I can see Alicia’s brain working hard.

‘You’re the one having the enchanted forest in the Plaza,’ she says at last. ‘I’ve heard about that. It’s going to cost a fortune. And you’re having violinists flown in from the Vienna Symphony Orchestra. Is that true?’

‘The New York Philharmonic was on tour,’ says Robyn regretfully. ‘But apparently these Viennese people are very good–’

‘I’m sure they’ll be great,’ I say, and smile at Robyn, who beams back as though I’m an old ally.

‘Mees Bloomwood.’ Antoine appears from nowhere and presses my hand to his lips. ‘I am now completely at your service. I apologize for the delay. One of these irritating little matters...’

Alicia’s face goes rigid.

‘Well,’ she says. ‘I’ll be off then.’

‘Au revoir,’ says Antoine, without even looking up.

'Bye Alicia,' I say innocently. ‘Have a lovely wedding.’

As she stalks out, I subside back in my seat, heart still pumping with exhilaration. That was one of the best moments of my life. Finally getting the better of Alicia Bitch Long-legs. Finally! I mean, how often has she been horrible to me? Answer: approximately one thousand times. And how often have I had the perfect put-down at my lips? Answer: never.

Until today!

I can see Robyn and Antoine exchanging looks, and I’m dying to ask them what they think of Alicia. But... It wouldn’t be becoming in a bride-to-be.

Plus if they bitch about her, they might bitch about me, too.

‘Now!’ says Robyn. ‘On to something more pleasant. You’ve seen the details of Becky’s wedding, Antoine.’

‘Indeed,’ says Antoine, beaming at me. ‘Eet will be a most beautiful event.’

‘I know,’ I hear myself saying happily. ‘I’m so looking forward to it!’

‘So... We discuss the cake... I must fetch some Pictures for you... meanwhile, can I offer you some more champagne, perhaps?’

‘Yes please,’ I say and hold out my glass. ‘That would be lovely!’

The champagne fizzes, pale and delicious, into my glass. Then Antoine disappears again and I take a sip, smiling to hide the fact that, inside, I’m feeling a slight unease.

Now that Alicia’s gone, there’s no need to pretend any more. What I should do is put my glass down, take Robyn aside, apologize for having wasted her time – and inform her that the wedding is off and I’m getting married in Oxshott. Quite simple and straight­forward.

That’s what I should do.

But... something very strange has happened since this morning. I can’t quite explain it – but somehow, sitting here, drinking champagne and eating thousand-dollar cake, I just don’t feel like someone who’s going to get married in a garden in Oxshott.

If I’m really honest, hand on heart – I feel exactly like someone who’s going to have a huge, luxurious wedding at the Plaza.

More than that, I want to be someone who’s going to have a huge, luxurious wedding at the Plaza. I want to be that girl who swans around expensive cake shops, and has people running after her and gets treated like a princess. If I call off the wedding, then it’ll all stop. Everyone will stop making a fuss. I’ll stop being that special, glossy person.

Oh God, what’s happened to me? I was so resolved this morning.

Determinedly I close my eyes and force myself to think back to Mum and her flowering cherry tree. But even that doesn’t work. Perhaps it’s the champagne – but instead of being overcome with emotion, and think­ing: ‘I must get married at home,’ I find myself thinking: ‘Maybe we can incorporate the cherry tree into the enchanted forest.’

‘All right, Becky?’ says Robyn, beaming at me. ‘Penny for them!’

‘Oh!’ I say, my head jerking up guiltily. ‘I was just thinking that... the urn... wedding will be fantastic.’

What am I going to do? Am I going to say something?

Am I not going to say anything?

Come on Becky. Decide.

‘So – you want to see what I have in my bag?’ says Robyn brightly.

‘Er… yes please.’

‘Ta-daah!’ She pulls out a thick, embossed card, covered in swirly writing, and hands it to me.

Mrs Elinor Sherman requests the honour of your presence at the marriage of Rebecca Bloomwood to her son Luke Brandon...

I stare at it, my heart thumping hard.

This is real. This is really real. Here it is, in black and white.

Or, at least, bronze and taupe.

I take the stiff card from her and turn it over and over in my fingers.

‘What do you think?’ Robyn beams. ‘It’s exquisite, isn’t it? The card is eighty per cent linen.’

‘It’s... lovely.’ I swallow. ‘It seems very soon to be sending out invitations, though.’

‘We aren’t sending them out yet! But I always like to get the invitations done early. What I always say is, you can’t proof-read too many times. We don’t want to be asking our guests to wear ‘evening press’, like one bride I could mention...’ She trills with laughter.

‘Right.’ I stare down at the words again.

Saturday 22nd June at seven o’clock

at the Plaza Hotel

New York City

This is serious. If I’m going to say anything, I have to say it now. If I’m going to call this wedding off, I have to do it now. Right this minute.

But my mouth remains closed.

Does this really mean I’m choosing the Plaza after all? That I’m selling out? That I’m choosing the gloss and glitter? That I’m going with Elinor instead of Mum and Dad?

‘I thought you’d like to send one to your mother!’ says Robyn.

My head jerks up sharply – but Robyn’s face is blithely innocent. ‘Such a shame she isn’t here to get involved with the preparations. But she’ll love to see this, won’t she?’

‘Yes,’ I say after a long pause. ‘Yes, she’ll... love it.’