She felt a flush of anger. Who would send something like this? It wasn’t as though she was demanding everyone treat her like a princess on her special day – she was trying to be reasonable – but she didn’t need this. It was either someone who didn’t want her to get married – who, she had no idea, since the only other serious boyfriend she’d had was now living in Paris with his French wife – or someone who thought she needed rescuing. Either way, it was selfish.

She deleted it. Whoever it was, she wanted nothing to do with it.

2

The next morning, when she had made her coffee, she opened her laptop. There was another email.

It was a follow-up to the previous message.

I’m serious. You don’t have to do this. It’s not too late.

She was about to delete it, but paused. It was better to put a stop to this, once and for all. She typed a reply.

I don’t know who this is, but please stop sending me messages.

The reply came immediately.

I know what he does to you. I know you are unhappy. You don’t have to go through with this. There’s still time.

What – and who – the fuck was this? She sent a reply.

I have no idea what you are talking about. I don’t want to hear any more from you.

She watched her inbox with bated breath. For a minute or two there was nothing, and then the reply came:

You don’t have to lie to me, Annabelle. Just say the word, and I can get you out of this. I know you’re scared, but trust me.

Trust them? An anonymous emailer warning her not to get married? Not likely.

Who is this? she wrote

A friend.

Which friend?

There was another few minutes delay.

I can’t say. Not until you agree to call it off. I can come for you later today. Don’t be frightened, Annabelle. He won’t be able to hurt you. You’ll be safe, finally.

She heard footsteps upstairs, and then the sound of Matt coming down the stairs. She moved the cursor to the delete button. Her hand was shaking.

She deleted the message, and then blocked the sender.

The door opened, and Matt came in. He leaned down and kissed her.

‘Is there more coffee?’ he said.

‘I made a pot. There’s plenty left.’

He looked at her half-empty mug. ‘Want a refill?’

3

‘Did you mention it to Matt?’ Miriam, her oldest friend and maid-of-honour – a title which sounded vaguely ridiculous to Annabelle, given the number of boyfriends Miriam had been through – sipped her prosecco. They had been at the wedding dress shop, getting the final alterations done, and were having a celebratory drink in a wine bar in Liverpool.

‘Not yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t want to piss him off.’