A flash goes off and I look over to see Rachel winking at me, holding her camera aloft. She’s coming tomorrow, doing the photos as a favour. I keep saying it’s not a big deal, but no one is getting the message.

Maria has insisted on doing my make-up; Polly dragged me off to the shops, telling me I was mad to pass up the excuse to buy a pretty frock; and Ed organised an after-party in the upstairs room of a cosy pub in central London, just around the corner from the register office where we’re getting married. Bridget, who has awesome taste in music, has sorted out the playlist.

I slide my hands up and over Alex’s shoulders, smiling at him as his thumbs brush my hipbones. He bends down to kiss me, pulling me closer until we’re flush to each other’s bodies. He holds me tightly, and then we’re both barely moving, barely breathing, just here, in this moment, together.

Until a man dressed up as Michael J. Fox from Teen Wolf crashes into us. Alex grabs me to steady me and glares after the werewolf-wannabe, and then we both meet each other’s eyes and crack up laughing.

I stay in a hotel near the register office and share a room with Bridget, who, despite her reluctance to be without Charlie and April on her hen night, convinced me it’d be fun to have a sleepover – for old times’ sake.

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.