. The majority are from Marcus’s side of the family, which is why I think Charlotte ended up inviting so many people we haven’t seen for years, just to make up her quota.

‘I’m beginning to think some of these people are from a casting agency,’ May notes. ‘Nobody wears hats like that anymore.’

When the third blast-from-the-past asks if May and I are now a couple, May cocks her head. ‘What if we are meant to be together? What if we’ve been here under each other’s noses all this time?’

I roll my eyes. ‘You want me to kiss you, don’t you?’

‘Oh, go on! It would be hilarious to see how things would pan out between us!’

‘No way.’

‘What are you afraid of – getting a vision of us all loved up with little hearts fluttering around us?’

‘I know I’m not your type.’

‘Oh, what’s a type anyway? Go on, I dare you!’

‘It’s not a party trick, May. You know the toll it has taken on me.’

‘I do know, and I’m not making light of what you’ve been through. I just think you need to take control of this superpower and show it who’s boss.’

‘And how do you propose I do that?’

‘You’ve got to stop being afraid of kissing people for fear that they’ll disappoint you. You said that after mattress guy you were taking a break?’

‘I have to, at least for a while.’

‘No,’ she asserts. ‘What you need to do is up your game. You know that business phrase “Fail faster”? You make a mistake, you don’t wallow in it or beat yourself up, you just move on. You kiss them, they’re a dud, you yell NEXT! – maybe not out loud – and then you kiss the next and the next and the next.’

‘That sounds exhausting.’

‘But it’s the only approach that will work. Speed it up!’ She clicks her fingers at me. ‘You’ve got to be in it to win it.’

‘Remind me, when did you get your life coaching certificate?’

‘It’s the champagne. You know it always makes me extra bossy.’

‘They haven’t even started serving it yet.’

‘That’s sweet that you think I would wait to be served.’ She turns and holds my bare shoulders in her hands, targeting my pupils with her own. ‘Use today as an experiment. No club in the land has more willing candidates for romance than a wedding. People are at their most lonely and vulnerable. Take advantage of that.’

‘Um . . .’

‘Or, you could look upon it as offering a service – give the guys something to brag about at the office on Monday. “There was this one girl – total fox in lilac silk, killer cleavage—” ’

Suddenly I take May’s face in my hands and kiss her full on the lips.

There’s a moment of stunned silence before she clamours, ‘Oh my god, what did you see? Tell me, tell me!’

‘I couldn’t possibly!’ I taunt, though there is nothing to tell.

‘What?’ she shrieks.

‘I’m serious – I’m taking that one to my grave!’

‘Tell me, tell me now!’ she implores.

I dodge out of her grasp and break into a run, squealing as I go. My plan was to divert from the gravel driveway onto the lawn and sprint over to the walled garden but no – the second I step onto the damp grass my heels sink down, locking me in place.

‘Haha! Your girlish ways foil you again!’ May is upon me in an instant, tickling me, insisting I tell all when suddenly I get an entirely different kind of premonition – a clear vision of me losing my balance, falling backwards and ruining the lilac silk, Charlotte’s bridesmaid line-up and all the wedding photos in one fell swoop. There’s nothing supernatural about this, it’s simply an awareness of gravity.

‘Noooo!’ I cry out, bracing myself for impact.

But instead of my bottom meeting with sludgy turf I collide with something a good deal firmer – a set of arms bearing me up and sweeping me off my feet like Superman. Only this hero is firmly earthbound, on his knees, looking like he is about to offer me as a sacrifice before the mocking goddess that is May.

‘I think you may have missed your calling on the rugby field,’ she smirks at Gareth.

‘You saved my dress!’ I gasp in disbelief.

‘At the expense of his suit, I fear.’ May points to his trousers as he sets me upright.

‘Oh no!’ I wail at the state of his mud-smirched knees.

‘Don’t worry about that.’ Gareth brushes aside our concerns along with a chunk of turf. ‘People would probably be more surprised if I didn’t have dirt on me.’

‘I can’t believe you got to me so quickly!’ I didn’t even see him arrive.

‘I came from the house,’ he explains. ‘Had to drop off the flowers.’

He then turns to May, who is inspecting him from assorted angles. ‘Can I help you?’

‘You know, aside from your knees, you look remarkably clean.’ May squints. ‘Let’s see your hands.’

He holds them out for her assessment.

‘Impressive. Did you get a mani?’

‘I got a nail brush,’ he concedes.

