Joe and Alice are getting married in early December and Alex and I decide to make a minibreak out of the weekend, heading up to Cambridge on the Friday night before the wedding. We stay in a hotel with a great view of the River Cam, and spend a cold but lovely evening wandering around the frosty streets of the fairy-light-laden city.

Early the next morning, I kiss Alex goodbye and leave him to a day of Christmas shopping and sightseeing, while I jump into a cab and head to a sleepy village a twenty-minute drive away.

Rachel told me that Joe and Alice wanted to prepare for the big day together at home with their two small children, and we need to be there to capture the proceedings.

I’m nervous. Hebe was great grounding, but you never get quite used to working with famous people. Joseph Strike is a major celebrity, and even Alice is almost as recognisable as her fiancé these days. I hope I don’t balls this up.

To avoid any likelihood of the cab driver alerting the press, I get out of the car a good few hundred yards early and walk up the muddy country lane to the imposing gates at the end. I press the buzzer and they glide open after a moment, delivering a view of the stunning sixteenth-century Tudor mansion within.

I’m in awe as I crunch across the icy gravel driveway with my kitbag slung over my shoulder, looking around for Rachel’s car. I’m alarmed to find that it’s not there – she was supposed to arrive before me.

The heavy wooden front door swings open well before I reach it and a woman in a white fluffy robe and bare feet beams out at me.

Oh, my God, it’s Alice. The Alice!

‘Hello!’ she calls. ‘You must be Bronte!’

‘Hi!’ I call back.

‘Rachel’s running a bit late. There was an accident on the A1.’ She holds out her hand for me to shake as I reach her. ‘She tried to call you, but couldn’t get reception. It’s a bit patchy round here.’

Despite her bare-faced appearance, Alice is stunning. Her complexion is flawless, the sort that would make Maria weep – what a shame she’s not doing the make-up today – and her hair is jet-black and dead straight, falling to just below her shoulders.

‘Do you need to see my credentials?’ I ask, a bit taken aback that she’s opening her own front door. Don’t they have staff falling over themselves to do that sort of thing?

‘Nah.’ Alice waves me away and her green eyes seem to sparkle. ‘Anyway, Rachel showed me a pic. I know it’s you. You want a cuppa?’

‘I’d love one.’

‘Joe, this is Bronte,’ I hear her say as I follow her into a large, warm country kitchen, complete with natural stone flooring and an Aga.

‘Hey.’ Joseph Strike jumps up from the table where he’s spoon-feeding a baby. ‘Joe,’ he says, giving my hand a firm shake and smiling warmly.