There’s silence at the end of the phone.

“Oh,” says Lottie at last. “Sorry. I just looked back at my text. I thought I’d told you. I’m not marrying Richard; I’m marrying Ben. Remember Ben?”

“No, I do not remember Ben!” I say, feeling increasingly frazzled.

“That’s right, you never met him. Well, he was my gap-year boyfriend in Greece, and he’s come back into my life and we’re getting married.”

I feel as though the ceiling has caved in. She was marrying Richard. It all made sense. Now she’s running off with some guy called Ben? I don’t even know where to start.

“Lotts … But, Lotts, I mean … How can you be getting married to him?” A thought suddenly comes to me. “Is this a visa thing?”

“No, it’s not a visa thing!” She sounds indignant. “It’s love!”

“You love this guy Ben enough to marry him?” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.

“Yes.”

“When exactly did he come back into your life?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Two weeks ago,” I repeat calmly, although I want to burst into hysterical laughter. “After how long?”

“Fifteen years.” She sounds defiant. “And before you ask me, yes, I have thought it through.”

“OK! Well, congratulations. I’m sure Ben’s wonderful.”

“He’s amazing. You’ll love him. He’s good-looking, and he’s fun, and we’re totally connected—”

“Great! Look, let’s meet up for lunch, OK? And we can talk about it.”

I’m overreacting, I tell myself. I simply have to adjust to this new situation. Maybe this guy Ben is perfect for Lottie and it will all work out brilliantly. As long as they have a nice long engagement and don’t rush into anything—

“Shall we meet at Selfridges?” Lottie says. “I’m there now, actually. I’m buying honeymoon underwear!”

“Yes, I heard. So, when were you planning to get married?”

“Tomorrow,” she says happily. “We wanted to do it as soon as possible. Can you take the day off?”

Tomorrow? She’s gone mad.

“Lotts, stay there.” I can hardly get the words out. “I’ll come and meet you. I think we should have a talk.”

I should never have relaxed. I should never have gone on holiday. I should have realized Lottie wouldn’t rest till she’d found something to channel all her hurt energy into. And it’s this. A marriage.

By the time I get to Selfridges, my heart is thumping and I have a head full of questions. Lottie, on the other hand, has a basket full of underwear. No, not underwear, sex kit. She’s standing looking at a transparent basque as I hurtle toward her, almost knocking over a rail of Princesse Tam Tam teddies. As she sees me, she holds it up.

“What do you think?”

I eye the stuff in her basket. She’s clearly been at the Agent Provocateur concession. There’s lots of black see-through lace. And is that an eye mask?

“What do you think?” she says impatiently, and jiggles the basque at me. “It’s quite expensive. Shall I try it on?”

Isn’t there a slightly bigger question we should be discussing? I want to yell. Like: who is this Ben and why are you marrying him? But if I know one thing about Lottie, it’s that I need to play things carefully. I need to talk her down.

“So!” I say as brightly as I can. “You’re getting married. To someone I’ve never met.”

“You’ll meet him at the wedding. You’ll love him, Fliss.” Her eyes are shiny as she tosses the transparent basque into her basket and adds a teeny thong. “I can’t believe everything’s worked out so perfectly. I’m so happy.”

“Right. Wonderful! Me too!” I leave a tiny pause before adding, “Although—just a thought—do you need to get married so soon? Couldn’t you have a long engagement and plan everything properly?”

“There’s nothing to plan! It’s all going to be so easy. Chelsea Register Office. Lunch at some lovely place. Simple and romantic. You’re going to be bridesmaid, I hope.” She squeezes my arm, then reaches for another basque.

There’s something extra-weird about her. I survey her, trying to work out what’s different. She’s got that post-breakup manic air about her—but even more than usual. Her eyes are overbright. She’s hyper. Is Ben a dealer? Is she on something?

“So, Ben just contacted you out of the blue?”

“He got in touch and we had dinner. And it was as though we’d never been apart. We were so in tune with each other.” She sighs blissfully. “He’d been in love with me for fifteen years. Fifteen years. And I’d been in love with him too. That’s why we want to get married quickly. We’ve wasted enough time already, Fliss.” Her voice throbs dramatically, as though she’s in a TV true-life movie. “We want to get on with the rest of our life.”

What?

OK, this is bollocks. Lottie has not been in love with someone called Ben for the last fifteen years. I think I might know if she had.

