Next day, I’m still on a high from the party and my mood is enhanced by a series of delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Mum’s cooking. Family dinners are rare, as Mum’s generally exhausted from reassuring artists all day about how deeply talented they are, and how their next exhibition is going to be a record-breaking success. But Granny’s in town again, and Isabelle’s spending the night here before flying back to New York with Jenny, so Mum’s making an effort.

With Isabelle around, the main topic of conversation over dinner is, naturally, weddings.

‘So tell me,’ Granny says, ‘have you had any thoughts about the actual ceremony? Are you a register office girl?’

‘Oh no!’ Isabelle says with a laugh. ‘I’ve been planning this all my life. There’s a little church on my dad’s estate. More of a chapel, really. It only holds about sixty people, but it’s so romantic. I picture it lit by candles, with rose petals scattered down the aisle . . .’

Granny catches Mum’s eye and beams with satisfaction. Meanwhile, Isabelle seems keen to draw me into the conversation.

‘So, Nonie. How did it go last night? I hear the collection’s going to be huge.’

‘It is’, I say. ‘And the best thing is, we’ve decided what we’re doing next. Crow’s going to do her own ready-to-wear label. And we’re going to sell her stuff to Browns and cool boutiques—’

‘And pigs might fly,’ Mum interrupts with a smile. ‘It’s not the sort of thing you can fit in after school, Nonie. Anyway, Isabelle – after the wedding – what are your plans?’

Isabelle gives me an apologetic look and shrugs. I shrug back. After all, it’s only my career we’re talking about here. Only all my hopes and dreams.

‘Well,’ Isabelle replies, anxious to be polite to Mum, ‘it won’t be for a year anyway. We can’t fit the wedding in till next summer. Then I need to be in New York for work, so we’ll have to find somewhere over there to make our base. And I haven’t told anyone this before, but there’s this heavenly apartment block in the East Village. It used to be artists’ studios, but it’s been turned into warehouse-style accommodation with huge rooms, fabulous views . . . I really want to show Harry when we go next time.’

She looks at him with an uncertain smile and Harry smiles back at her, but he seems uncertain too. Perhaps he’s not so sure about New York. Perhaps he doesn’t like the East Village. Maybe that’s why he’s looking so uncomfortable.

‘Oh, how gorgeous,’ Granny chimes in, oblivious. ‘Not too far from Central Park, I hope. I can’t wait to stay in the Plaza and take my great-grandchildren to play in the park. I shall, of course, be the world’s chicest great-grandma.’

‘Mummy!’ Mum scolds her. Granny’s done it again. We all look at Isabelle nervously, but actually she looks radiant. It seems she’s had the children/Central Park/great-grandma vision too.

‘Well, darling, it looks like that’s sorted,’ Mum teases Harry. He smiles back, embarrassed. I’m not sure he’s quite so keen on having his future flat or his future kids discussed in public.

‘Oh, and Crow mentioned you’re thinking of having three wedding dresses by different designers. Is that right?’ I ask. I’m keen to rescue Harry from the whole Central Park thing, but I’ve realised that unless we talk about weddings in some way, that isn’t going to happen.

So Isabelle explains about her dress for the ceremony (white, romantic – Crow’s one), and dress for the reception (white, but a bit more edgy – Galliano) and her dress for the late-night dancing (anything goes – designer undecided). In a fashion-conscious household, talking to a supermodel about the most important dresses she’ll ever wear in her life is the kind of thing that can take a whole evening if you let it. Isabelle and Mum are still discussing the merits of vintage Lacroix over Vera Wang and Valentino as I go up to bed.

As I’m brushing my teeth, I notice that there’s a note in biro on my hand, now faded. I try to remember what it was about. Oh yes. The Canterbury Tales. Now overdue. English teacher not happy. But it’s too late to do anything about it now. And you don’t need to be an expert on Chaucer to work for a major fashion label.

I decide I’ll quickly run something off in bullet points again before school tomorrow. Five minutes later, I’m asleep.