The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square: A gorgeously heartwarming romance and one of the top summer holiday reads for women. Michele Gorman

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      Huge topiary trees flank the black front door, which is so shiny I can almost see my reflection. I pinch a leaf from one of the trees. Real. Of course it is. The heavy lion-headed knocker makes an echoing boom inside.

      Daniel didn’t let on about any of this, not the huge family house or the topiary or the knocker. He was so uncomfortable when telling me about his family having money that I felt bad bringing it up again. He’s right – we’re marrying each other, not our families.

      I’ve met Daniel’s parents and sister several times before, but they’ve never mentioned any of this either. I’d assumed we always met at restaurants because his mum doesn’t cook, but now I suspect he’s been keeping this dirty little rich secret from me. It’s hard to get too cross about that.

      The slender blonde woman who opens the door is about my age. She smiles her greeting and steps aside for me. She’s wearing black trousers and a white blouse, which makes me feel better. I was worried I hadn’t dressed up enough for this do.

      ‘Hiya, I’m Emma Liddell.’ I stick out my hand, but she just looks confused.

      Maybe I should have cheek-kissed her? Daniel is always kissing people he’s just met.

      ‘May I take your, erm, helmet?’ she asks.

      We both glance at the duck-egg blue helmet under my arm. It’s not exactly a Louis Vuitton. Now I’ve got a second reason to wish I hadn’t driven my scooter. It had looked so little and careworn parked out front amongst all the Rollers and Audis.

      ‘Sure, here. Sorry, I didn’t get your name?’

      She takes my helmet, ignoring my question. ‘The guests are through there.’

      I turn away quickly so she won’t see my cheeks flush. She’s not one of Daniel’s friends who happens to be dressed in black and white and answering the door. She’s their maid.

      That’s a great start.

      I can hear loads of people in the room where she’s pointed. It seems like about a mile between there and the front door. Possibly because Daniel’s hallway is bigger than my entire house. Wide stairs run up on one side and the ceiling must be fifteen feet high. Everything is painted either boring pale grey or white, with a huge silver mirror on one wall and tall vases of lilies on the long black table underneath. The only interesting thing I spot is the giant copper and glass lantern that hangs from the ceiling, like the ones you find outside pubs. I hold on to that tiny little slice of home comfort as I make my way towards the noise.

      I should have asked the maid to get Daniel for me so I wouldn’t have to walk in alone. What if I don’t see him right away? What if he’s not here yet? I only know his parents and sister, and I definitely can’t talk to them without Daniel here.

      Not that they’re rude. Just in a different world.

      The world I’m about to join. If they’ll have me.

      There aren’t as many people in the room as I’d feared and of course Daniel’s mother, Philippa, sees me straightaway. So much for hiding in the corner. ‘Emma, darling!’ she cries. ‘It’s so wonderful finally to have you here in our home. We’ve been bothering Daniel for months to invite you and now, finally, here you are with us.’ She hold my hands out, which she’s got grasped in hers. ‘Don’t you look lovely?’

      ‘Thank you. And thank you for this party.’ I say this to both Philippa and Daniel’s father, Hugh, who’s standing beside her. Hugh doesn’t usually make an appearance unless Philippa makes him, so she’s clearly making him. I’m not surprised he stays in the background with a force of nature like Philippa around. She’s a take charge kind of woman, whether you like it or not. Daniel told me she even orchestrated Hugh’s marriage proposal. But they seem to rub along okay, so maybe he’d have got around to it eventually on his own.

      Philippa waves her hand at the room. ‘Oh, this is nothing, just something I cobbled together so we can celebrate!’

      I glance at the silver and the sparkling champagne glasses laid on blue linen tablecloths, the stacks of cocktail napkins that look like real linen too. She’s even got matching waiters, and I don’t mean they’re dressed alike. They’re clones of one another.

      Philippa looks perfectly put together as usual. She’s got on a navy wool dress that probably cost more than I earn in a year, though if I compliment her on it she’ll say, ‘What? This old thing? It’s been in the back of my closet for ages.’ And then she’ll try to give it to me, even though she’s about a foot taller than I am. Because she’s very gracious like that.

      She’s not classically pretty – more handsome. And tall, like I said. Her big booming voice matches her personality and she’s exactly what you’d picture if I told you she’s a hearty woman. She’s somewhere north of fifty, but how far north is anyone’s guess. Could be Manchester, could be the Orkneys. She’s got a few lines around her mouth and a few around her eyes, but she hasn’t tried to Botox or fill them. Too much bother, she claims. She probably colours her hair too, but the dark blonde looks completely natural. Daniel says she used to have it all the way down her back when she was young, but now she wears it in a bob like nearly all the other women in the room. Something about giving birth seems to make women cut off their hair.

      I doubt I’d ever do that. Not that my hair is overly long now. If I tip my head back, it reaches my bra strap. It’s naturally wavy, but Auntie Rose did me a blow-dry this morning.

      I’ll never be able to subtly hide the grey like Philippa can, though. Not that I need to reach for the L’Oréal yet. I’m only twenty-four and my hair’s nearly jet black, thanks to a great great (great? I forget) grandfather, imaginatively known as Blacky all his life. I’m the only one in the family who’s got his hair. Mum’s even got a natural ginger tinge, or so she claims. Auntie Rose has done her colour forever – it’s always red but veers between Amy Adams and Prince Harry.

      ‘Right, you must come meet our dear, dear friends,’ Philippa says, leaving Hugh standing on his own with his drink. I catch his wink as his wife drags me off. Better me than him, it says.

      ‘May I introduce you to George and India, Lord and Lady Mucking? George’s parents were lifelong friends of Hugh and me, and we’ve known George since he was born!’

      Lady Mucking is pretty and plump, with the requisite blonde bob. Her nose is slightly big but nothing compared to her husband’s. I could stay dry in a hurricane under that thing. But his face is friendly and they both smile when Philippa introduces us. They’re older than me – probably in their late thirties – but not nearly as old as I imagined lords and ladies would be. Though for all I know the upper classes might give birth to fully grown lords. Or maybe they sprout like tulips every few years in the Queen’s garden.

      ‘India, George,’ says Philippa. ‘May I introduce Emma Liddell, Daniel’s fiancée!’

      I can hardly believe I’m marrying into this lot. I had no idea it was this bad. I mean good. Of course I mean good.

      ‘Very pleased to meet you both,’ I say as I shake their hands. I’ve never knowingly touched a lord before. His hand is sweaty. Maybe he’s never knowingly touched a commoner.

      ‘Hellair! Lidl, you say?’ asks George. ‘As in the supermarket? I knew it was family-owned. Are they Lidls?’

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