Grateful for the conversation stopper, I try to peer through the white bag that contains my wedding heaven or wedding hell, depending on the mood she was in when she chose it. I don’t think it’s peach. Or taffeta. But I can’t see anything after a blindfold has been placed over my eyes and I’m standing in the changing room, part naked and slightly vulnerable, being dressed in secret. There should be rules against this kind of thing. Three minutes and forty-five seconds later – roughly – I step out to a sharp intake of breath from Lou and stand before the mirror. As the assistant unties the ribbon shielding my view, I see my reflection. A dress of rich, slate grey wraps me up in Grecian style. A matching flower corsage sits perfectly on my waist, and the halter neck skims my shoulders. Yards and yards of fabric hang in straight folds, and every time I move, it moves with me. For the second time this morning my throat tightens, as I realise I’ve never felt so beautiful or girly in all of my life. ‘It’s not…’

‘Peach?’ Lou says, reaching for the complimentary Kleenex and dabbing her eye.

‘It’s so…’

‘Perfect,’ she says. Then comes to stand beside me, talking to me through the mirror. ‘Look at you, being all pretty and stuff.’ She reaches for my hair, taking a clip out of her own and loosely pinning mine up. ‘And look, you can have your hair up like this, if you like. With just a hint of make-up and a splash of perfume. I’ll buy you some. You will be the most beautiful bridesmaid I could ever ask for.’ She takes my hand and kisses it. ‘Kat, I couldn’t ask for a better person to stand by my side on my wedding day. I really hope you like it.’ I look at my reflection, my eyes heavy and tired. And from nowhere, tears spill. Great, fat, unavoidable tears that are difficult to hide from your best friend. ‘Hey, babe. What’s the matter? Do you hate it?’ She looks to the assistant, digging out more Kleenex to wipe my face. ‘Oh my God, she hates it. She hates it.’ Then she stage whispers behind my back, ‘Get it off her, get it off.’

‘No,’ I cough. ‘No. It’s not the dress. It’s beautiful, Lou, thank you. I love it.’ I let her dab my tears. ‘And I love you. And I can’t wait to be there on your special day.’ I sigh. ‘It isn’t the dress at all.’ I take the tissue box now helpfully offered by the assistant, who is, no doubt, more than capable of handling blubbing wedding parties. ‘I don’t know why I’m crying.’ I look to the floor, well aware that I do know why and that if I catch Lou’s eye she will work out why too, and I don’t want to explain myself. I try to resist as she pulls my face up to hers. ‘What’s so bad that you’re crying in your bridesmaid dress, Kat? Because if you cry on that fabric, it will probably disintegrate.’