‘You clean up well, my friend.’

He really does. Crisp white shirt, lilac satin tie, silver-grey suit jacket doing its darnedest to accommodate his biceps . . . But I’m pleased to see there’s still a trace of the Gareth we know and love when it comes to the footwear – while the other men are in highly polished dress shoes, he’s sporting grey suede desert boots.

‘So, what was going on with you two anyway?’ he asks. ‘You looked like you were playing kiss chase.’

‘Funny you should say that . . .’ I arch a brow.

‘She kissed me and she won’t tell me what she saw,’ May pouts.

‘She made me do it!’ I protest.

‘Oh, come on,’ May scoffs, ‘you know you wanted to!’

‘May!’ Gareth scolds. ‘It’s like Me Too never happened!’

‘Ooh!’ May gasps, grabbing at my arm with undue vigour.

‘What now?’ I sigh.

‘Kiss Gareth!’

Oh. My. God.

‘Go on, Freya wouldn’t mind!’

‘I’m sorry, she’s already on the booze.’ I wince as Gareth flushes pink and turns away, desperately searching for something to point to.

That something comes in the form of May’s brother Jay, stomping up the driveway like he’s on the catwalk, complete with booming Taylor Swift soundtrack.

‘I thought he was joking when he said he was going to install speakers in his shoulder pads,’ May gasps.

He looks like the result of a Project Runway avant-garde challenge with a Prince theme. His torso is an inverted triangle winched to a corsetted waist with a fountain of lavender tulle spilling down to the floor.

‘Purple train, purple train,’ I sing to myself.

‘He does know this isn’t his big day, right?’ Gareth ponders.

May clunks her head. ‘I knew there was something I was supposed to tell him!’ And with that she’s off.

*

To understand May and Jay, you have to first be introduced to their parents. Mother Saffron was an eighties supermodel turned psychologist; father Vince was a rag trade geezer from the East End. They actually met on a photo shoot in Petticoat Lane, which always makes me picture him in a tweedy hat and waistcoat and her in voluminous lacy underskirts. She loved that he was a bit rough around the edges; he loved that she was smooth as silk. They married swiftly and, when they learned they couldn’t have their own children, adopted May and Jay from an orphanage in Malaysia. Saffron loved to dress the twins in his ’n’ hers outfits. They had similar bob haircuts at the time and no one really noticed when they would switch clothes – May coveting Jay’s sharp shorts and braces, Jay wanting May’s ruffles and bows. Both looking outrageously cute either way.

When Saffron passed away tragically young, Vince couldn’t fathom raising the twins on his own but they were also what kept him going through this darkest time, so he kept them close at hand. Their primary playroom was a fabric warehouse filled with endless off-cuts and scraps and their dolls were always the most fashion forward in town. Jay loved how each fabric texture told a different story and was always experimenting with costumes, dressing himself to the ninety-nines and demanding May take pictures, which is where she honed her photography and art director skills. She had a knack for finding unusual or contrasting backgrounds, always busily cycling around London scouting locations.

Many a time people would yell comments at Jay’s pose or outfit but May would give them as good as he got and, frankly, could scare off any mouthy fool. She seemed to have X-ray vision for people’s weaknesses and would hone in on them with laser precision, leaving them to scurry away, tail between their legs. But then Jay found his tribe – and dream clientele – at Comicon, quickly getting a name as the creator of the most outrageous, colourful, head-turning cosplay creations. Or, as he likes to call them, everyday wear.

Meanwhile May has become known as the most badass fashion and portrait photographer in town. I can totally see why people are intimidated by her but none of us take offence at the things she says, no matter how much she might wish we would. I just hope she doesn’t take it too far today and pipe up at a significant point in the ceremony . . .

For now, I return my attention to Gareth’s trousers. ‘You know, if we used a hairdryer on the dirt it would turn to dust and we could probably brush off most of it.’

‘It’s okay – no one’s going to be looking at me anyway. Not with all you beauties at large. Not large – you know what I mean.’

‘I do.’ I smile fondly. ‘Do you think May ran away so she wouldn’t have to get fitted for her hair vine?’

‘Oh, I got a buttonhole for her,’ he notes. ‘I value my life.’

My phone buzzes. ‘It’s Charlotte. Ready to go?’

He nods and offers me his arm but I take one step and my heels sink down again.

‘Darnit! How do other women do this?’

‘Here,’ he says, scooping me up for the second time. ‘It’s easier if I just carry you.’

