New York, New York, so good they named it twice. I’ve just showered after a quiet morning people watching on the beach, and now my stomach is alive with nervous excitement at the thought of seeing Freddie, of being in New York on honeymoon. I have no idea what we’ll do or where we’re staying, it’s all been a closely guarded secret. I could probably hazard an educated guess at a couple of things on Freddie’s itinerary; New York has been my number-one dream destination since my slightly obsessive Sex and the City addiction, and I’ve dropped a million hints over the years of things I’d love to do if we ever go.

Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Horse-drawn carriage rides in Central Park. Take the Staten Island ferry. I know, I know, I’m a great big cliché and there’s a million other brilliant things to do but I can’t help myself. New flippin’ York! I’m going to be there today with Freddie.

I think fleetingly of home, of Elle and the baby and of Mum. I hope they understand how much I need this time away, that they don’t think me too selfish. I shake the niggling worry off my shoulders, assuring myself that they love me, they know me well enough, they’ll be okay.

I’m sitting in the middle of my pine-framed double bed, water in one hand, pink pill in the other, almost scared because I’m so desperate for everything to be perfect. I’ve always imagined New York to have this unique smell: brewed black coffee, the lingering scent of sugar donuts, newsprint and taxi fumes, bagels and beer from bars where everybody knows your name. For clarity, I know Cheers wasn’t set in New York, but there must be places just like it on every street corner. Or maybe cafés like Central Perk, full of sagging sofas and magazines and women with fabulous hair.

Oh New York, New York, hold on. I’m coming, at last.