Chapter 1

       I was surprised to be asked to be a bridesmaid for someone I would have considered more a friend-of-a-friend. I realised really quickly that it wasn’t the honour it had first seemed – she had twelve bridesmaids. Then the emails started. Until the wedding was over we were banned from dying or cutting our hair, getting any tattoos or piercings, putting on weight (losing it was apparently fine). The wedding at this time was two years away. We took it as just a bad joke … until one maid cut in a fringe and was promptly fired and replaced with someone from the “bridesmaid bench”.

      Erika, Poole

      Sarah was there first, as Nora had expected, armed with a half dozen glossy bridal magazines and good-natured excitement. Bea and Cleo arrived pretty much at the same time, each having to hug Nora five or six times before they could take their seats. Daisy completed the group, having stopped off at the bar en route to the table to order a bottle of something bubbly and expensive.

      ‘So, go on,’ Cleo urged, the second Daisy had taken her coat off. ‘Give us the story.’

      Nora laughed, holding both hands to her face to feign shyness; the solitaire diamond ring they were all there to celebrate winked at them from her left hand. ‘I’ve already told you!’

      ‘Then tell us again,’ Daisy demanded. ‘Get the practice in, you’re going to be telling this story a lot.’

      ‘For the rest of your life,’ added Sarah, smiling. ‘Trust me – I’m still asked to tell my proposal story all the time.’

      ‘Okay, okay, fine!’ Nora made a show of agreeing, still laughing. ‘If you insist. So, you know, Harry was away with work for most of February, so we had a really belated Valentine’s Day dinner booked.’

      ‘Valentine’s Day,’ Bea repeated, rolling her eyes, but her smile was wide.

      ‘He’s such a cutie pie,’ agreed Daisy, moving slightly to the side to allow the arriving waitress to place the ice bucket in the middle of their table.

      ‘But, you know, there was a Tube strike. And it was going to be a complete pain in the arse to get across to London Bridge, where the restaurant was,’ Nora continued, still idly fiddling with her new accessory. ‘So I said, let’s leave it, too much hassle, love, let’s just get some takeaway curries and stay in and watch Netflix.’

      The girls all started to giggle as they imagined Harry’s panic at that moment. He was a great one for a plan, was Harry, and now there he was – on arguably one of the most important nights of his life – scuppered, stressed, cursing the railworkers’ union for ruining his chance at eternal happiness.

      ‘And Harry was … shall we say, uncharacte‌ristically insistent,’ Nora carried on, giggling too. ‘He was banging on about how it was our first proper Valentine’s Day as a couple. Then he told me we simply had to go, because he’d put a huge deposit down on the table and he wouldn’t get his money back! And I was thinking, Christ, what kind of a restaurant is this?’

      Nora paused to join the girls in a mini-cheer as the waitress deftly opened the champagne with a festive pop and began to fill the waiting flutes.

      ‘So, he said he’d order us an Uber, and – of course – everyone in London wants to get in a taxi right then because the Tube is so up the spout, so we have to wait for ages. And he’s pacing through the lounge, glaring at his phone, glaring out of the window, glaring at me – and I was wondering what was bloody wrong with the man!’

      ‘And you didn’t even have the slightest inkling what was coming?’ Sarah asked, breathlessly, an eternal romantic.

      Nora shook her head. ‘Not a clue. I thought he’d just had a bad day at work, or something. So anyway, the car arrived and we got to the restaurant and, you know, it’s mostly empty. They haven’t given away our table or anything – I mean, come on, it’s like a Tuesday night! – and once we get sat down, Harry calms down a bit. And you know how normally I have to decide right off when I go to a restaurant if I’m going to have a starter or a pudding? Well, Harry tells me immediately that we’re going to have a pudding because they do this special called the ‘Lover’s Platter’ for dessert, and hey, it’s our fake Valentine’s Day after all, so I’m like, sure, okay, fine.’

      ‘How could you not have known what was coming?’ howled Daisy. ‘He was being so obvious!’

      Nora shook her head again. ‘Anyway, so we ordered mains—’

      ‘What did you have?’ Bea demanded, determined to wring as many little details out of this story as possible.

      ‘Er, well, it was an Italian. I had this like, sweet chilli-prawn spaghetti thing. Harry had a calzone.’

      ‘No!’ groaned Bea. ‘That’s so unromantic!’

      Nora raised an eyebrow. ‘You’d rather we’d eaten oysters and strawberries or something?’

      ‘Anything but pizza and pasta!’ Daisy agreed. ‘Too mundane for such an important anecdote, hun.’

      ‘Sorry to disappoint! We even had garlic bread on the side,’ Nora grinned, achieving a chorus of disapproving moans. ‘So anyway, everything’s pretty normal and we finish and they clear away the plates and then Harry orders this Lover’s Platter thing and they bring it out super-quick, like, too quick. And to be honest, I was still pretty full and I didn’t really fancy anything more. And it was this whole great big plate for two people, full of macaroons, and little truffles and pastries with cream and tiny brownies cut into heart shapes.’ Nora paused, a small smile playing on her face. ‘It was pretty sweet.’

      ‘Anyway, then I stood up – because I wanted to take a picture of it from above, you know? And Harry jumped up too and was all, what’s wrong, where are you going? I said, nowhere! I just want to take a shot of this for my Instagram, it’s so nice … and we sat back down and I was busy trying different filters on for size and not really paying attention. So I uploaded the picture and, you know, everything’s still pretty normal …’

      ‘Yes, and?’ Bea prompted, impatiently.

      ‘Go on!’ Sarah insisted.

      ‘Yeah, then what happened?’ urged the excited waitress, champagne bottle still in hand.

      ‘Well, Harry’s just staring at me, properly staring. And then he asks me why I’m not eating, so I tell him I need a break because I’m still pretty full from all that spaghetti I just nailed. And he starts telling me to eat one of the profiteroles at least – you love profiteroles, he keeps saying – so, basically, just to shut him up, I forked a profiterole.’

      ‘And?’ Daisy grinned. ‘And?’

      ‘And the fork goes – clink! And I look at what’s there, and it’s, well …’ Nora wiggled her left fingers and laughed. ‘Under the profiteroles. And I don’t even know when he did it, but I suddenly realise that Harry’s on the floor next to me, on one knee and everything, and he said – oh, a bunch of stuff! I can’t even remember, I was so shocked! But at the end of whatever he was saying he said – you know, the important bit – ‘So, will you marry me?’ – and I realised it was actually happening.’

      ‘And I, naturally, burst into horrendous ugly-crying. I couldn’t speak. I just got down on the floor next to him and hugged him and bawled. I got mascara all over his shirt collar! We’ve had to take it into the dry-cleaners, it’s a state. Anyway. I eventually managed to actually say the word ‘yes’ and all the waiting staff were cheering