The Wish List. Sophia Money-Coutts

Posh, unquestionably, but that was fine so long as he wasn’t the sort of man who still talked about what school he went to and that he wanted to marry a rugby ball. Putting my phone down, I held my breath as I opened the fridge (it always smelled like a very old mouse had died in there) and thought about what to reply. Should I wait a bit? I couldn’t. I was too excited.

      That would be lovely! I typed. Was an exclamation mark immature? But the words looked too severe without, as if I was texting a grandparent. That would be lovely! Let me know what time works for you, I decided, adding an ‘F’ and a small ‘x’ before clicking send.

      I’d often scrutinized couples in restaurants or in the parks I walked through, watching them laugh together. How had they got to that point? What was their secret? Maybe now it was my turn. Maybe Rory would hold my hand on Sunday and other people would look at us and think, ‘What a nice couple.’ Then I told myself to calm down. This was exactly what had happened in the past: I’d been too eager about someone, wondered how many children we’d have after the first drink and then they’d vanished. But not this time. No, no, no. This time I would get it right.

      Before I could hold hands with Rory at the Royal Academy, however, there was a hurdle to clear: dress shopping with Mia, Ruby and Patricia on Saturday afternoon. Mia had made a wedding dress spreadsheet and emailed it to us all so we were ‘prepared’. There were dictators who’d put less effort into military coups than Mia had put into this spreadsheet. It was colour-coded with multiple columns for each dress and space for a final mark out of ten. Who was it by? Was it strapless? A-line? Did it have a fishtail? What kind of silk was it? Where was the lace from? My favourite column on this spreadsheet was the one that asked, ‘Have any celebrities worn this dress?’ I wasn’t sure whether Mia deemed this a good or a bad thing but guessed it depended on the celebrity. Meghan Markle would presumably score higher than Kerry Katona.

      Mia, Ruby and I took the Tube from Kennington together. Mia and Ruby discussed dresses while I brooded on what to wear for my date the next day. I hadn’t mentioned this to them. Half of me wanted to scream about it. More of me knew that talking about it would invite unwanted speculation.

      We walked down Bond Street towards the boutique. As Mia pushed open the door, I heard Patricia bullying the receptionist.

      ‘I don’t want too much chest on show,’ she was telling her. ‘Can’t bear these modern brides with their bosoms racing down the aisle before them.’

      ‘Morning, Pat,’ Ruby said loudly. Calling their mother this was a long-running joke between her and Mia.

      Patricia turned round. ‘Ruby, please. You know I hate that. And Mia, I was just saying we’re after something demure. Not too much…’ she flapped her hand around her own chest and then lowered her voice, ‘cleavage.’

      ‘Mum, it’s my wedding. I could go down the aisle in French knickers if I wanted,’ she replied, as Patricia kissed us all in turn. Her lips left a damp patch on my cheeks.

      ‘You could but your father and I might not pay for it.’

      Mia pulled her laptop from her bag and waved it at her mother. ‘I’ve done a mood board.’

      I could already detect the roots of a headache from the candles burning in the boutique. I picked one up and squinted at the label. Meringue-scented. Candles were getting sillier.

      ‘This is Hilda,’ said the receptionist, as a middle-aged lady with blonde hair pulled into a neat doughnut appeared in front of us. ‘She’ll show you to your changing room.’

      Hilda ushered us into a large, well-lit room with one cubicle in it. Cream walls, cream carpets, cream sofa. More meringue candles. An array of bridal magazines fanned on a coffee table.

      I flung myself on the end of the sofa and picked up a magazine as Mia opened her laptop.

      ‘OK, so I’m thinking along these lines,’ she said. ‘Grace Kelly, but with a contemporary twist. Big skirt but structured body.’ She swivelled the screen at Patricia and Hilda.

      ‘Oh yes,’ said Hilda, smiling approvingly at Mia, ‘a classic.’

      I looked back to my magazine. On the front was a model in a strapless dress holding a bunch of white roses. ‘White hot!’ said the cover line beside her. Underneath that, another line read: ‘Cake crazy! The most fashionable flavours this summer.’ How could a cake flavour be fashionable?

      ‘What his mother REALLY thinks of you,’ screamed another headline.

      Our kitchen table had become increasingly weighed down with these magazines in the past two weeks, Mia’s neon Post-it notes sticking up from the pages. Fourteen days. That was all it had taken for her to transform from semi-normal person into a bridebot, incapable of having a conversation unless it was about the thickness of an invitation card.

      She stepped into the cubicle but didn’t bother to pull the cream curtain closed as she stripped. For someone so uptight, Mia had a curiously relaxed attitude towards her own nudity. I’d rather have eaten spiders than stand in front of my family in a bra and thong. It made me wonder whether I had to dig out one of Mia’s lacy thongs from the back of my pants drawer for my date. Surely my underwear didn’t matter much for a trot round an art gallery?

      While Hilda helped Mia into something that looked more like a marquee than a dress, Patricia’s attention shifted.

      ‘Florence, darling, how was your session with Gwendolyn? Was it helpful?’

      I held my breath, debating how much to share. ‘It was fine,’ I replied carefully.

      ‘Shit, the love coach!’ said Ruby, dropping her phone in her lap. ‘Sorry, Flo, I forgot to ask.’

      ‘What did she say?’ my stepmother went on.

      ‘You guys ever heard of patient confidentiality?’

      ‘Oh, come on, darling, it’s only us. And Hilda. And we won’t tell anybody, will we?’

      Hilda, unsure what she was agreeing to, shook her head at Patricia.

      ‘She made me write a list,’ I said resignedly.

      ‘What kind of list?’ asked Mia from the cubicle.

      I leant my head against the back of the sofa, eyes closed. ‘A list of whatever I’m looking for in a man. Must be tall and have all his own hair, that sort of thing.’

      ‘What was on your list?’ asked Patricia.

      ‘I’ve read about this online,’ piped up Hilda. ‘It’s like a sort of… wish list?’

      ‘For God’s sake,’ I muttered, opening my eyes. ‘Yes, it’s like a wish list. You write a list of traits; mine included likes reading, is adventurous, has an interesting job and, er, is into cats. And then you put it out to the universe and supposedly the universe will deliver him.’

      ‘Sounds mad,’ said Mia.

      ‘Agreed,’ said Ruby. ‘Where did you find this woman again, Mum?’

      ‘In Posh! magazine. She’s very well respected,’ said Patricia. ‘When’s your next session, Florence? I think you need to take it more seriously. What have cats got to do with anything?’

      I placed my palms on my knees for strength. ‘In a couple of weeks, unfortunately. You said I only had to go to one session and then I find out you’ve booked a package of them. I’d rather enter a convent than go back to that room.’

      ‘You might have to enter a convent at this rate.’

      ‘Actually, I’ve got a date tomorrow.’ I hadn’t meant to let it slip out but I wanted to silence her.

      Needless to say, she was the first to reply, ‘Darling! How exciting.’

      ‘With