I lift the gold crown on to my head, with hands that – I cannot help noticing – betray a tell-tale tremble. I turn my head, this way and that. It’s the one capricious element of my outfit, the one concession to a romantic fantasy. I had it made by a hat-maker’s in London. I didn’t want to go for a full flower crown, because that would be a bit hippy-child, but I felt this would be a stylish solution. A vague nod to a bride from an Irish folktale, say.

The crown gleams nicely against my dark hair, I can see that. I pick my bouquet out of its glass vase, a gathering of local wildflowers: speedwell, spotted orchids and blue-eyed grass.

Then I walk downstairs.

‘You look stunning, sweetheart.’

Dad stands there in the drawing room, looking very dapper. Yes, my father is going to walk me down the aisle. I considered other possibilities, I really did. Obviously my father is not the best representative of the joys of marriage. But in the end that little girl in me, the one who wants order, who wants things done in the right way, won out. Besides, who else was going to do it? My mother?

‘The guests are all seated in the chapel,’ he says. ‘So everything’s just waiting on us now.’

In a few minutes we will make the short journey along the gravel drive that divides the chapel from the Folly. The thought makes my stomach do a somersault, which is ridiculous. I can’t think of the last time I felt like this. I did a TEDx talk last year about digital publishing to a room of eight hundred people and I didn’t feel like this.

I look at Dad. ‘So,’ I say, more to distract myself from the roiling in my stomach than anything else, ‘you’ve finally met Will.’ My voice sounds strange and slightly strangled. I cough. ‘Better late than never.’

‘Yep,’ Dad says. ‘Sure have.’

I try to keep my tone light. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing, Juju. Just – yep, sure have met him.’

I know, even before it crosses my lips, that I should not ask this next question. But I can’t not ask it. I need to know his opinion, like it or not. More than anyone else’s, I have always sought my dad’s approval. When I opened my A-level results in the school car park, his, not Mum’s, was the expression of delight I imagined, his the: ‘Nice one, kiddo.’ So I ask. ‘And?’ I say. ‘And did you like him?’

Dad raises his eyebrows. ‘You really want to have this conversation now, Jules? Half an hour before you get married to the fella?’

He’s right, I suppose. It’s spectacularly bad timing. But now we’ve started down this path, there’s no going back. And I’m beginning to suspect that his lack of an answer might be an answer in itself.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I want to know. Do you like him?’

Dad does a sort of grimace. ‘He seems like a very charming man, Juju.

Very handsome, too. Even I can see that one. A catch, to be sure.’

Nothing good can come of this. And yet I can’t stop. ‘But you must have had a stronger first impression,’ I say. ‘You’ve always told me you’re good at reading people. That it’s such an important skill in business, that you have to be able to do it very quickly … yada yada yada.’

He makes a noise, a kind of groan, and puts his hands on his knees as though he’s bracing himself. And I feel a small, hard kernel of dread, one that’s been there ever since I saw the note this morning, beginning to unfurl itself in my belly.

‘Tell me,’ I say. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. ‘Tell me what your first impression of him was.’

‘See, I don’t reckon what I think’s important,’ Dad says. ‘I’m only your old Da. What do I know? And you’ve been with him for what now

… two years? I should say that’s long enough to know.’

It’s not two years, actually. Nowhere near it. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It is long enough to know when it’s right.’ It’s what I’ve said so many times before, to friends, to colleagues. It’s what I said last night, effectively, in my toast. And every time before, I meant it. At least … I think I did. So why, this time, do my words seem to ring so hollowly? I can’t help feeling that I’m saying it not to convince my dad so much as myself.

Since finding that note again the old misgivings have reared their heads. I don’t want to think about those, so I change tactic. ‘Anyway,’ I add. ‘To be honest, Dad, I probably know him better than I know you – considering we’ve only spent about six weeks together in my entire life.’

It was meant to wound and I see it land: he recoils as though struck by a physical blow. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘there you go. That’s all you need to say. You won’t be needing my opinion.’

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Fine, Dad. But you know what? Just this once, you could have come out and told me you thought he was a great guy. Even if you had to lie through your teeth to do it. You know what I needed to hear from you. It’s … it’s selfish.’

