What happened to Bridezilla? I want to moan faintly, Bring back Bridezilla.

“Ben was totally on for the church and everything,” says Lottie. “He’s actually got this sweet, traditional side to him—”

“So what happened?” I try to control my impatience. “Why did he change his mind?”

“It was Lorcan.”

“What?” My eyes open sharply. “What do you mean, it was Lorcan?”

“Lorcan came to see him first thing this morning. He told Ben he mustn’t marry me and it was all a huge mistake. Well, Ben went nuts! He came storming round to my office and said he wanted to be married to me now and everyone else could fuck off, including Lorcan.” Lottie sighs blissfully. “It was really romantic. Everyone in the office was staring. And then he picked me up and carried me out, just like An Officer and a Gentleman, and everyone cheered. It was amazing, Fliss.”

I’m breathing hard, trying to keep control of myself. That idiot. That stupid, arrogant, fucking … idiot. I’d solved the problem. It was all sorted. I’d played the diplomatic card to perfection. And now what’s Lorcan done? Blundered in. Stirred up this Ben into the most ludicrous, overblown gesture. No wonder Lottie fell for it.

“Luckily there was a cancelation at the registry office, so they could squeeze us in. And we can have a church blessing down the line,” she’s saying blithely. “So I get the best of both worlds!”

I want to throw my cup of coffee across the room. Or maybe I want to tip it over my own head. There’s a nasty heaving feeling in my stomach. This is my fault too. I could have stopped this. If I’d told her everything Lorcan said.

He’s having a bit of an early midlife crisis.… Your sister will be the casualty.…

“Where are you now?”

“Packing! We’re off to Ikonos! It’s so exciting.”

“I’ll bet it is,” I say feebly.

What do I do? There’s nothing I can do. They’re married. It’s done.

“Maybe we’ll have a honeymoon baby,” she adds coyly. “How do you feel about being an aunt?”

“What?” I sit bolt upright. “Lottie—”

“Fliss, I’ve got to go, the taxi’s here, love you lots.…”

She rings off. Frantically, I speed-dial her again, but it goes to voicemail.

Baby? Baby?

I want to whimper. Is she insane? Does she have any idea what strain a baby will bring to the party?

My love life has been such a clusterfuck. I can’t bear it if Lottie’s is too. I wanted her to crack it the way I didn’t. I wanted her fantasy to come true. Happy ever after. Picket fence. Strong, lasting happiness. Not a honeymoon baby with some flake-head who’s on a brief domesticity craze before taking up motorbikes. Not sitting in Barnaby Rees’s office with red eyes and hair that needs washing and a toddler trying to eat all the law books.

On impulse, I Google the Amba Hotel. At once, a series of holiday-porn images greets my eyes. Blue skies and sunsets. The famous grotto swimming pool, with its thirty-foot tumbling waterfall. Beautiful couples strolling by the sea. Massive beds, scattered with rose petals. Let’s face it, they’ll have made a honeymoon baby before the wedding night is over. Lottie’s ovaries will twang into action and she’ll be vomiting all the way home.

Then if he does turn out to be a flake … if he does let her down … I close my eyes and bury my face in my hands. I can’t bear it. I need to talk to Lottie. Face-to-face. Properly. With her brain engaged, not in fantasyland. At least make sure she’s thought through all the consequences of what she’s doing.

I’m sitting utterly still, my mind skittering back and forth like a mouse trapped in a maze. I’m trying to find a solution, I’m trying to find a way out, I keep coming up against dead ends.…

Until suddenly I lift my head and take a deep breath. I’ve come to a decision. It’s huge and extreme, but I have no choice. I’m going to gate-crash her honeymoon.

I don’t care if it’s a heinous thing to do. I don’t care if she never forgives me: I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t. Marriage was one thing. Unprotected sex is another. I need to get out there. I need to save my sister from herself.

Abruptly, I pick up the phone and dial Travel.

“Hi,” I say as Clarissa, our travel booker, answers. “Bit of an emergency, Clarissa. I need to get out to Ikonos asap. The Greek island. First available flight. And I need to stay in the Amba. They know me there.”

“Right.” I can hear her tapping at the computer. “There’s only one flight direct to Ikonos a day, you know. Otherwise it’s a change at Athens, which ends up taking forever.”

“I know. Get me on the next direct flight you can. Thanks, Clarissa.”

“Haven’t you just reviewed the Amba?” She sounds surprised. “A few months ago?”

