Ali smiles widely.

‘So, you’re just going to go to Italy on your own?’

‘Why not?’ I reply. ‘I planned this whole wedding – including the honeymoon. The tickets are at home, the hotel is booked in my name, because I booked it, because… now that I think about it, he hasn’t wanted any say in any aspect of the wedding planning. I thought he was just being a typical bloke, not really caring about silly wedding stuff…’

‘Bastard,’ she says.

‘Yep.’

My wedding dress, hanging on the wardrobe next to us, catches my eye. My absolutely jaw-dropping, Vera Wang wedding dress. I didn’t want anything too big and poufy, but I did want something special. My white dress is strapless and fitted, right down to the thigh. The bottom third is handcrafted, with over seventy yards of bias-cut organza tiers, ruffled into a rosette shape at the front and the back. It is just the right amount of poufy and I’m absolutely devastated I’m not going to get to wear it.

‘I’ll put it somewhere safe for you,’ Ali says.

‘No you won’t, you’ll take it home and take photos in it,’ I joke.

‘Maybe I’ll do both,’ she replies. ‘Are you really going to go to Italy on your own?’

‘I think I am,’ I reply. Am I? ‘Can you cancel things here but, maybe make sure I have enough time to get home, get my bags and go?’

‘I can’t think of a job I’d be more perfect for,’ she says as she hugs me tightly. ‘Maybe Tom Hardy’s wife.’

‘You’d be great at that,’ I tell her. ‘And you’re an amazing friend.’

‘And you are going on your honeymoon on your own,’ she squeaks, unable to believe the words coming out of her mouth.

‘I am,’ I say, unable to believe the words coming out of mine.

I am, though. I am going on my honeymoon, completely on my own.

3

The first thing I do is tear down the ‘Welcome Home Mr & Mrs’ banner that is hanging above our front door. At best it’s bloody embarrassing, at worst it’s serving as a sort of weird celebration of my heartbreak, which I just don’t need right now.

I cast my mind back to when we bought this house, two years ago. We’d been together for a couple of years so I (thought) knew we were happy together, but this was my first big, real, adult thing, and I was terrified.

I wouldn’t say my twenties were the finest example of maturity. I met Ali through mutual friends when I was twenty-one. I believe she was twenty-eight at the time, but she says she’s twenty-eight now and, as her best friend, I will always swear it’s true. I had a few friends, but I didn’t have a best friend. I know that sounds kind of immature, but I don’t mean it like that. I mean, I had plenty of people who I could call friends, people I could hang out with and have fun, but I didn’t have that one special person I could rely on, who I could tell anything to. No one I could count on in times of crisis, like needing a shoulder to cry on when you catch your lying, cheating, bastard fiancé kissing one of your least favourite friends inside a maze on your wedding day. You know, pretty standard stuff.