‘Doesn’t our little girl look beautiful?’ said Justin, wondering if he really could make out Poppy’s nipples underneath the embroidery on her dress.

‘You may now kiss the bride,’ said the be-garlanded, white-suited registrar. ‘Un beso, por favor!’

Damian clasped Poppy to his linen breast and Bella felt her eyes misting up again at the sight of them, so perfect against the gradated blue of the horizon. She looked around for her boyfriend, Andy, who smiled at her. She smiled back. He looked very handsome and very tall in an olive-green linen jacket over faded Levis. The bright spring sunshine bounced off his oblong specs, which (by luck, rather than design; Andy was not a vain man) emphasized high cheekbones and a strong jaw.

‘I declare this sea well and truly open!’ shouted Poppy, chucking her bouquet over her shoulder and dragging Damian into the water with her. Bella ran to catch the bouquet but just missed it. She picked it up, trying to shake the sand off the pretty yellow and white flowers, and turned to see Andy looking at her again. He wasn’t smiling now. She ran over, slightly embarrassed.

‘Think I’d better ask them to put these lovely flowers in some water.’

Andy nodded. Bella knew he was wary of marriage, but he needn’t be quite so fucking obvious about it.

Soon everybody was dancing in the sea to Groove Armada – singing about sand dunes and salty air – some more careless of their costly garb than others.

Mark had been right about the temperature of the sea, but the mood was infectious and it was ages before they all sat down to lunch.

The meal was typically Ibicenco and utterly delicious. Local ham with rustic bread, aïoli and olives, followed by huge paellas bursting with fresh seafood, peppers, rabbit and chorizo, served from big, hot pans at the tables. Bella squeezed a wedge of lemon over her steaming rice and wiped her fingers on a linen napkin.

She was sitting in the dappled shade of the Arctic camouflage net with Andy, Simon, Natalia, Mark and Sam. The bride and groom were sharing a table with Damian’s parents and Poppy’s mother. Poppy had been heartbroken that her father, in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s, was too ill to be at her wedding – whether it had been held in the UK or not. He wasn’t even aware she was getting married, poor old love, despite the happy couple’s repeated and increasingly desolate announcements, complete with ring flashing, at his care home.

The two hundred-odd guests sounded pretty happy with their lot as decibel levels rose with the rosé consumption. At the next table, Bella’s mother, father, Bernie and Jilly were already on their fourth bottle.

‘What a lovely day,’ she said, full of tipsy sunshiny happiness. ‘I just knew Poppy would get it right.’

‘I think she had a lot of help from her devoted friend, no?’ said Natalia, turning her slanting grey-blue gaze on Bella. The diamonds in her ears and scraped-back hair emphasized the height and acute angle of her cheekbones.