I open my eyes. The big day.

I didn’t sleep well last night and when I did I had a strange dream: the ruined chapel crumbling to dust around me as I walked into it. I woke up feeling off, uneasy. A touch of hungover paranoia from a glass too many, no doubt. And I’m sure I can still detect the lingering stench of the seaweed, even though it’s hours since it was removed.

Will moved to the spare room first thing in a nod to tradition, but I find myself rather wishing he were here. No matter. Adrenaline and willpower will carry me through: they’ll have to.

I look over at the dress, hanging from its padded hanger. Its wings of protective tissue dance gently to and fro in some mysterious breeze. I’ve learned by now that there are currents in this place that somehow find their way inside, despite closed doors and shut windows. They eddy and caper through the air, they kiss the back of your neck, they send a prickle down your spine, soft as the touch of fingertips.

Beneath my silk robe I’m wearing the lingerie I picked out for today from Coco de Mer. The most delicate Leavers lace, fine as cobweb, and an appropriately bridal cream. Very traditional, at first glimpse. But the knickers have a row of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons all the way through, so that they can be completely opened. Nice, then very naughty. I know Will will enjoy discovering them, later.

A shiver of movement through the window catches my attention.

Below, on the rocks, I spot Olivia. She’s still in the same baggy jumper and ripped jeans from yesterday, picking her way barefoot toward the edge, where the sea crashes violently against the granite, sending up huge sprays of white foam. Why isn’t she getting ready like she should be? Her head is down, her shoulders slumped, and her hair blows behind her in a tangled mess.

For a moment, as she nears the edge, my breath catches in my throat. She could easily fall, and I wouldn’t be able to reach her in time to save her. The thought of her drowning while I stand helpless sends a chill through me.

I rap on the window, but she seems to ignore me—or maybe she just can’t hear me over the roar of the waves. Fortunately, she appears to have stepped back a little from the drop.

Fine. I won’t worry about her anymore; it’s time for me to start getting ready. I could have had a makeup artist brought over from the mainland, but there’s no way I’m handing over control of my appearance on such an important day. If Kate Middleton can do her own makeup, so can I.

I reach for my makeup bag, but an unexpected tremor in my hand sends it crashing to the floor. Damn. I’m never clumsy. Am I … nervous?

I glance down at the spilled contents: shiny gold tubes of mascara and lipstick rolling away, an overturned compact spilling bronzing powder across the floorboards.

Amid the chaos, I spot a tiny folded piece of paper, slightly charred around the edges. My heart sinks at the sight of it. I stare, unable to look away. How could such a small thing have loomed so large in my mind over the past couple of months?

Why on earth did I keep it?

I unfold it even though I don’t need to: the words are imprinted on my memory.

Will Slater is not the man you think he is. He’s a cheat and a liar. Don’t marry him.

I’m sure it’s some random weirdo. Will’s always getting mail from strangers who think they know him, know all about his life. Sometimes I get included in their wrath. I remember when a couple of pictures emerged of us online. ‘Will Slater out shopping with squeeze, Julia Keegan’. It was a slow day at the Mail Online, no doubt.

Even though I knew – knew – it was a terrible idea, I ended up scrolling down to the comments section underneath. Christ. I’ve seen that bile on there before, but when it’s directed at you it feels particularly poisonous, especially personal. It was like stumbling into an echo chamber of my own worst thoughts about myself.

• God she thinks shes all that doesn’t she?

• Looks like a proper b*tch if you ask me.

• Jeez love haven’t you heard your never meant to sleep with a man with thighs thinner than your own?

• Will! ILY! Pick me instead! 🙂 🙂 🙂 She doesn’t deserve you . . . . . .

• God, I hate her just from looking at her. Snotty cow.

  Nearly all of the comments were like this. It was hard to believe that there were that many total strangers out there who felt such vitriol for me. I found myself scrolling down until I found a couple of naysayers:

• He looks happy. She’ll be good for him!

• BTW she’s behind The Download – favourite site everrrr. They’ll make a good match.

Even these kinder voices were as unsettling in their own way – the sense some of them seemed to have of knowing Will – knowing me. That they were in a position to comment on what was good for him. Will’s not a household name. But at his level of celebrity you get even more of this sort of thing, because you haven’t yet risen above people thinking they have ownership of you.

The note is different to those comments online, though. It’s more personal. It was dropped through the letterbox without a stamp, meaning it had to have been hand-delivered. Whoever wrote it knows where we live. He or she had come to our place in Islington – which was, until Will moved in recently, my place. Less likely, surely, to have been a random weirdo. Or it could have been the very worst kind of weirdo.

But it occurs to me it could conceivably be someone we know. It could even be someone who’s coming to this island today.

The night the note arrived I threw it into the log burner. Seconds later I snatched it back, burning my wrist in the process. I’ve still got the mark – a shiny, risen pink seal on the tender skin there. Every time I’ve caught sight of it I’ve thought of the note, in its hiding place. Three little words:

Don’t marry him.

I rip the note in half. I rip it again, and again, until it is paper confetti.

But it isn’t enough. I take it into the bathroom and pull the chain, watching intently until all the pieces have disappeared, swirling out of

the bowl. I imagine them travelling down through the plumbing, out into the Atlantic, the same ocean that surrounds us. The thought troubles me more than it probably should.

Anyway, it is out of my life now. It is gone. I am not going to think about it any more. I pick up my hairbrush, my eyelash curler, my mascara: my arsenal of weapons, my quiver.

Today I am getting married and it is going to be bloody brilliant.