The reception itself is a formal event; the bride and groom love dressing up and so I imagine the entire weekend is going to be like something out of Downton Abbey. Not that I mind, it gives me the opportunity to indulge and pretend I'm Katherine Hepburn or someone. Certainly someone worthy of the racy slit that darts up to mid-thigh on the right hand side of the gown.
So I've picked out a feather headpiece and black lace cocktail jacket, and a set of long black evening gloves to accessorise. I may not be on the hunt, but I still love to be noticed.
My phone rings, and I scoop it up. I'm a little worried when I see it's David calling, so I answer quickly.
"Hi Davey, please tell me you're not cancelling on me."
"Hi Em. No, nothing of the sort. I've got everything arranged on this side,
