I asked her a question: didn’t she think a veil too old-fashioned and submissive?

‘That’s the idea, Rosie.’ She was unbothered and that hurt, too. (Actually, everything in this business hurt.) ‘Ned and I are going to give each other our lives.’ She laughed. ‘Ned’s fed up at the moment, but I tell him that, if we can pass this hurdle, it’ll be plain sailing.’

When I heard that, I understood the urge to commit murder. I also imagined how, having murdered, one must feel beautifully empty.

We arranged to meet at the bridal boutique to choose the wretched veil. It was a tiny place, dominated by a rack that stretched from wall to wall onto which were crammed dresses in every shade of white and with every permutation of tuck and ruffle that you could imagine. It was like looking at a shelf of different meringues, some of which it must be said had shed their freshness.

The assistant laced Jenna into her dress and clicked her tongue. ‘You’ve lost weight.’ She jerked the laces tighter on the bodice. ‘Quite normal.’

The dress was spectacular. Plain, tight-sleeved, flowing, made from the lightest of tulles, it perfectly suited her colouring and figure.

She tried on the first veil which turned out to be the wrong white against her skin. The second was too short and perky.

The assistant threw a third one over her head. ‘There,’ she said.

Its hem drifted to the floor around the still, white figure and I saw a ghost. Of the past. I saw, too, the future. It wasn’t one I wished to think about.

‘Wonderful,’ said the assistant and gave a stupid little clap.

It was.

We avoided each other’s gaze. I kept my eyes fixed on the assistant who was poking and prinking away. Jenna pinched a fold of it between her fingers, as if to draw every frisson of sensation from its texture.

What are you doing? I stopped myself from crying out. Why are you doing this when you have me?

It was impossible to forget the poisonous wave that had crashed onto me the day Jenna told me it was over and she was going to marry Ned. Impossible. Jenna cried at my reaction and I became hysterical, which frightened her. She begged me to let her go. After hours of torment, I gave in. ‘Go,’ I told her. ‘I never want to speak to you again.’

That didn’t last for long.

My own reflection lurked in the mirror behind Jenna’s. My dress was hanging in the flat. It was of the palest grey and a bouquet of blush pink roses had been chosen to go with it. As chief bridesmaid, I would bring up the rear of the procession.

What was I thinking?