She, Charlie and April are spending the festive period with her dad in north London after deciding to have one last Christmas in the house where Bridget grew up. In the New Year, her dad is putting his home on the market and moving down to Cornwall, ready to embrace the next stage in his life.

On the morning of my wedding day – MY WEDDING DAY – I wake up to Bridget playing ‘I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do’ by Abba on her tiny but loud portable B&O speaker. She follows this up with ‘White Wedding’ by Billy Idol and ‘Going to the Chapel’ by the Dixie Cups, while we sit there and giggle and eat flaky pastries on the bed that she picked up from the bakery next door.

Maria turns up after a while to do my make-up, but I’m styling my own hair in my trademark fishtail plait. Then I get into my dress, a pretty, long-sleeved, lace, knee-length number that’s the colour of crème caramel. I team it with brown cowboy boots.

Bridget shakes her head at me and starts to cry.

‘Oh my God!’ I exclaim, laughing. ‘I can’t believe you’re crying!’

‘I can’t believe this is happening!’ she blubs.

‘Me neither,’ I say, shaking my head.

And I really can’t. It feels very surreal. I know I want to be with Alex for the rest of my life, but I can’t actually get my head around the fact that I’m marrying him today.

I’m marrying him.

Nope. Still won’t sink in.

We head to the venue in a black cab after Maria has retouched Bridget’s make-up. Rachel joins us to snap some pics, bringing with her tiny bottles of chilled Prosecco for the journey. We all still feel a bit rough after last night, but manage to knock them back anyway.

And then I climb out of the cab to see Alex standing on the steps outside the cream-coloured building.

I freeze, only very vaguely aware of Rachel and Maria clicking off shots. He looks so handsome. He’s wearing a very dark-blue, fitted suit with a pale-blue tie.

Finally it hits me.

My legs feel like jelly as I come out of my daze. He jogs down the steps and takes my hand.

‘Don’t freak out,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘Visa, remember?’

‘Yes, visa,’ I repeat aloud. He casts me a sideways grin and squeezes my hand as we walk up the steps together.

‘You look incredible,’ he says seriously, and then he leads me inside the venue and down a corridor to two wooden doors at the end. Bridget, Maria and Rachel go in ahead, but, as the doors swing shut behind them, I catch a glimpse inside and breathe in sharply.

There are so many more people here than I’d anticipated.

‘I thought we were keeping this small,’ I whisper.

‘It was a little out of my hands,’ he replies. ‘They all wanted to come. I hope you’re not upset.’