‘So, Issie? Have you decided – are you going to be the bridesmaid or the best man?’ asks Josh.

‘I’m going to be the bridesmaid. I like the outfit better.’

‘You like me better,’ I screech playfully.

I notice she doesn’t answer me but instead asks, ‘So where are you getting married?’

We answer simultaneously and differently.

‘In London,’ I say.

‘At home,’ says Josh.

‘At home,’ I offer quickly.

‘In London,’ he presses.

‘We haven’t worked out the details,’ I smile apologetically to Issie. Wisely, she doesn’t comment.

‘We do have a date,’ says Josh. I snuggle closer to him.

‘Well, that’s good,’ smiles Issie. ‘When?’

‘June,’ I say.

‘July,’ says Josh at the same time. We both laugh. ‘Look, I don’t mind. Do what you want. I’m just thrilled. It’s going to be the best party ever.’ He leans in and kisses me. I wiggle away because I don’t want to embarrass Issie.

Josh leaves for rugby practice and Issie and I set to on Project Wedding. I approach it exactly as I approach projects at work.

‘OK, we need a list.’

Issie jumps up and finds paper and pen. I grab a bunch of bridal magazines and I open the bottle of Chardonnay.

‘So you are still working on when and where?’ says Issie quietly as she carefully writes ‘Cas and Josh’s wedding’ at the top of the page. Her handwriting is round and childish and familiar.

‘July and Esher, Josh’s family home.’

‘Good progress,’ grins Issie. ‘Which church?’

‘A church? I hadn’t thought of a church.’

‘They usually feature.’

‘I was thinking of a civil ceremony. Maybe in a garden or a smart hotel?’ I cross my legs underneath me.

Issie gently probes, ‘Have you discussed this with Josh? I mean he’s quite godly.’

‘Considering he plays rugby,’ I add.

We both laugh. It’s true Josh is a long way from being a bible basher but he does believe in God and goes to church at Easter, Christmas and at least two or three other times a year. I do recall him taking his godfather duties very seriously when he became godfather to the children of his head of chambers. I’d sort of put it down to brown nosing. But maybe not. I consider it.

‘Of course he’s godly, Issie. He went to a posh school which had obligatory Mass. Look, I’ll discuss it with him.’

‘Well, if you are hoping for a July wedding you’d better discuss it pretty damn quickly. It’s April now. I take it you mean this July?’ She’s doodling hearts and bells on the corner of the list.

‘Yes, I mean this July.’

We move on and begin to draw up a list of costs. I’m somewhat perturbed to discover that tradition has it that the bride’s parents are supposed to pay for just about everything; the groom’s parents get off with the odd bunch of flowers and the rings. I doubt very much that my mother has had a secret trust fund that magically matures as I meet Prince Charming. I think her budgeting for my wedding would truly have been a leap of faith; I’d hardly indicated that I was marrying material. Unless I want to give my guests sausages on sticks and cheese and pineapple chunks, Josh and I will have to pay for the wedding. I hope that won’t offend anyone. People have been acting rather strangely recently. Indeed, if I’d had a pound for every time anyone had said the words ‘traditional’, ‘the done thing’ and ‘expected’, I’d be a millionaire. I’m surprised that these words have been showered on me with such frequency because I’d never heard them previously in my entire life.

‘OK, so what else needs to be included in this project plan?’ I ask.

‘No one could ever accuse you of being overly romantic, could they, Cas?’ grins Issie wryly.

‘I just want to be well organized.’

She shrugs and then reverts to the bridal magazine; I revert to the wine bottle.

‘Well, for the service, civil or church, you need wedding rings and a form of service. You need to select music and readings. You’ll have to consider cars, photographers and guest accommodation. There is a lot to think about. You’ll need a guest list, and an acceptance list, lists of menus, lists of drink, gift lists. There are caterers to consider. You need to book a photographer and videographer. If I were you I’d decline my dad’s kind offer to bring his cinecamera along. It’s older than I am. What type of reception do you want?’

There’s only one type, isn’t there? The after-ceremony type.’

Issie rolls her eyes. ‘Sit-down meal, buffet, melon balls and chicken or something a little less traditional, Asian, sushi, Italian, Mexican? What about your silverware, napkins, menu design, flowers? Are you going to invite children? And if so, you should consider their menu and an entertainer. What about the favours, the balloons, the seating plan? Round tables or square ? Who’s going to sit in the seat that is traditionally saved for the father of the bride? Will you have speeches? Will you make one?’ She finally draws to a halt.

‘Oh, I see. Well, what do you think?’ This is the question Issie has been waiting to be asked all her life.