I wouldn’t have thought that the concept of ‘easy’ and carrying me could exist in the same sentence but somehow he makes the action seem effortless. As he lightly shifts my body to get a better grip my skirt slips away at the back so that one of his hands is now firmly gripping the bare skin on my thigh. I turn my face towards his neck so he can’t see the effect that the skin-on-skin touch of a man is having on me. It’s been a while.

‘Oi, mate!’ a voice heckles us. ‘I thought it was the bride that was supposed to get carried over the threshold!’

Suddenly I’m aware of all the eyes upon us.

‘Oh my god, are you two together?’ Shelley Lane coos, still keen to create gossip from thin air.

I roll my eyes as Gareth sets me down but she’s gone before I can respond.

‘If it’s any consolation, they said the same about me and May twenty minutes ago.’

‘Really?’ he laughs. ‘Not that I mind them thinking that.’

I raise a brow.

‘It might deter Joy Mellor,’ he clarifies.

I give a little chuckle. Joy Mellor had been the school pin-up of our year and as such, she’d never been able to accept that Gareth wanted no part of her. No matter how many times she’d offered herself to him.

‘Actually, you’re off the hook,’ I say as we head inside. ‘Joy cancelled this morning – burned her hand with her curling tong – it was rolling off the counter and she went to catch it.’

‘Noooo!’ Gareth shudders.

‘I know. Those things are a million degrees.’ My hand inadvertently goes to the tip of my ear and then my cheek, both of which have experienced the scorching. ‘Of course, I’m more sorry Freya couldn’t make it. It feels like ages since we saw her. What conference is she at this time?’

‘Um . . .’ Gareth seems quite tortured by the effort of remembering.

‘They always have such convoluted titles, don’t they?’ I say as we head up the stairs.

‘I – I should know,’ he frets, ‘I even wrote it down . . .’

‘It’s okay,’ I say, not wanting to stress him further. ‘I know it’s something that is going to help save the planet and that’s all that matters.’

We’ve only made it halfway to Charlotte’s suite when Gareth suddenly seems incapable of proceeding, both physically and verbally.

‘Everything okay?’ I nudge him.

He looks back at me.

‘Gareth?’

‘Can you keep a secret?’ He ushers me closer to the wood panelling.

I look around. ‘Well, generally, yes. But you are asking me before I am about to drink an obscene amount of alcohol with a large group of people, most of whom still have good hearing.’

‘You’re right. It’s not the time.’ He goes to move on.

‘Not the time for what?’ I reach for his arm.

‘No, nothing.’

‘Is it Freya? Has something happened? She’s not ill, is she? Or pregnant?’ My voice makes a little leap but Gareth’s expression is less than celebratory. ‘Tell me,’ I urge.

‘We broke up.’

‘What?’ I reel. ‘When?’

‘Two months ago.’

‘Two months!’ I exclaim and then try a more hushed response because I still can’t believe it. ‘Two months?’

‘I didn’t want to say anything to unsettle the bride.’ He nods in the direction of Charlotte’s suite. ‘No one wants to think about friends breaking up before they say I do.’

‘True,’ I nod. ‘But, Gareth, really? You’ve been going through all this heartache alone?’

‘It’s fine.’

‘No, it’s not!’ I protest.

‘Well, today really isn’t the day to go into this. I’m sorry I even mentioned it. I just felt so bad lying to you.’

‘Trying to lie to me,’ I correct him. ‘You didn’t really land that plane.’

‘I guess not.’ He looks deflated.

‘It’s okay. By the time twenty more people have asked after Freya, you’ll have it down.’

‘Maybe I shouldn’t risk seeing Charlotte? You could take the hair vines in for me?’

‘Are you kidding?’ I hoot. ‘She’d be all, “Where’s Gareth? What’s wrong? The centrepieces have wilted, haven’t they? I’ve had nightmares about this and it’s all coming true!” ’

‘Hmm.’ Gareth acknowledges the likelihood of this scenario.

‘It’ll be fine. I can cover for you if she asks. Besides, there’s only half an hour to go before the ceremony and you know she always finds you a calming influence.’

He concedes a nod. ‘Last week she said I was the next best thing to having a tree for a friend.’

I chuckle. ‘You know she meant that as a compliment?’

‘Of course,’ he acknowledges. ‘It might actually be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.’

‘Well then.’

He gives a light shrug. ‘Okay, let’s do it!’