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‘Excellent choice. It’s my favourite, but James prefers the Viognier and his parents think people might think we’ve skimped if we serve Savvy Blanc rather than the Chablis. I tell you, there’s nothing like a wedding to bring out strong opinions on the weirdest things.’

‘How is the preparation going?’ I ask her as she pushes the unidentifiable object to one side, replacing it with two large glasses from the cupboard, before reaching into a drawer for the corkscrew.

‘Weird opinion number two,’ she says, undeflected as she inserts the corkscrew into the bottle. ‘James’s parents rejected over half of the initial wines we chose because they had screw tops and, in their opinion, screw tops are “common”. I tried to point out that they were a lot easier for the waiting staff to cope with, but my arguments fell on deaf ears.’

I laugh. ‘Are you sure you want to marry into this family?’

‘Oh, yes. They may have some very outdated views, but James’s parents are lovely most of the time. And, of course, I’m totally in love with James and couldn’t imagine life without him. If he comes with parental baggage, I’m just going to have to suck that up for the sake of the love of my life, aren’t I. Anyway, what was your question? Oh, yes, the wedding preparation.’

She grabs a bowl, fills it with crisps and beckons me to follow her into the sitting room, where we settle ourselves on beautiful cream sofas. I can’t help thinking they will be the first casualties if they start to have children but, to be fair, their house is about as un-child friendly as it’s possible to get at the moment. The sitting room alone has at least two very expensive-looking glass lamps on low tables, the perfect height for a toddler to grab. Although they’re older, perhaps I should offer her Troy’s twins for a weekend. If anyone is going to find the flaws in their set-up, those two would.

I listen happily for the next hour or so as she fills me in on everything wedding related. If there were a Guinness Book of Records award for organising the most lavish wedding in the shortest time, she’d surely win it. In the space of just a few weeks, she’s organised the cake, the photographer, the guestlist, the dress and the flowers, as well as keeping in constant touch with the venue to make sure they don’t stray from the script she’s set them. The venue itself is a beautiful country house about half an hour’s drive away.

‘I’m surprised James’s parents didn’t suggest a marquee at their place,’ I remark as I’m flipping through the brochure for the venue. ‘It’s not as if they don’t have the space.’

‘It was an option, briefly,’ she agrees. ‘Until James’s dad realised they’d either have to hire Portaloos, which are “common”, or let people traipse mud into the house. The second point is particularly rich, given that the house is already full of mud because they keep forgetting to take their wellies off when they go indoors, but anyway. They’re also not licensed for weddings so, although we could have had the reception there, we’d have had to get married somewhere else. This is a one-stop shop and nobody has to worry about someone potentially pilfering the family silver, or whatever.’

I laugh. ‘I’m sure there are hostage negotiations that have been simpler.’

‘Oh, it’s not too bad, and I’ve learned that James’s dad is prepared to open his wallet fairly wide to avoid inconvenience.’

‘I’d have thought he would be more traditional, expecting the bride’s parents to pay for everything.’

‘Oh, he was to begin with,’ she tells me with a smile. ‘What was the phrase he used? “Your parents’ inability to produce a son does not confer financial responsibilities on me.” However, he changed that tune very quickly when he realised the wedding would be a registry office job followed by beer and sandwiches at the local pub if my parents were funding it.’

‘Common?’ I ask.

She giggles. ‘I couldn’t possibly say. Actually, I’d have been quite happy with that. It’s marrying James that I’m excited about. The rest is just flim-flam. What?’

‘Sorry,’ I say through my own laughter, ‘but that’s just bollocks. You’re loving all of this.’

‘I am,’ she admits. ‘Does that make me a bad person?’

‘Not at all,’ I reassure her. ‘If you were some kind of diva, throwing hissy fits every time you didn’t get exactly what you wanted, then I’d be worried.’

‘If I was a diva like you’ve just described, I doubt very much that James would be marrying me. Indian, Chinese or pizza?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Takeaway.’

‘Not pizza, but I’m happy with either of the other two. What do you fancy?’

She narrows her eyes. ‘Why not pizza? You love pizza.’

Images of Nathan and me devouring the pizza in Cape Town begin to flash across my mind, accompanied by some of the pornographic thoughts I had at the time.

‘I’m doing a low-carb thing,’ I tell her, eager to deflect her without revealing it. I know we’ll dissect the whole Nathan situation at some point, but I don’t want to do it now, when I’m feeling relaxed and pleased to see my friend.

* * *

‘This is sooo good,’ I groan as I take my first mouthful of chicken dhansak around half an hour later. We’re sitting at the island in the kitchen, and the unidentifiable object has been banished to a corner. It looks like the plastic and chrome equivalent of a sulky pet.

‘It is, isn’t it?’ Trudi agrees, spearing a piece of lamb bhuna and popping it into her mouth. ‘We’re so lucky with the takeaways around here. The Indian near Mum and Dad’s is OK, but the food tends to be quite greasy. This feels lighter and fresher.’

‘By the way, what is that?’ I ask, pointing to the object in the corner.

‘Guess.’