The Other Life of Charlotte Evans. Louisa George

of going to work and doing jobs, then. And eat marshmallows and salt and vinegar crisps. Just you and me and no one else.’ Ben’s voice was soothing and deep and warm.

      ‘And drink chardonnay from a bottle. Okay. Where will we go?’ She fitted her hand into his. Where it was always meant to be.

      ‘Fiji. The Maldives. Hawaii.’

      ‘Oh, yes. Somewhere exotic with cocktails. Sun and sea and… you know what?’ She daren’t say that word out loud. Not in here where everyone was so prim and proper. A little panicky giggle started to bubble up from her tummy. Gallows humour probably. ‘I almost said the “s” word.’

      ‘I’m looking forward to the “s” word more than you can imagine.’ Ben’s eyes flared with warmth. Not quite heat. Because how could he fancy her when she was lying here like this? Vulnerable and pathetic and half scared to death. ‘Should we just forget all of this and go right now?’

      But the door swung open and Dr Carter stepped back into the room.

      ***

      Unfortunately, life had a habit of getting in the way, and absconding to Fiji for the weekend wasn’t quite as easy as Charlotte hoped. Instead of sun, sea and the “s” word, she was stressed from work, corseted up and putting on a brave face in front of her best friend.

      ‘I look like a big meringue.’ Lissa’s hands were on her hips as she twirled in front of the Bliss Brides dress shop’s huge, gilt-edged mirror. The dress was an off-the-shoulder sheath of palest lavender silk that hugged her slim dancer’s frame. In true elegant-fashion tradition, the designer had given it a cutesy name: Isla. Which was reminiscent of the wilds of Scotland and so not inner-city London or goth-inspired Lissa with her mess of raven hair and liberal use of black eyeliner. Still, it worked. She rocked it. Actually, Lissa would have rocked a paper bag.

      Charlotte grinned at her friend in the mirror. ‘You look adorable. There’s no way you would ever look like a meringue. Actually, could you try to look a little less amazing, please? It’s my wedding, but everyone’s going to be looking at you, not me. Your bottom might even get its own Facebook page or something, like Pippa Middleton’s.’

      ‘Honey, I don’t even have my own Fake Book page, so my backside isn’t getting one, that’s for sure.’ Lissa was in the too-cool-for-social-media camp rather than the how-does-it-work one. She rearranged her boobs inside the built-in cups in the dress and winced. ‘Ouchy.’

      ‘What’s the matter?’ Charlotte frowned. Was everything about boobs these days or was she just hypersensitive?

      Lissa growled, ‘P.M. bloody T. Worst I’ve ever had it. Sore boobs and I’m grumpy as hell. Hence the meringue reference and the huge swollen belly. Ugh. Who’d be a woman, right?’