Michele Gorman - The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square - A gorgeously heartwarming romance and one of the top summer holiday reads for women

Hold on, I can’t buy this dress! Mum doesn’t even know I’m here. Besides, I’ve got no idea how much it costs. I searched in vain for price tags when Sarah went to get me a bra.

‘Oh good,’ I find myself saying. ‘And the price of the dress?’

When she tells me I nearly fall off my borrowed high heels. ‘Mum will want to see it first, of course,’ I say to their triumphant faces.

‘Of course,’ Philippa and Abby chorus.

‘Send her photos!’ Abby says.

I could do that. If she knew I was here.

Abby uses my phone to snap a dozen pics of me in the dress while Philippa keeps saying, ‘This is such great fun!’

I feel a little sick as I pretend to wait around for Mum’s response. ‘She’s not answering,’ I say. ‘Sometimes she doesn’t have her phone with her. I can always bring her back here, right?’

‘Absolutely,’ Sarah assures me.

Her smile doesn’t falter as we all say goodbye, but I think Sarah knows she’ll never see me again.

As I walk to where my scooter’s parked I delete the dress photos and the unsent text to Mum. There’s no sense tormenting myself with that dress when I’ll never afford it.

I wonder how Mum managed to buy a dress for her wedding. I know she and Dad had even less money than I do, though they did get married during the nineties recession. Things were probably cheaper then.

I nearly have a heart attack when my phone buzzes with a text just as I’m getting on my scooter. It’s Mum. She knows I’m here. I glance at my phone. Mum doesn’t know I’m here. It’s Daniel.

Hope you’re surviving the bear pit of wedding dresses. Want to meet the gang for a drink? Dxoxo

Pure hell drinking champagne and trying on gorgeous dresses. Let’s meet! Emx

Daniel’s friends always go to the same pub in Chelsea. It’s pretty, atmospheric and comfortable and they usually manage to get a table even when it’s full, like now. It’s not miles different from the Cock and Crown, except for the people.

Daniel’s flatmate, Jacob, waves when he sees me and nudges Daniel who, judging by his flapping arms, is in the middle of telling Cressida a story. I’ve no idea where he gets it, but he’s practically Mediterranean when it comes to hand gestures.

He jumps up when he sees me. ‘No dress?’ His lips find mine.

‘No, not yet, and I wouldn’t bring it here even if I did get one. You’re not allowed to see it till the wedding.’

‘Seven years of bad luck,’ Jacob says.

When he speaks his pronounced Adam’s apple bobs up and down. You couldn’t call his skinny face, receding chin and giant beak attractive. He looked familiar when Daniel first introduced us. It took me a few meetings to realise why. Dad once took me to see the old Disney film, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and Jacob is the spitting image of cartoon Ichabod Crane. He’s super nice, though, which is why he’s usually seeing someone, despite looking like a caricature.

‘That’s for smashing a mirror, you berk,’ Cressida tells him, unfolding herself from the booth. ‘Mwah, mwah.’ She kisses the air above my ears. I can smell the perfume in her long, straight chestnut hair. It’s something sharp and citrusy, almost like a man’s cologne. I air-kiss back without the sound effects. She’d know I was taking the piss.

Cressida comes standard as part of Daniel’s friends and family package. I met her within weeks of our first date. As she’s his good friend Seb’s little sister and a regular fixture on his nights out, I think Daniel was keen to put my mind at ease. Just because Cressida is gorgeous and they’re nearly best friends who’ve gone away on exotic holidays together their entire lives doesn’t mean I should be concerned. You get the picture. She sounds like a nightmare, right?

I was all set to pretend to like her, so no one was more surprised than me when I actually did.

‘Daniel says you’ve been summoned to the great Godfather’s for the next supper,’ she says.

‘Should I be worried?’

‘Yah, no, Harold is richer than Croesus, but he’s not too big a bore. Besides, you’re with Daniel and Daniel can do no wrong. He’s the golden boy.’

‘What would you like, Em?’ Daniel asks. ‘It’s my round. Cressida?’

‘Here, try this first,’ she suggests, grabbing a bottle of pink wine from a sweating ice bucket to pour me a glass. ‘We got them to stock it and it’s finally warm enough to drink.’ She means the weather, not the wine. ‘Maybe your uncle would like it for his pub.’

‘Mmm, that’s good!’ I say, trying to imagine Uncle Colin serving rosé to the Cock and Crown regulars. He won’t even have Chardonnay. ‘This is fine, Daniel, thanks.’

I slide into his spot beside Cressida as he goes to the bar.

Even if Daniel hadn’t so obviously loved her – and platonic or not, love is love – I’d have obsessed over Cressida, especially since I suppose I’ve let my mum’s opinions about the la-di-das, as she calls them, cloud my view. They speak differently and have double-barrelled surnames and all come from the same schools.

But Cressida has been nothing but kind to me and I really, truly was happy when Daniel asked if she could be one of our bridesmaids.

‘We drank cases of it last summer when we were in Saint-Paul-de-Vence, remember, Jacob?’ she says. ‘It’s such a shame you couldn’t come with us, Emma, you’d have loved it there! Nothing to do for two weeks but drink wine by the pool. It was divine. Which reminds me. What if we did something similar for your hen do? Or even hire the same place. I’m sure we could get the villa again, and you can have all your friends and family there under the same roof! It’ll easily sleep twenty and it’s so much more personal than having hotel rooms on some city break. I think your Auntie Rose would love it. There are a few steps down to the pool, but we could always help her up and down.’

Her deep brown eyes dance with delight at the idea. She’s never met Auntie Rose and thinks she’s a genteel East London Miss Marple.

‘Well, I did only know Daniel a few weeks when you went away,’ I say. ‘It was a bit early to crash his holidays.’

‘We’d have loved having you there,’ she says. ‘You’re such a breath of fresh air for us.’

She’s always saying things like this and they sound like compliments, but I could also be the cut-price flavour of the month. I never feel like I know for sure.

There’s no doubt we’re different, a fact that she’s either hyper-aware of or seems to completely forget.

Take my hen do. She’s got completely bonkers ideas about where to go. I’m not sure whether staying in a French villa would be more or less pricey than the long weekend at the spa in Baden-Baden she suggested last week, or going to see the Bolshoi Ballet in St Petersburg. That’s St Petersburg, Russia, not some theatre in Kent, in case you wondered.

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