I think I knew before I knew. I felt the soft whisper of my highlighter brush smoothing my left cheek, my eyes gazing back at me in the dressing table mirror. It wasn’t the usual dull monologue about crepey skin or dark circles. ‘You can’t control today,’ said a small, definite voice. ‘She’s not a child anymore.’

Nick passed swiftly behind me, an apparition in a well-cut grey suit. I shivered. Then I picked up my mascara and continued the well-worn internal argument about whether I looked like an ageing film star or a delusional bag lady when I dressed up.

By comparison, it felt as comforting as a nursery rhyme.

RACHEL

Of course Josh couldn’t have his precious baby girl christened in the mean streets of Shepherd’s Bush where we grew up. Instead I started Saturday morning gingerly picking my way through the cobbled back streets of Kensington, which were lined with white stucco houses as grand as fairy-tale castles and small, yappy dogs attached to careworn-looking women being paid minimum wage to pick up their poo. The idea of ever being able to afford to live in one of these houses was certainly a fairy tale for me. It would require Nancy’s godfather to be an eligible bachelor in possession of a vast fortune who fell madly in love with me the second our eyes met over the font. A vicious gust of wind slipped its way up my green Zara dress, which immediately felt too short, too cheap, too bright. Too me. Of course that won’t happen, spat the spiteful voice inside my head. You’re not the girl they marry. Look at the evidence.

And there, indeed, was the evidence. I rounded the final corner, coming upon the ancient church Josh and Chloe had chosen for the momentous day. Its tawny stone glowed in the warm morning light, the outside thronged by well-heeled couples. How was it that Josh managed to profess his socialist principles while simultaneously living this life? The fact his wife had a trust fund certainly helped.

I slowed my pace to a snail’s, grateful for the excuse granted by my precarious high street heels. I could taste a metallic tinge at the back of my throat, the legacy of last night’s vodka tonics. I discreetly wrapped up the tab of gum that I’d been chewing en route: Mum’s sixth sense for these things was strong, and I was too fragile for a fight. I’d deserved that night out, I reasoned; anyone would need a dose of Dutch courage when this event was coming up.

But the truth was that my night out with Lou the week before had broken the seal on my days-old sobriety. And the fact I hadn’t been able to find a time to make a second meeting with Amber since was… Right then, I couldn’t bear to interrogate the reasons.