Asma downed her mimosa. ‘Are you year eight, or year nine, Freddie-Frou?’ She’d caught on quickly that nobody called each other by their proper given name in our world. Everyone was Doo this or Frou that, a bear or a bug or a piggy-poo.

‘I’m just starting year nine.’

‘She’s thirteen going on twenty-five,’ I said. Freddie was actually called Frederica, but when she learned about the gender pay gap in a Teen Vogue article had decided she wanted a name “where you can’t tell if I am a girl or a boy on my CV when I’m older, so they can’t discriminate.” She’s smart, Freddie. Smarter than me.

She folded into my lap and I inhaled the scent of the top of her head.

‘Thank you for being my perfect bridesmaid,’ I whispered into her loose curls. ‘You’re my best girl.’

‘You’re my best girl,’ she whispered back. ‘But have you got a Tic Tac? Your breath smells like alcohol.’ She screwed up her nose in distaste.

I squealed and went to blow a raspberry on the back of her neck.

‘Not the lip gloss!’ Asma laughed, lunging over to separate us. ‘That’s some of my best work!’ I went to chase after Freddie, interrupted – to her luck – by the arrival of my dad letting himself into the room with the keycard we’d told reception to give him.

‘Daddy!’ Freddie padded towards him. ‘We’ve had the best night. We had afternoon tea! And pizza in bed!’

Dad put his arm around her and grinned at me. He was wearing his favourite navy-blue suit and a fat red tie with a matching handkerchief in his top pocket. He already had a tiny flute lily in his button hole, made to match my bouquet.

‘So, this is you on your wedding day,’ he said as way of greeting, taking me in as I stood before him.

I grinned. Seeing his eyes glistening made my own get wetter. Unable to speak I simply nodded. Bloody weddings. You think you’ll be all nonchalant and not like all those other brides, and then bam: it hits you. You’re just as sappy and emotional as the next woman in white.

‘You look beautiful,’ he said. ‘Truly beautiful.’

Freddie tugged on his arm, slipping her hand into his. ‘I said she looked regal.’

‘Queen of the world,’ Dad smiled, and Asma waved a tissue in front of my face in anticipation of what was to come.

‘Dab, don’t wipe,’ she said sternly. ‘Gently dab or you’ll smudge it all.’

I took a big breath. My wedding day.