‘You’d look gorgeous in anything, babe.’

Much as Mark couldn’t believe his luck about Sam, he had long harboured threesome fantasies about Poppy and Bella: Poppy so fair, Bella so dark, both of them so fit. And he’d nearly had his wicked way with Bella a couple of times last year. But that was before she got together with Andy. And before he met Sam, of course.

Damian was doing the rounds, sweating slightly in his cream linen suit. He’d be glad when he could take the bloody jacket off. It was great seeing all their friends and family gathered on the beautiful beach, the result of months of excited planning. The planning had been amazing, without doubt the best nine months of his life. He’d nearly lost Poppy last year, in more ways than one, and the joy he’d felt when she’d surprised him with a proposal had been overwhelming. Relief had turned to magical excitement as they planned every last detail of what they hoped would be the best day of their lives, and he’d never felt closer to anyone. But by God was he nervous now. He was almost 100 per cent sure he was doing the right thing.

‘Not getting cold feet are you, darling?’ asked Simon, his best man and fellow journalist on the men’s style magazine Stadium. ‘Here, have some of this.’ He passed him his drink, an ice-cold White Russian.

‘Thanks, mate.’ Damian took a swig. ‘And no, I’m not. Well – maybe a bit.’ He laughed. ‘But only stage fright, not the till-death-us-do-part bit, I’m absolutely convinced about that.’ He looked at Simon through his wraparound rock-star shades, fully aware of what most of his friends had made of Poppy’s behaviour the previous year. ‘And I’m bloody hot in this suit.’

‘Il faut souffrir être beau.’ Simon’s affected campery could be misleading sometimes. ‘Anyway, you’re lookin’ mighty fine, dude.’ And Damian was. The cream linen set off his half-Indian, half-Welsh complexion beautifully, and the sharp cut emphasized his lean build. The shades, which he planned to take off during the ceremony, concealed soulful dark eyes that slanted down at the corners.

‘But maybe you should have taken a leaf out of that couple’s book.’ Simon was now laughing in the direction of an ageing pair of ravers in matching purple sarongs. The man was bare-chested, the woman improbably pert-breasted in a gold-and-lilac paisley bandeau bikini top. They were boogying barefoot in the sand to Moby, half pissed already by the look of it.

‘That’s Bella’s dad and his latest,’ said Damian, laughing too now and waving over at them. ‘Hey, Justin, hey, Jilly.’ They waved back, blowing kisses.

‘You don’t mind them not making more of an effort?’ Simon was very conscious of his own and others’ sartorial standards. Today he was impeccably dressed in a white open-necked shirt under a similar suit to Damian’s (only in a muted café au lait shade, so as not to upstage the groom).

‘Why do you think we’re getting married on a beach, you twat?’