“Knowing Dylan, he’ll demand a good proportion of your time. Dinner on the table, shirts ironed, boots polished.”

Boots polished?

Oh God, was that really what she’d be doing? She didn’t want to polish clunky, big boots! She loved spending her time designing and manufacturing beautiful, delicate stilettos and sandals—shoes that were not simply something to wear but something to treasure. Her shoes made heads turn, they made memories, they made everyone wish they owned a pair.

“Ah, here we are,” her father said.

“Already?”

The car drew to a halt outside the small Norman church and the driver killed the engine. The sound of the ringing bells filled her ears, their clanging a series of long, low notes that merged into a heavy drone.

Megan stared out of the window at the graveyard. The grass, dotted with daisies, was lush green thanks to a few days of rain last week. A wonky gravestone with a bunch of dead carnations at its base caught her attention.

Beryl Simmons. 1939-2009. Devoted wife of Bernard Simmons.

Devoted wife. Was that all Beryl had been? Did the words devotion and wife define Mrs Simmons? It seemed they did, in death at least. But what else had she done with her life? Had she achieved her potential?

“Time to do this,” her father said, holding out his hand.

Megan stepped out and her heels sank in the gravel. She worried for the delicate soles that had a layer of gold glitter on them—her unique selling point. The gravel wouldn’t do it any good at all, and would likely scratch the heels.

“Turn around,” Brendon called, rushing from the car that had just pulled in behind the Rolls Royce. “You need fluffing, you’re all flat. Flat as a bloody ironing board.”

Megan did as instructed while Brendon one-handedly—because Gucci was still tucked under his other arm—plumped up the dress to even more enormous proportions.

“Here,” Georgie said, thrusting the bigger of the two bouquets at Megan. “Don’t forget this.”

“Thanks.” Megan wished she had a drink of water, her mouth was dry. The sun was beating down on her. She lifted the flowers to her nose and breathed deeply. They smelt fresh and powdery and the petals were so fragile. “Where’s Olivia?”

“Waiting for us at the door,” Brendon said, hopping around her, checking the dress. “You’re good to go. Go make that man happy.”

“Yes. Okay.” She nodded seriously.

“And enjoy it,” Georgie said. “Smile. It’s not supposed to be an ordeal. You’re marrying the man you love. The man you want to spend the rest of your life with.”