“I’m doing a follow-up,” I lie smoothly. “Sudden decision. It’s a new feature idea we’ve had,” I add, to cement my story. “Spot checks on hotels.”

This is the plus of being editor. No one questions me. Also: that is a good idea. I open my BlackBerry and type in: Spot checks??

“OK! Well, I’ll let you know. Hopefully we can get you on the flight tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

I ring off and drum my fingers, still tense. Even at my quickest, I won’t get out there for a good twenty-four hours. Lottie is already on her way to the airport. She’ll be on today’s afternoon flight. She’ll get to the hotel by this evening. The Oyster Suite will be there, waiting, with its super-king bed and sunken Jacuzzi and champagne.

How many people conceive a baby on their wedding night? Could I find this out from Google? I type in conceive baby first night honeymoon, then restlessly cancel it. Google isn’t the point. Lottie’s the point. If only I could stop them. If only I could get in there before they … What’s the word? Consummate it.

“Consummate.” The word provokes a vague memory. What was it again? I blink, trying to recall. Oh yes, Barnaby telling me about annulments. I can hear his voice again: It means the contract is null and void. The marriage never existed.

The marriage never existed!

This is it. This is the answer. Annulment! The loveliest word in the English language. The solution to everything. No divorce. No legal tussle. Just blink and it’s over. It never happened.

I need to do this for Lottie. I need to get her an opt-out. But how on earth can I achieve it? What can I— How can I— How does one—

And then a new idea zings across my brain.

I feel almost breathless as I consider it. I can’t believe I’m thinking this. It’s even more heinous and extreme than gatecrashing a honeymoon, but it would solve everything.

No. I can’t. I mean, I can’t. On every level. It’s impossible. And wrong. Anyone who did this to her own sister would be some kind of monster.

OK. So I’m a monster.

My fingers are actually trembling as I pick up the phone. I’m not sure if it’s with trepidation or determination.

“Amba Hotel, VIP Services, how may I help you?”

“Hi,” I say, my voice a bit jumpy. “Could I please speak to Nico Demetriou? Tell him it’s Fliss Graveney from Pincher Travel Review. Tell him … it’s important.”

As I’m put on hold, I picture Nico, all five foot three of him, his suit straining against his stomach. I knew Nico at the Mandarin Oriental in Athens and before that at Sandals in Barbados. He’s been in hotels all his life, working his way up from bellboy, and he’s now VIP concierge at the Amba. I can see him now, bustling across the marble floor of the lobby in his patent shoes, his eyes always sharply darting around.

His specialty is “Guest Experience.” Whether it’s a personalized cocktail, a helicopter trip, swimming with dolphins, or a troupe of belly dancers in your room, he’ll fix it. If I could have any partner in crime, it would be Nico.

“Fliss!” His voice booms happily down the phone. “I have heard this very minute that you are planning to pay us a visit?”

“Yes. I’ll arrive tomorrow night, I hope.”

“We are honored to see you again so soon! Can I assist you with anything in particular? Or perhaps this is a personal visit?”

I can hear the question in his voice. A hint of suspicion. Why am I coming back? What’s up?

“It’s kind of personal.” I pause, marshaling my words. “Nico, I have a favor to ask. My sister is heading out to the Amba today. She’s just got married. She’s on honeymoon.”

“Wonderful!” His voice almost blasts me away. “Your sister will have the holiday of her lifetime. I will appoint my most trusted butler for her benefit. We will meet her on arrival, and over a glass of champagne we will tailor-make her experience. Perhaps an upgrade, perhaps a special dinner—”

“Nico, no. You don’t understand. I mean, that sounds wonderful. But I have a different favor to ask you.” I twist my fingers together. “It’s … unusual.”

“I have been in this job for many years,” says Nico kindly. “Nothing is unusual for me, Nico. You wish to surprise her? You would like me to place a present in her room? You would like me to arrange a couples’ massage on the beach in a private cabana?”

“Not exactly.”

Oh God. How do I put this?

Come on, Fliss. Just say it.

“I want you to stop them from having sex,” I say in a rush.

There’s absolute silence down the line. I’ve confounded even Nico.

“Fliss, repeat to me your request again,” he says at last. “I fear I have not understood.”

I fear he has.

“I want you to stop them from having sex,” I repeat, enunciating as clearly as I can. “No sex. No wedding night. At least, not till I get out there. Do whatever you can. Put them in separate rooms. Distract them. Kidnap one of them. Whatever it takes.”