“It therefore gives me great pleasure to declare that you are now legally married.”

Stuart and I both grin and give each other a brief kiss. Relief. There’s no going back now. The show will go on, but on my terms. I’ve made the right decision.

Tamsin takes photos on her phone. I clutch my small bouquet of pastel-colored peonies close to me and smile. I chose to wear my hair up, but still, my ever-annoying fringe threatens to escape. I’m grateful the hardest part of the ceremony is over as it’s hot and I can’t wait to get out of the register office.

We stand on the steps as Stuart’s friends snap a few more obligatory pictures before we head to the pub next door.

“It’s got decent-enough reviews on Trip Advisor,” he said when he updated me on all the wedding plans.

“Well, that’s all right then,” I said.

I don’t think he got it as he smiled blandly in response.

Strangely, that bothered me more than a lot of other things that genuinely should concern me. Denial is useful.

“Goodbye, my love,” my dad says. “Sorry I can’t stay for the meal, but I want to get back to your mum.”

I pretend to understand. “Tell Mum I love her.”

I stand at the door of the pub and wave his taxi off, swallowing the lump in my throat.

I accept a glass of champagne when a waiter offers it. I’ve done my research—a small one won’t harm my baby.

Everyone, including Tamsin and Camilla, chorus, “Congratulations,” as we all raise our glasses.

Stuart undoes his top shirt button. Relief that he appears more relaxed ups my optimism. Sun pours through the window highlighting the dust particles on the dark, wood-paneled walls.

My appetite has returned, so much so, that I don’t care that Camilla has chosen to sit opposite me. I tuck into my stuffed mushroom starter and dip some white chunky bread into the sauce.

“How long did you plan it?” Camilla says to me after the starters are cleared.

I glance discreetly to the left. Stuart is involved in a lengthy conversation with a friend about a work client.

“Plan what?” I say. I lower my voice. “I hope you aren’t implying that I had something to do with Nina’s illness, are you? Because it’s not possible. Nina died of melanoma.”

“Sadly, I wouldn’t put it past you, but no. I mean, the moment the news was bad, really bad, did you start planning this then? Were you somehow secretly delighted that Nina was never going to escape you again?”

“You’re sick.”

It’s as if Camilla can read my thoughts. It’s unnerving. Of course I didn’t plan it, but it did plant a subtle seed of an idea that there would be...not so much a vacancy, but a plan B.

I will not let Camilla ruin this for me, too.

“And you’re a fine one to talk,” I continue.

I look at Tamsin, who has remained silent throughout the exchange, concentrating on her food.