“You’ve been in love with him the last fifteen years?” I can’t help challenging her. “Funny that you never mentioned him. At all.”

“I loved him inside.” She clasps a hand to her side. “Here. Maybe I didn’t tell you about it. Maybe I don’t tell you everything.” She defiantly throws a garter belt into her basket.

“Have you got a photo of him?”

“Not on me. But he’s gorgeous. I want you to give a speech, by the way,” she adds blithely. “You’re chief-bridesmaid-slash-best-woman. And Ben’s best man is his friend Lorcan. It’ll just be the four of us at the ceremony.”

I stare at her in exasperation. I was planning to be tactful and go softly, softly, but I can’t. This is all too crazy.

“Lottie.” I plant a hand on the packet of stockings she was about to pick up. “Stop. And listen a moment. I know you don’t want to hear this, but you have to.” I wait until she reluctantly turns her eyes toward me. “You split up from Richard about five minutes ago. You were about to commit to him. You’d bought him an engagement ring. You said you loved him. Now you’re rushing off with some guy you barely know? Is this really a good idea?”

“Well, it’s a good thing I did split up from Richard! A very good thing!” Lottie is suddenly bristling like a cat. “I’ve done a lot of thinking, Fliss. And I’ve realized Richard was all wrong for me. All wrong! I need someone romantic. Someone who can feel. Someone who’ll put himself out there for me, you know? Richard’s a nice guy and I thought I loved him. But now I realize the truth: he’s limited.”

She spits out “limited” as though it’s the worst insult she can come up with.

“What do you mean, ‘limited’?” I can’t help feeling a bit defensive on Richard’s behalf.

“He’s narrow. He has no style. He’d never make some huge, reckless, wonderful gesture. He’d never come and find a girl after fifteen years and tell her that life was darkness without her and now he wants to turn on the switch.” Her chin juts defiantly and I give an inward grimace. Was that Ben’s line? He wanted to turn on the switch?

I mean, I do sympathize. I had a couple of terrible, misjudged rebound flings after Daniel and I separated. But I didn’t marry one of them.

“Look, Lottie.” I try a different tack. “I do understand. I know what it’s like. You’re hurt. You’re confused. An old boyfriend comes along out of the blue—of course you’re going to fall into bed with him. It’s natural. But why do you have to get married?”

“You’re wrong,” she retorts with a triumphant look. “You are so, so wrong, Fliss. I didn’t fall into bed with him. And I’m not going to. I’m saving myself for the honeymoon.”

She …

What?

Of all the things I was expecting to hear, it wasn’t this. I stare at Lottie blankly, unable to find an answer. Where is my sister and what has this man done with her?

“You’re saving yourself?” I echo at last. “But.… why? Is he Amish?” I suddenly fear the worst. “Is he from some kind of cult? Did he promise you enlightenment?”

Please don’t tell me she’s handed over all her money. Not again.

“Of course not!”

“So … why?”

“So I’ll have the hottest sex ever on my honeymoon night.” She grabs the stockings. “We know we’re good together, so why not save up for the moment? It’s our wedding night. It should be special. As special as it can possibly be.” She gives a sudden wriggle, as though she can’t contain herself. “And believe me, it will be. God, Fliss, he’s so hot. We can hardly keep our hands off each other. It’s like we’re eighteen again.”

I stare at her, all the pieces falling into place. Her shiny eyes make sense. The basket of underwear makes sense. She’s raring to go. This engagement is one great big session of fore-play. Why didn’t I realize this straightaway? She is drugged up—on lust. And not only lust, teenage lust. She has the same look about her as teenagers snogging at the bus stop, as though the rest of the world doesn’t exist. For a moment I feel a stab of envy. I wouldn’t mind disappearing into a bubble of teenage lust, quite frankly. But I have to stay rational here. I have to be the voice of reason.

“Lottie, listen.” I’m trying to speak slowly and clearly, to penetrate her trance. “You don’t have to get married. You could just take a hotel suite somewhere.”

“I want to get married!” Humming to herself, she chucks another expensive negligee into her basket, and I suppress a desire to scream. It’s all very well. But if she took off the lust goggles for one bloody moment, maybe she’d see how much this escapade is potentially going to end up costing her. A shed-load of underwear. A marriage. A honeymoon. A divorce. All for one epic night of shagging? Which she could have for free?

“I know what you’re thinking.” She looks up at me resentfully. “You could be happy for me.”