Michele Gorman - The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square

Philippa looks perfectly put together as usual. She’s got on a navy wool dress that probably cost more than I earn in a year, though if I compliment her on it she’ll say, ‘What? This old thing? It’s been in the back of my closet for ages.’ And then she’ll try to give it to me, even though she’s about a foot taller than I am. Because she’s very gracious like that.

She’s not classically pretty – more handsome. And tall, like I said. Her big booming voice matches her personality and she’s exactly what you’d picture if I told you she’s a hearty woman. She’s somewhere north of fifty, but how far north is anyone’s guess. Could be Manchester, could be the Orkneys. She’s got a few lines around her mouth and a few around her eyes, but she hasn’t tried to Botox or fill them. Too much bother, she claims. She probably colours her hair too, but the dark blonde looks completely natural. Daniel says she used to have it all the way down her back when she was young, but now she wears it in a bob like nearly all the other women in the room. Something about giving birth seems to make women cut off their hair.

I doubt I’d ever do that. Not that my hair is overly long now. If I tip my head back, it reaches my bra strap. It’s naturally wavy, but Auntie Rose did me a blow-dry this morning.

I’ll never be able to subtly hide the grey like Philippa can, though. Not that I need to reach for the L’Oréal yet. I’m only twenty-four and my hair’s nearly jet black, thanks to a great great (great? I forget) grandfather, imaginatively known as Blacky all his life. I’m the only one in the family who’s got his hair. Mum’s even got a natural ginger tinge, or so she claims. Auntie Rose has done her colour forever – it’s always red but veers between Amy Adams and Prince Harry.

‘Right, you must come meet our dear, dear friends,’ Philippa says, leaving Hugh standing on his own with his drink. I catch his wink as his wife drags me off. Better me than him, it says.

‘May I introduce you to George and India, Lord and Lady Mucking? George’s parents were lifelong friends of Hugh and me, and we’ve known George since he was born!’

Lady Mucking is pretty and plump, with the requisite blonde bob. Her nose is slightly big but nothing compared to her husband’s. I could stay dry in a hurricane under that thing. But his face is friendly and they both smile when Philippa introduces us. They’re older than me – probably in their late thirties – but not nearly as old as I imagined lords and ladies would be. Though for all I know the upper classes might give birth to fully grown lords. Or maybe they sprout like tulips every few years in the Queen’s garden.

‘India, George,’ says Philippa. ‘May I introduce Emma Liddell, Daniel’s fiancée!’

I can hardly believe I’m marrying into this lot. I had no idea it was this bad. I mean good. Of course I mean good.

‘Very pleased to meet you both,’ I say as I shake their hands. I’ve never knowingly touched a lord before. His hand is sweaty. Maybe he’s never knowingly touched a commoner.

‘Hellair! Lidl, you say?’ asks George. ‘As in the supermarket? I knew it was family-owned. Are they Lidls?’

I nearly guffaw at the idea that I’m part of some supermarket dynasty, till I catch on that he’s serious.

‘No, no, not related. L, I, double D, E, double L. I think Lidl is German. We’ve been in East London forever. Dad’s traced us back to the eighteen-eighty census.’

‘Yah, our family was in Burma then,’ George says.

‘You’re a cockney?’ India asks. Her hands twinkle with jewels as they fly to her chest. ‘That’s delightful! Let me see, yah, I remember. Did you come up the apples and stairs just now?’

I smile indulgently. Anyone west of Farringdon thinks we all talk like the cast off Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels . ‘I did and I’m Hank Marvin for one of those.’ I snatch a tiny sausage roll from a passing tray.

India looks confused. ‘I mean starving. Is Daniel here?’ I ask Philippa, trying not to sound as panicky as I’m starting to feel.

‘Oh yes, he’s just gone to check on the kitchen. They’re being awfully slow with the rest of the canapes.’

Sure enough, Daniel wanders in, amiably chatting with a waiter who’s carrying a tray of what might be miniature pancakes.

‘Em!’ He scoops me up in his arms for a gentle kiss. ‘You look gorgeous.’

‘Not too …?’ Market stall? I want to ask. It’s a plain little black dress with lace on the short sleeves and down the front, but I wonder if Daniel’s crowd can tell it’s not designer. It feels wrong wearing lace when the rest of the room is in wool and silk, and nobody aside from the staff is wearing black.

‘It’s just right,’ Daniel says. ‘You’re beautiful. You haven’t been here long, have you? I got caught up talking with Pavel in the kitchen. We were in the same village in Laos in the same month, isn’t that amazing?’

Pavel seems to be the waiter that Daniel walked in with. Sure enough, when Daniel waves at him, Pavel waves self-consciously back.

Daniel’s got one of those naturally friendly faces that means strangers are always stopping him for directions, and he’s so nice that sometimes he even walks them to their destination. I love that he’s always striking up conversations like this. If he didn’t, we’d never have met.

‘I’m awfully sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived,’ he murmurs as we edge out of earshot of Lord Mucking. ‘You’re ever-so brave to face this mob on your own.’

I think it’s kind of brave too. But then I’m going to have to get used to it sooner rather than later. ‘You didn’t mention that you’re stonking rich,’ I say. ‘I thought you took our course because you were interested in the historical architecture of stately homes. Not because your family lives in one.’

His expression is slightly bemused, like he’s seeing his family’s lounge for the first time. It’s about the size of one of the galleries at Tate Britain, and if I’m not mistaken, the painting on the burnished panelling over the fireplace is a Constable. They could have put velvet ropes around Lord and Lady Mucking and charged an entrance fee.

‘But I did tell you what Father does,’ he says.

Something for Lloyds, he’d told me. We used to have a Lloyds branch not far from us, but it closed down. Nobody working there looked like they could afford all this, even if they were the manager.

But I’ve got it wrong. It’s not Lloyds the bank but an insurer by the same name, and Daniel’s father is a lot bigger than a branch manager.

‘He helps underwrite their insurance.’ Daniel catches my expression and shrugs. ‘It means he provides the money to pay out when insurance claims are made.’

‘Like when someone wrecks his car or gets his phone nicked,’ I say. ‘What’s in it for him if he’s fronting all this money?’

‘They give him a percentage of the insurance premiums and he hopes there aren’t too many claims. They’re specialist insurers so they underwrite bigger things than stolen phones. More like military coups and earthquakes. Or Michael Flatley’s legs or Bruce Springsteen’s vocal chords or …’ He clasps his chest. ‘Dolly Parton’s breasts.’

‘Dolly Parton’s breasts are definitely bigger than a mobile phone. And your dad gets a cut of these premiums.’ My head swims as I take this in. ‘I see. Is this his only job? I only ask because keeping up a gaff like this must be expensive. My dad had the same problem with our council flat, so he was a taxi driver and a trader down the market, as you know.’

He laughs at my lame joke. ‘He’s got his own investment portfolio too. I’ve told you, it really doesn’t matter.’ Pronounced rahly. He looks worried that I might bolt at the news that he’s genuinely minted. ‘You’re marrying me, not my family.’