“Fliss …” She looks up. “Fliss …”

Just call me the World Champion Bride Whisperer.

There was no argument. No confrontation. Lottie thinks it was her idea to postpone. I was the one saying, “Are you sure, Lottie? Are you positive you want to call things off? Really?”

I’ve totally sold her on the idea of a country wedding with music and a choir and bells. She’s already looked up the name of the chaplain at our old school. She’s off on a new dream of satin and posies and “I Vow to Thee, My Country.”

Which is fine. A wedding is lovely. Marriage is lovely. Maybe Ben is destined to be her life partner and I’ll kick myself as she has her tenth grandchild and think, What was my problem? But at least this way gives her some breathing space. At least it gives her time to look at Ben and think, Hmm. Sixty more years with you. Is this a good idea?

Lottie’s gone off to the registry office, to tell Ben the news. My work is done. The only task remaining is to buy her Brides magazine. We’re going to meet up for coffee tomorrow and have a cozy chat about veils, and then, in the evening, finally I’ll get to meet Ben.

I’m waiting to cross the King’s Road, mentally congratulating myself for being so brilliant, when I see a face I recognize. Beaky nose. Windswept dark hair. Rose in his buttonhole. He’s about ten feet tall and is striding along the pavement on the other side, with the kind of thunderous frown that you wear when your rich best friend has been grabbed by an evil gold digger and you’ve got to be best man. As he’s walking, his rose suddenly falls out, and he stops to pick it up. He’s looking at it with such a murderous expression, I almost want to laugh.

Ha. Well, wait till I tell him. What’s his name again? Oh yes, Lorcan.

“Hi!” I wave frantically as he moves off. “Lorcan! Stop!”

His stride is so fast, I’ll never catch up with him. He pauses and swivels round suspiciously, and I wave again to get his attention.

“Over here! Me! I need to speak to you!” I wait for him to cross, then approach him, brandishing my bouquet. “I’m Fliss Graveney. We spoke yesterday? Lottie’s sister?”

“Ah.” His face clears briefly, then it’s back to the cheery, wedding-day scowl. “I suppose you’re heading there now?”

I’d forgotten about the ridiculous movie-trailer voice. Although somehow it sounds less ridiculous when it’s not a disembodied voice coming down a phone line. It matches his face. Dark and kind of intense.

“Well, actually …” I can’t help sounding complacent. “I’m not heading there, because it’s off.”

He stares at me in shock. “What do you mean?”

“It’s off. For now,” I add. “Lottie’s gone to postpone the wedding.”

“Why?” he demands. He’s so bloody suspicious.

“So she can make sure Ben’s fortune is invested in a way that makes it easy to plunder,” I say with a shrug. “Obviously.”

Lorcan’s face flickers with amusement. “OK. I deserved that. What’s going on? Why is she postponing?”

“I talked her out of it,” I say proudly. “I know my sister, and I know the power of suggestion. After our little chat, she wants a romantic wedding in a small stone church in the country. That’s why she’s postponing. My reasoning is: if they delay, at least it gives them a chance to see if they’re right for each other.”

“Well, thank God for that.” Lorcan breathes out and runs a hand through his hair. Finally his hackles are coming down; finally his brow is starting to relax. “Ben is in no place to be getting married right now. It was nuts.”

“Ridiculous,” I agree.

“Insane.”

“Stupidest idea ever. No, I take that back.” I glance down at myself. “Putting me in a purple bridesmaid’s dress was the stupidest idea ever.”

“I think you look very nice.” Another flicker of amusement passes across his face. He glances at his watch. “What should I do? I’m supposed to be meeting Ben at the registry office by now.”

“I think we should stay away.”

“Agreed.”

There’s a pause. This is weird, standing on a street corner, all dressed up with no wedding to go to. I finger my bouquet awkwardly and wonder if I should throw it in the bin. It seems wrong somehow.

“Do you feel like a drink?” says Lorcan abruptly. “I feel like a drink.”

“I feel like about six drinks,” I counter. “It takes it out of you, talking someone out of a wedding.”