‘Well, if it were me, I’d want it to be sit-down and with a seating plan. I wouldn’t try to mix oldies and youngies – because that only works in books. I’d allow the people with things in common to sit together. I’d want tuna carpaccio, followed by tempura fish with chilli salad and Parmesan polenta and then summer berries, which I’d have stacked in huge mounds as table centrepieces. I wouldn’t have a traditional cake but I’d have a bitter chocolate profiterole mound instead.’

I’m left stranded somewhere between horrified and admiring. When has Issie had time to think of all this? Then I remember she does this imaginary wedding thing instead of t’ai chi.

‘Er, sounds good. Let’s have that.’

‘You can’t have that! That’s what I’m having!’

I don’t point out that Issie isn’t even seeing anyone on a regular basis. It doesn’t seem like a nice thing to do.

‘Well, erm…’ I’m unsure what to say next. ‘I don’t really mind and I’m pretty sure Josh is relaxed about it too. Let’s ask my mum. She’ll love getting involved. Planning my wedding will cheer up her drab little life.’

‘I’m not sure she thinks it’s drab.’

‘Oh, come on, Issie, she must! Before she married she lived an exemplary life of purity and chastity – which can hardly be a barrel of laughs. Then she fell uncontrollably in love with her husband, he exited stage left and ever since she’s put her life on hold by refusing to get over him.’

‘Is that how you see it?’

‘Is there any other way?’ I’m already dialling my mother’s number, so I can’t be sure, but I think I hear Issie say something about three sins I’m clear of. I watch as she moves her finger down the magazine page as she reads, which I find quaint and touching. The finger stops and hesitates.

‘What about insurance?’ asks Issie.

‘Insurance? What will I need insurance for?’

‘Theft of pressies, damage to the dress, damage to the marquee.’

‘It’s a wedding, not a rave.’

‘The loss of deposits due to the cancellation of the wedding.’

We both pause.

‘Well, let’s get an estimate.’

My mother picks up the mantle. She works steadily throughout the summer and does a marvellous job of knocking the day into shape. Full of zeal, she organizes everything from the church to the caterers, tactfully asking Josh’s mum’s opinion every step of the way. The wedding has a profound effect on everyone. Josh’s mum has become more animated than I’ve ever seen her before, drinking less and smiling more. As I don’t have a father to do the traditional patriarchal stuff, Josh’s father happily adopts the role. He invites everyone he’s ever met to the wedding, talks about the ‘forthcoming happy event’ and, I swear, he’s even taken to swaggering. This would be infuriating behaviour except, a more happy consequence, he has decided that keeping a mistress is incongruous with his current self-image. For the time being at least, he has given up his philandering. Josh is delirious. Issie hasn’t actually voiced any objections. Everyone is as happy as pigs in mud. I’m relieved to be freed up from the hassle, as I can now turn back to concentrating on my work. With vengeance.

I have returned to my routine of five trips to the gym a week, cycling into the office by 8.30 a.m. and working through lunch. However, I don’t often stay late now because Mum organizes imperative meetings with the dressmaker/vicar/caterers/videographer/photographer/florist, etc., on a more or less continuous basis. But then I like to be busy. I exist in a huge waft of tissue paper and ribbons with a sprinkling of rose petals.

‘Someone has parked their bike in my space. Deal with it,’ I bark at Jaki. ‘Ricky, do you have the runs for last night’s shows? Di, Debs, have either of you seen the papers today? We are mentioned in the Guardian for our storyline in Teddington Crescent and in the Sun for the documentary on stars’ babies and in the Star for Sex with an Ex. Pretty good crop for one day, I’m sure you’ll agree. Get a response out to all three editors by 10 a.m.’

Jaki puts a double espresso on my desk.

‘What did you watch on TV last night?’ she asks.

‘No time, I was at a tiara fitting.’ We take a moment to smirk at each other.

‘Morning, darling,’ shouts Tom generally to no one in particular.

‘Afternoon,’ we chorus as it’s 8.45 a.m. Tom looks wounded – he’s probably never been in the office so early before.

The status meeting runs exactly to plan. Gray tells me that we have received two complaints from the ITC about offensive language, but, or indeed therefore, the ratings achieved for most of our shows are as expected. The entire team negotiates with him over the predicted ratings for next season’s schedule. As the advertising and sponsorship director, it is in his interest to put in ‘stretch predictions’. The rest of the team see this as setting unfeasible targets. I settle the matter by diplomatically choosing a number mid-distance between the two extremes. Ricky updates me on scheduling. I’m only half listening because I notice Debs isn’t listening at all but instead staring at her Screensaver of George Clooney. I’m irritated by her lack of commitment. I tune back in to Ricky.