“OK,” he says finally. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to imply anything about your sister. Maybe she and Ben are a match made in heaven. But that doesn’t change the fact that we have some very big stuff happening at the company. Ben needs to be available in the UK now. If he wants to go on honeymoon, he’ll have to do it later.”

“Or never,” I put in.

“Or never. Indeed.” Lorcan sounds amused. “You’re not a fan of Ben, then?”

“I’ve never even met him. But this has been a useful chat. It’s all I needed to know. Leave it with me. I’ll deal with it.”

“I’ll deal with it,” he contradicts me. “I’ll talk to Ben.”

God, this guy is winding me up. Who says he should be in charge?

“I’ll talk to Lottie,” I counter as authoritatively as I can. “I’ll fix it.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” He talks straight across me. “I’ll speak to Ben. The whole thing will be forgotten.”

“I’ll talk to Lottie,” I repeat, ignoring him. “And I’ll let you know when I’ve sorted everything out.”

There’s silence. Neither of us is going to concede, I can tell.

“Right,” says Lorcan at last. “Well, goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

I put down the receiver, then grab my mobile and dial Lottie’s mobile. No more Ms. Nice Sister. I am stopping this marriage. Right here, right now.


6

FLISS

I can’t believe she’s ignored me for a full twenty-four hours. She’s got some nerve.

It’s the following afternoon, the wedding is due to start in an hour, and I still haven’t spoken to Lottie. She’s sidestepped my every call (approximately one hundred of them). But at the same time she’s managed to leave a whole series of messages on my phone, about the registry office and the restaurant and meeting for pre-wedding drinks at Bluebird. A purple satin bridesmaid’s dress arrived at my office at lunchtime by bike. A poem arrived by email, along with a request for me to read it aloud during the ceremony: It will make our day so special!

She doesn’t fool me. There’s a reason she’s not been taking my calls: she feels defensive. Which means I’m in with a chance. I know I can talk her out of this nonsense. I just need to work out exactly where her vulnerability is and exploit it.

As I arrive at Bluebird, I can see her already sitting at the bar in a cream lace minidress, with roses in her hair and adorable vintage-style shoes with button straps. She looks radiantly beautiful, and for a moment I feel bad, coming in to derail her.

But, no. Someone has to stay sane around here. She won’t be looking so radiant when she’s being billed for her decree nisi.

Noah’s not with me. He’s having a sleepover with his friend Sebastian. I fibbed to Lottie, saying it was really special and he would be “so sorry to miss the wedding.” The real reason is that I’m not intending for there to be any wedding.

Lottie has spotted me and waves to get my attention. I wave back and approach with an innocent smile. I’m walking into the paddock quietly, unthreateningly, the halter hidden behind my back. I’m the Bride Whisperer.

“You look gorgeous!” As I reach Lottie, I give her a huge hug. “How exciting. What a happy day!”

Lottie scans my face without replying, which proves I’m right: she’s on the defensive. But I keep my smile steady, as though I haven’t noticed a thing.

“I thought you weren’t keen on the idea,” she says at last.

“What?” I act shocked. “Of course I’m keen on the idea! I was just surprised. But I’m sure Ben is absolutely wonderful and you’ll be happy for many, many years.”

I hold my breath. She’s visibly relaxing. Her guard is coming down.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, we will. Well, sit down. Have some champagne! Here’s your bouquet.” She hands me a little cluster of roses.

“Wow! Fabulous.”

She pours me a glass and I raise it in a toast. Then I glance at my watch. Fifty-five minutes to go. I need to get cracking on the derailment strategy.

“So, any honeymoon plans?” I say casually. “You probably didn’t manage to book anywhere at such short notice. What a shame. A honeymoon is such a special time, you want it to be perfect. If you’d held on a few weeks, I could have helped you arrange something amazing. In fact … shall we do that?” I put down my glass as though seized by a brilliant new idea. “Lottie, let’s put off the wedding just a teeny bit and have fun planning the perfect honeymoon for you!”

“Don’t worry,” says Lottie happily. “We already have the perfect honeymoon arranged! One night at the Savoy and then off tomorrow!”

“Really?” I get ready to trump it. “Where are you going, then?”

“We’re going back to Ikonos. Back to where we met. Isn’t it perfect?”

“To a backpackers’ guest house?” I stare at her.

“No, silly! To that amazing hotel! The Amba. The one with the waterfall. Didn’t you review it?”

