‘Yes, I suppose that’s one way to look at it,’ I say, putting on some mango-flavoured lip balm. Some of our chats make me feel so old. It’s strange to think of myself as a grown-up, but around Risky I feel positively ancient. When I was a teenager we had posters of celebrities we liked on our bedroom walls. They felt like untouchable gods. Now these people expose every inch of their lives on Instagram and reply to their fans. If Madonna had replied to a message I sent her in the Nineties, I might have imploded. I’m not sure how healthy all this direct access to famous people is, for either them or their fans. Risky is obsessed.

‘Well, I am grateful for her brand partnerships, because this wedding is going to cost more than North West’s fourth birthday party,’ I say, delighted with my cultural reference.

‘Um, boss. North West is already six,’ Risky says. I let the conversation dissipate naturally.

Lauren rather publicly turned down £600k from OK magazine, saying she didn’t want her big day to be about that. She then quietly signed a million-pound deal with Veuve Clicquot to live-post the wedding on her Instagram feed. I suppose she will be in more control of it now, but it all boils down to the same thing – an absolute abuse of privacy that you willingly sign up for, leaving you powerless to tell the press to back off. It’s not my job to judge, and I am making a fortune out of this wedding. I take twenty per cent of the whole cost, and the budget seems to increase every day. But I do think relationships are hard enough, without the public being involved. It can’t be easy when everyone wants to know all of your business.

A few years ago I did weddings for budgets of £30k or less. It took one influential guest at a wedding breakfast to think the beef pies were a revelation to book me for her daughter’s wedding (an IT girl, already divorced twice; third time lucky, I suppose) and that was that, I was catapulted into the world of high-budget nuptials.

While Risky pretends to work but actually tries to take surreptitious selfies ‘at work’/‘feeling hungry’/’hoping today is a good day’, I sit at my desk and try to look like I’m concentrating whilst scanning porn sites, to give my neglected clitoris a tiny thrill. I’m worried it might go into panic mode, break free from my cumbersome body and throw itself at random strangers if this drought carries on.