‘Honey.’ Josh caught her shoulders in a gentle grip and looked her dead in the eye. He’d raised this girl, but he knew he’d caused her pain with his attitude toward her. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. You hear me? Nothing. And you know what? Looking at you here, today, I couldn’t be prouder. You . . .’ He swallowed hard and forced out the words he knew she needed to hear. ‘You’re my daughter, OK? And I love you.’

‘I love you too, Dad,’ said Aysha, blinking back her tears.

‘Kushto bak, my darling girl.’

Aysha grinned at that. He’d used the old Romany words, meaning ‘good luck’.

‘Good job Mum didn’t hear you say that,’ she told him, and he laughed.

‘Yeah,’ said Josh. They might be Romany, but Shauna never liked to be reminded of it.

Josh hugged her, careful of her veil. Then he drew back. ‘Well then,’ he said, and held out his arm.

Aysha tucked her hand under his arm and Josh, smiling, led her out to the waiting Rolls-Royce.

Shauna was already inside the church, up at the front. The priest was waiting, ready. The organist was playing ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’. She had said hello to Frank Minghella and to his latest girlfriend, a blowsy old tart with frazzled hair and bad teeth, and to his waster of a son Joey and the best man, a skinny, pimply little runt of a boy who must be one of Joey’s younger brothers.

God, these people are going to be our in-laws, she thought.

Shauna deliberately hadn’t invited any of her upmarket friends such as Tanya and Chloe to this. She thought of what that bitch Philippa Houghton would have made of this shindig, and shuddered. Not that Phil was a problem any more. No way would she want the people she mixed with seeing the rabble across the aisle. She’d come a long way in her personal life, and she’d done that by becoming a shrewd judge of occasion. The low lifes on the right-hand side of the church were all toffed up in cheap too-short skirts, orange fake tans and fascinators. Not one decent hat between the lot of them – and the clothes! The last time Shauna had seen such a load of old tat she’d been passing a recycling bin. And the men were little better, all of them badly groomed, wearing cheap shiny suits and stinking of stale sweat.

Shauna’s outfit could never be compared to those worn by the women over there. Her dress suit was a lovingly cut and beautifully draped rose-peach Yves Saint Laurent, and her hat was Philip Treacy. She knew she looked damned good, and so did Connor, who was acting as an usher today, along with a couple of Minghella brothers.