At the table, Nory was flanked by Isaac on one side and Jeremy on the other. Isaac had Ameerah on his other side. Guy was at the top table with the bride and groom; Jeremy was given the option as Charles’s other best man but had chosen to stay with Katie, who looked relieved to be finally sitting down. In addition to the Swiss chocolatier chocolate favors, there were also little packets of sunflower seeds from the Mind mental health charity. The front read: On the wedding of Charles and Jenna, and the back: In memory of Tristan.

Isaac must have seen the ghost of melancholy cross Nory’s face because he took her hand and said, “I’d like to come and see your bookshop.”

“Really? That would be lovely.”

“I’m curious to know if my vision of it is different from the reality.”

“How do you imagine it?” she asked, curious.

“Haphazardly cozy.”

“Would it surprise you if I told you it was white walled and minimalist, with floating shelves and Bauhaus chairs?”

“Really?” Isaac looked at her incredulously.

Nory laughed. “No, not really. You were right the first time; ‘haphazardly cozy’ just about sums it up. Andrew, my shop manager, says I’m the worst bookseller he’s ever known because I fall hopelessly in love with all the books I’m supposed to be selling.”

“Yes,” said Isaac, “I can imagine,” as though this confirmed all his suspicions about her.

The wedding dinner, complete with local un-nibbled-by-deer salad, went without a hitch and was delicious. Pippa was sitting at Nory’s table but kept her wireless mic on to make sure everything ran smoothly, and, disarmingly, would suddenly begin speaking to someone else in the middle of a conversation. She sat bolt upright throughout the meal, head turning this way and that, like a meerkat on the lookout for predators.

“Who invited Madonna?” quipped Ameerah, nodding in Pip’s direction.

Katie sniggered.

“Her tits aren’t pointy enough,” said Nory.

“She’s very committed, isn’t she?” added Dev.

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks, sweet cheeks,” Pippa replied dryly to Dev. “I don’t give a fuck about your carpal tunnel. I ordered five hundred macarons and I expect five hundred macarons. I’ll be counting.”

“I don’t think that last part was directed at me, was it?” Dev looked doubtfully at Ameerah.

“Pippa, try not to make eye contact with us when you’re being the queen of bloody everything, it’s very disconcerting,” Ameerah admonished.

“Sorry,” said Pippa. “It helps my focus if I’m looking at someone. Sorry, Dev, you’re not expected to produce five hundred macarons. Put some bleach down it, then. Yep. Yep. Top up the perfume in the toilets while you’re at it, would you. Someone’s gone walkabout with the Marc Jacobs eau de toilette.”