Damn. The Amba is pretty untrumpable. It opened three years ago and we’ve reviewed it twice since then—five stars each time. It’s the most spectacular place in the Cyclades and was voted Top Honeymoon Destination two years running.

Since then, it’s already become just a touch tacky, truth be told. It’s been flooded with celebrity couples and Hello! magazine photo shoots, and it plays to the “honeymoon” market too strongly if you ask me. Still, it remains an amazing, world-class hotel. I’ll need to work hard to talk her out of it.

“The only thing about the Amba is, you have to be on the best side.” I shake my head gloomily. “At such short notice, they’ve probably shoved you in that awful side wing. There’s no sun, and it smells. You’ll be miserable.” I suddenly brighten. “I know! Wait a few weeks, and let me call in a favor. I can get you the Oyster Suite, I’m sure. Honestly, Lotts, the bed alone is worth waiting for. It’s massive, with a glass dome above so you can see the stars. You have to have it.” I proffer my phone. “Why don’t you call Ben and say you want to put things off, only for a few weeks—”

“But we’ve got the Oyster Suite!” Lottie interrupts me joyfully. “It’s all booked! We’re having a bespoke honeymoon, with our own private butler and treatments every day and a day on the hotel yacht!”

“What?” I stare at her, my phone dangling limply in my hand. “How?”

“There was a cancelation!” She beams. “Ben uses some special concierge service and they fixed it up. Isn’t it great?”

“Marvelous,” I say after a pause. “Super.”

“Ikonos is so special to us.” She’s bubbling over. “I mean, it’s been totally ruined, I’m sure. When we were there, they didn’t even have an airport, let alone any big hotels. We had to get there by boat. But, still, it’ll be like going back in time. I can’t wait.”

There’s no point pushing this one any further. I sip my champagne, thinking hard.

“Have you got a vintage Rolls-Royce today?” I try a different tack. “You always wanted a vintage Rolls-Royce for your wedding.”

“No.” She shrugs. “I can walk.”

“But what a shame!” I put on a stricken expression. “It was your dream to have a vintage Rolls-Royce. If you just waited a bit, you could have one.”

“Fliss.” Lottie gives me a gently chiding smile. “Aren’t you being rather shallow? The important thing is love. Finding a life partner. Not some random car. Don’t you think?”

“Of course.” I smile back tightly. OK, leave the car. Try another approach.

Dress? No. She’s wearing a lovely dress.

Wedding-gifts list? No. She’s not that materialistic.

“So … will there be any hymns at the wedding?” I ask at last. There’s silence. Quite a long silence. I stare at Lottie in sudden hope. Her face has tightened.

“We’re not allowed hymns,” she says at last, and looks down into her drink. “You can’t have them at a registry-office wedding.”

Yes! Bingo!

“No hymns?” I raise a hand to my mouth in horror, as though I hadn’t known this all along. “But how can you have a wedding without hymns? What about ‘I Vow to Thee, My Country’? You were always going to have that at your wedding.”

Lottie was in the choir at our boarding school. She used to sing solos. Music was a big deal to her. I should have started with this tack first.

“Well. It’s not important.” She smiles briefly—but her whole demeanor has changed.

“What does Ben think?”

“Ben’s not really into hymns,” she says after a pause.

Ben’s not really into hymns.

I want to whoop. This is it. Her Achilles’ heel. I have her like putty in my hands.

“I vow to thee, my country,” I start singing very quietly. “All earthly things above.”

“Stop,” she says, almost snapping.

“Sorry.” I raise an apologetic hand. “Just … thinking aloud. For me, a wedding is all about the music. The beautiful, wonderful music.”

This is untrue. I couldn’t care less about music, and if Lottie were sharper, she’d instantly realize I’m winding her up. But she’s looking away, lost in her own world. Are her eyes a little glassy?

“I always imagined you kneeling at the altar in a country church with the organ playing,” I muse, rubbing it in. “Not at a registry office. Funny, that.”

“Yes.” She doesn’t even turn her head.

“Da-da-daah-da-da-da-da-ah-da …” I’m still humming the tune of “I Vow to Thee, My Country.” Obviously I don’t know all the words, but the tune is enough. That’s what’ll get her.

Her eyes are glassy. OK, time to go in for the kill.

“Anyway!” I break off from singing. “The important thing is that this is your special day. And it’s going to be perfect. Nice and quick. No stupid fussing about with music, or choirboys, or bells pealing from a country steeple … Just in and out. Sign a paper, say a couple of words, and you’re done. For life,” I add. “Finito.”