The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square. Michele Gorman

my age the Boyles had a tiny shop just behind the stall. It’s like that with a lot of the market traders. Take Kelly, for instance. She’s a fourth-generation fishmonger. But instead of a stall, she has a repurposed ice cream van, with a big window in the side. Mr McCarthy had that converted into a fold-down display area to hold the fresh fish on ice. He also wanted to turn the giant ice cream cone on the roof into a sea bass, but Kelly didn’t think that painting scales on it would fool anyone. They sold the cone, which is a shame.

      ‘’e’s always saying that,’ Stacy says. Then, to me, ‘Anything else for you today?’

      ‘Nah, I’m just waiting for Kell to finish, thanks. We’re going to look at some venues for the wedding.’ Just saying it is exciting!

      ‘All right for some,’ Stacy says, either to me or her caller as Kelly approaches. ‘Good luck!’

      Kell’s been working on a list of places to check out for the reception. Not that she’s telling me anything about her ideas.

      She’s not the only one with ideas. Philippa barely waited for me to leave the party before she started firing off emails. Wouldn’t it be amazing, she’d written, to have it at Kensington Palace? Yes, the Kensington Palace, where the future king of England lives. Like we’re the Middletons or something.

      ‘I don’t suppose we’re going to West London?’ I ask Kelly as we shuffle down the bus to make room for a lady with a double pram.

      She gives me the same look she’s done since we started school together. To me, she doesn’t look that different than she did then. She’s got the pale round face and upturned nose of her Irish ancestors, and her eyes turn into crescents when she smiles. She says her thick straight brown hair just hangs in her face to annoy her, which is why she wears it in a ponytail with a heavy fringe.

      ‘We don’t need West London,’ she says. ‘We’ve got better.’

      Kelly’s always been suspicious of anything that’s outside our postcode. It may as well be France as far as she’s concerned. She’s not interested in going there, either.

      I used to think the same thing till I started taking courses in Central London. It’s no use trying to convince Kelly that there’s a world west of the City, though.

      The bus lurches past grand stone buildings that are tall enough to block the sunshine from the narrow streets weaving between them. It’s easy to imagine men in bowler hats hurrying from their clerking jobs instead of the office workers who’re all walking with their mobile phones out.

      She pushes the button to let us off near a tiny lane. There’s a low arch between buildings leading into a big square. ‘Holy shit, Kell, this isn’t for us. It looks like a church. You know Dad–’

      Her eyes crinkle. ‘Keep your wig on, it’s not a church. It’s for your party. You wanted something to impress Lord and Lady Muck.’

      ‘Mucking.’

      ‘Whatever.’

      Its Portland stone façade and huge arched windows look official, like a town hall.

      ‘It’s Stationer’s Hall,’ she explains as we look around outside. ‘You know, one of the guildhalls, for stationers and newspapers, publishers and the like. It’s as close to books as I could get and still be posh. I figured you wouldn’t want your wedding at the newsagent’s and you’re such a booky swot that I thought you’d like this.’

      I love it. Plus, I know my great grandfather was only a newsvendor, but I like this slight connection to my family. ‘How’d you even know it was possible to have a reception in a place like this? I figured it’d have to be in a hotel.’

      Kelly nods. ‘I know. That’s why you made me your bridesmaid.’ She taps her forehead. ‘Lateral thinking.’

      ‘I thought I made you my bridesmaid because you threatened to kill me otherwise.’

      ‘I only threatened to kill you when you made Cressida bridesmaid.’

      ‘Don’t start on Cressida, please.’ Her feelings about Daniel’s friend are a whole story that’s not worth getting into just now.

      She pretends not to hear me. ‘With me you get your life, and you get your lateral thinking for free.’

      ‘A two-for-one offer.’ Once a market trader, always a market trader.

      She leads us down some steps to a big wooden door that swings open as soon as she presses the bell.

      The man standing in the doorway might be around our age, but he’s got about nine strands of blond hair left on his head, which are swept back with some kind of unfortunate gel that makes it look like the raked sand in a Japanese zen garden.

      We just about keep straight faces when he calls us Miss Liddell and Miss McCarthy and introduces himself as Mr Thompson-Smythe. He’ll make a perfect head teacher if this job doesn’t work out.

      ‘After you, Miss,’ Kell says to me.

      ‘No, after you, Miss,’ I say back.

      Mr Thompson-Smythe smiles blandly.

      He leads us down a corridor lined with oil paintings of old men who all look like Margaret Thatcher, asking about my wedding plans so far. I feel his disappointment when I say there aren’t many. Emma must try harder.

      ‘We’re keeping it small,’ I offer him. ‘Maybe around sixty?’ As long as Philippa doesn’t go overboard with the invitations.

      ‘Terrific,’ he says. Sixty is obviously the perfect number for a wedding in his opinion. ‘Well, this is the Stock Room. It can seat up to sixty guests or have a hundred guests standing. Are you thinking of dinner or just a drinks reception?’

      ‘Erm, I don’t know,’ I say, looking up. Giant brass chandeliers hang from the lofty ceiling, which is painted white, gold and blue. It’s not a huge room, and with the walls all clad in dark wood and covered in livery shields, it feels a little oppressive.

      ‘Terrific,’ says Mr Thompson-Smythe again to reward my indecision. ‘The oak panelling dates from the seventeenth century and we do allow candlelight in this room.’

      Seventeenth-century panelling! I wouldn’t let anyone light a candle near it.

      Mr Thompson-Smythe pushes through the wooden double doors at one end of the room to let us into a huge hall that’s panelled like the one we just came from. It’s a lot brighter, though, thanks to an enormous stained-glass window at one end.

      Henry VIII banqueting tables are pushed up against the walls and a few colourful flags hang high up to round out the medieval feel.

      Mr Thompson-Smythe watches us take it all in. ‘The floors and panelling in this room are oak and date from the sixteenth century. The original liveries are on the carved shields above the panelling and candlelight is allowed in here too. Would you have candles?’

      He’s really pushing the candlelight. Maybe they’re trying to keep the electricity bills down. ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘Terrific.’

      I’m starting to suspect he’s not really paying attention to my answers.

      ‘What do you think?’ Kelly whispers as Mr Thompson-Smythe scurries away to pretend not to listen.

      It’s definitely right up my future mother-in-law’s street. ‘I like it, but … it just feels a bit formal. That’s not it, exactly, but do you know what I mean?’

      ‘Too posh for us? It’s like royals would have a party here.’

      ‘Mmm, no, just not our style.’ I smile at Mr Thompson-Smythe, who creeps back to our side.

      ‘Do you have any questions?’ he asks. ‘Miss McCarthy checked and the hall is free on your proposed wedding day.’

      ‘Oh, good,’ I say, not wanting to reject