‘You know, maybe we should get married here,’ Danny is saying now. It’s his first visit to the Yorkshire Dales, and earlier he caused quite a stir as he walked around the village dressed in his leather jacket, bandana and sunglasses. Sunglasses in December. I think Sheila at the post office thought he was Bono. ‘Hire a field, get some yurts, put on a music festival.’

‘Now who’s emoting?’ laughs Naomi. ‘Not sure I can imagine my parents in a yurt.’

‘They must be pleased about the engagement,’ I say.

‘That I’m finally going to be respectable?’ Naomi rolls her eyes and sighs. ‘Still, I suppose if it makes them happy, and their church group happy.’

‘Are we going to be respectable?’ says Danny, slipping his hand around her waist and making her smile.

Which is lovely to see, as Naomi has always had such a tough time with her parents, though I can imagine Danny might not be quite the son-in-law they’re imagining.

‘No, you’re right, this place is amazing,’ he’s saying now in admiration, looking over at me. ‘Total respect, Liv.’ With his free hand he gives me a fist-bump.

‘Thanks.’ I laugh with embarrassment as I fist-bump him back.

‘And I’m not just talking about the house and garden, when I say I don’t recognize it,’ adds Naomi. ‘Remember when I told you that life was going to get bigger and better?’

My mind flicks back to that moment, standing outside my old house in London, feeling like life was over. It seems so long ago, and yet I can still conjure it up in a heartbeat.

‘See, I’m always right,’ she says pointedly at Danny.

‘Yes, she is,’ I nod and he groans good-naturedly, which makes us all laugh.

But what no one tells you is that the darkest moments make you look for the light. And I looked for it and found it.

We get ready for the dance in a haze of hair spray and high spirits, and as we step out into the night there’s a veritable feeling of festivity. The air has that crisp coldness that makes your breath appear like cobwebs, and the village has been decorated for Christmas. A large trimmed tree shimmers in the cobbled square and warm white fairy lights are strung across the lane leading to the top of the village.

The sounds of the band warming up are wafting into the darkness, and up ahead the village hall is lit up. Earlier an army of volunteers draped a banner across the front with the words ‘Grand Opening’ painted by the local primary school, while others erected ladders against the old oak tree that grows in front of the hall and hung garlands of carnival lights in the branches. The effect is magical.

‘It looks like the Faraway Tree,’ whispers Ellie, her voice heavy with excitement as we pick our way across the cobbles. I’m usually always wearing wellies, but now I tiptoe carefully, trying not to get the kitten heels of my slingback stilettos stuck.