‘Look,’ Dad says. ‘I’m sorry. But … I can’t lie to you, kid. Now I understand if you don’t want me to walk you up the aisle.’ He says it magnanimously, like he’s handed me some great gift. And I feel the hurt of it go right through me.

‘Of course you’re going to walk me up the bloody aisle,’ I snap. ‘You’ve barely been in my life, you were barely free to even attend this wedding. Yes, yes, I know … the twins are teething or whatever it is. But I’ve been your daughter for thirty-four years. You know how important you are to me, even though I wish to God it were otherwise. You are one of the reasons I chose to have my wedding here, in Ireland. Because I know how much you value that heritage, I value it too. I wish it didn’t matter to me, what you think. But it bloody does. So you’re going to walk me up the aisle. That’s the very least you can do. You can walk me up that aisle and look bloody delighted for me, every step of the way.’

There’s a knock on the door. Aoife pops her head round. ‘All ready to go?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I need a moment, actually.’

I march up the stairs to the bedroom. I’m looking for something, the right shape, the right weight. I’ll know it when I see it. There’s the scented candle – or, no, the vase that held my bridal bouquet. I pick it up and heft it in my hand, readying myself. Then I hurl it at the wall, watching in satisfaction as the top half of it explodes into shards of glass.

Next I wrap my hand in a T-shirt – I’ve always been careful to avoid cuts, this is not about self-harm – pick up the unbroken base and slam it into the wall, again and again until I am left with smithereens, panting with the effort, my teeth gritted. I haven’t done this for a while, for too long. I haven’t wanted Will to see this side of me. I had forgotten how good it feels. The release of it. I unclench my teeth. I breathe in, out.

Everything feels a little clearer, calmer, on the other side.

I clean up the mess, as I have always done. I take my time about it.

This is my day. They can all bloody well wait.

In the mirror I put my hands up and rearrange the crown on my head where it has slipped to one side. I see that my exertions have lent a rather flattering colour to my complexion. Rather appropriate, for the blushing bride. I bring my hands up to my face and massage it, rearranging, remoulding my expression into one of blissful, expectant joy.

If Aoife and Dad heard anything, their faces don’t belie it when I re- emerge. I nod to them both. ‘Ready to go.’ Then I yell for Olivia. She emerges, from that little room next to the dining room. She looks even paler than normal, if that’s possible. But miraculously she is ready – in her dress and shoes, holding her garland of flowers. I snatch my own bouquet from Aoife. Then I stride out of the door, leaving Olivia and Dad following in my wake. I feel like a warrior queen, walking into battle.

As I walk the length of the aisle my mood changes, my certainty ebbs. I see them all turn to look at me and they seem a blur of faces, each oddly featureless. The Irish folk singer’s voice eddies around me and for a moment I am struck by how mournful the notes sound, though it is meant to be a love song. The clouds scud overhead above the ruined spires – too fast, as in a nightmare. The wind has picked up and you can hear it whistling among the stones. For a strange moment I have the feeling that our guests are all strangers, that I’m being observed, silently, by a congregation of people I have never met before. I feel dread rise up through me, as though I’ve stepped into a tank of cold water. All of them are unknown to me, including the man waiting at the end, who turns his head as I approach. That excruciating conversation with Dad pinballs around in my brain – but loudest of all are the words he didn’t say. I loosen my grip on his arm, try to put some distance between the two of us, as though his thoughts might further infect me.

Then suddenly it is as though a mist clears and I can see them properly: friends and family, smiling and waving. None of them, thank God, pointing phones at us. We got round that with a stern note on the wedding invite telling them to refrain from pictures during the ceremony. I manage to unfreeze my face, smile back. And then beyond them all, standing there in the centre of the aisle, literally haloed in the light that has momentarily broken through the cloud: my husband-to-be. He looks immaculate in his suit. He is incandescent, as handsome as I have ever seen him. He smiles at me and it is like the sun, now warm upon my cheeks. Around him the ruined chapel rises, starkly beautiful, open to the sky.

It is perfect. It is absolutely as I had planned, better than I had planned. And best of all is my groom – beautiful, radiant – awaiting me at the altar. Looking at him, stepping towards him, it is impossible to believe that this man is anything other than the one I know him to be.

I smile.