Virginia walked towards us, glossed and sleek and slim, wearing a loose silk shift of a dress, dark grey, and low-heeled slingbacks, with her short blonde hair tucked behind her ears and two huge drop earrings. The rest of us were wearing hats – and I knew straight away that the others felt what I was feeling, that our hats were cheap and silly, ridiculous even.

As Virginia approached us, she smiled and held out her long slim arms and I noticed the neat yellow clutch hanging from her wrist by a thin strap – the kind of handbag that will hold your phone, your debit card, perhaps a lip-liner pencil and a tube of gloss, nothing more. I would have chosen a handbag that matched the dress or shoes but that would have been wrong too – I saw at once the wrongness of all my own choices. I saw, in a flash of clarity, that handbags should be either very small or very large, and that the medium-sized one on my shoulder, containing my purse and make-up bag and spare tights and tissues, was as ridiculous as my hat. Virginia stepped up to me, still smiling, saying nothing, and hugged me by way of hello. She smelled light and citrus. Her embrace held genuine warmth and I remembered that I had always liked her, that she had never joined in any of the cliques or the backbiting at school. It was how you would imagine being greeted by a minor member of the royal family and finding yourself surprised at how nice they actually were.

Her husband Alex came up the path behind her, briskly, conforming to stereotype by checking his phone as he walked. I took against him straight away – a smug show-off in his well-fitting suit and polished shoes. At the reception, I noticed he couldn’t stop staring at the bridesmaids, beautiful fourteen-year-old twins with flowers in their hair. I wasn’t the only one who noticed – and Virginia herself seemed to become a little brittle as the reception progressed.