“Luckily there was a cancelation at the registry office, so they could squeeze us in. And we can have a church blessing down the line,” she’s saying blithely. “So I get the best of both worlds!”

I want to throw my cup of coffee across the room. Or maybe I want to tip it over my own head. There’s a nasty heaving feeling in my stomach. This is my fault too. I could have stopped this. If I’d told her everything Lorcan said.

He’s having a bit of an early midlife crisis.… Your sister will be the casualty.…

“Where are you now?”

“Packing! We’re off to Ikonos! It’s so exciting.”

“I’ll bet it is,” I say feebly.

What do I do? There’s nothing I can do. They’re married. It’s done.

“Maybe we’ll have a honeymoon baby,” she adds coyly. “How do you feel about being an aunt?”

“What?” I sit bolt upright. “Lottie—”

“Fliss, I’ve got to go, the taxi’s here, love you lots.…”

She rings off. Frantically, I speed-dial her again, but it goes to voicemail.

Baby? Baby?

I want to whimper. Is she insane? Does she have any idea what strain a baby will bring to the party?

My love life has been such a clusterfuck. I can’t bear it if Lottie’s is too. I wanted her to crack it the way I didn’t. I wanted her fantasy to come true. Happy ever after. Picket fence. Strong, lasting happiness. Not a honeymoon baby with some flake-head who’s on a brief domesticity craze before taking up motorbikes. Not sitting in Barnaby Rees’s office with red eyes and hair that needs washing and a toddler trying to eat all the law books.

On impulse, I Google the Amba Hotel. At once, a series of holiday-porn images greets my eyes. Blue skies and sunsets. The famous grotto swimming pool, with its thirty-foot tumbling waterfall. Beautiful couples strolling by the sea. Massive beds, scattered with rose petals. Let’s face it, they’ll have made a honeymoon baby before the wedding night is over. Lottie’s ovaries will twang into action and she’ll be vomiting all the way home.

Then if he does turn out to be a flake … if he does let her down … I close my eyes and bury my face in my hands. I can’t bear it. I need to talk to Lottie. Face-to-face. Properly. With her brain engaged, not in fantasyland. At least make sure she’s thought through all the consequences of what she’s doing.

I’m sitting utterly still, my mind skittering back and forth like a mouse trapped in a maze. I’m trying to find a solution, I’m trying to find a way out, I keep coming up against dead ends.…

Until suddenly I lift my head and take a deep breath. I’ve come to a decision. It’s huge and extreme, but I have no choice. I’m going to gate-crash her honeymoon.

I don’t care if it’s a heinous thing to do. I don’t care if she never forgives me: I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t. Marriage was one thing. Unprotected sex is another. I need to get out there. I need to save my sister from herself.

Abruptly, I pick up the phone and dial Travel.

“Hi,” I say as Clarissa, our travel booker, answers. “Bit of an emergency, Clarissa. I need to get out to Ikonos asap. The Greek island. First available flight. And I need to stay in the Amba. They know me there.”

“Right.” I can hear her tapping at the computer. “There’s only one flight direct to Ikonos a day, you know. Otherwise it’s a change at Athens, which ends up taking forever.”

“I know. Get me on the next direct flight you can. Thanks, Clarissa.”

“Haven’t you just reviewed the Amba?” She sounds surprised. “A few months ago?”

“I’m doing a follow-up,” I lie smoothly. “Sudden decision. It’s a new feature idea we’ve had,” I add, to cement my story. “Spot checks on hotels.”

This is the plus of being editor. No one questions me. Also: that is a good idea. I open my BlackBerry and type in: Spot checks??

“OK! Well, I’ll let you know. Hopefully we can get you on the flight tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

I ring off and drum my fingers, still tense. Even at my quickest, I won’t get out there for a good twenty-four hours. Lottie is already on her way to the airport. She’ll be on today’s afternoon flight. She’ll get to the hotel by this evening. The Oyster Suite will be there, waiting, with its super-king bed and sunken Jacuzzi and champagne.

How many people conceive a baby on their wedding night? Could I find this out from Google? I type in conceive baby first night honeymoon, then restlessly cancel it. Google isn’t the point. Lottie’s the point. If only I could stop them. If only I could get in there before they … What’s the word? Consummate it.