So I ended up spending the night at Dillon’s.

It was well after two in the morning by the time we’d finished our endless pots of tea and seen off more than one packet of Jaffa cakes, so it didn’t make sense to head home at that hour. And while we drank tea, and ate biscuits, he kept me expertly distracted with amusing anecdotes about rehab, and about his family … oh, and then we spent a good hour or two cosily settled in front of property websites on his iPad, at first trawling through to find a suitable new place for him to move to (a clean break from his old surroundings, as advised by his therapist), and then gorging ourselves on ever-more ludicrous fantasy houses, from twelve-bedroom townhouses in Knightsbridge to sprawling country piles where Dillon can cast himself as some sort of lord of the manor. By the end of the night, he’d ‘decided’ on a thousand-acre estate, complete with Palladian mansion, in rural Wiltshire, for the bargain price of sixteen million quid.

‘Well, if you won’t succumb to my advances, Libby,’ he said, ‘I may as well devote myself to the rural life. Breed horses. Shear sheep. Husband chickens. Or, if all that proves a bit too much like hard work, I could just drive around my land in a muddy Land Rover, making eyes at comely peasant girls and inviting them back to the nearest haystack for a good old-fashioned romp.’

Which made me ask if his impression of English country life had been entirely formed by sneaking glimpses of someone’s mum’s Mills and Boon collection during his impressionable years. Which led to a discussion of our respective teenage years, which led – somehow – to him bringing up the very thing he’d sworn he wasn’t going to bring up: Olly.

‘Look,’ Dillon said, as he put on the kettle for the final time, and dug deep into the packet of Jaffa cakes for the last two, ‘I know it’s weirded you out, finding out this thing about your oldest friend being in love with you since you were both in short trousers. Or whenever it was you first met. But all I’ll say on the subject, my dearest Fire Girl, is this: if you really are tired of feeling … what was the word you used earlier? Peripheral? Well, if you’re really tired of that, then you could probably do a hell of a lot worse than to think about giving Olly Walker what he’s always wanted. Because I don’t think you’ve ever been remotely peripheral to him. The wanker,’ he added, unable to prevent himself.

And about half an hour later, we went to sleep. Me in his big bed, and him downstairs on the sofa.

He was lovely.

He is lovely. Screwed-up, and unpredictable, and way more pleased with himself than anyone deserves to be, yes. But lovely.

If it weren’t for the fact that getting back into a relationship with him would be like a chicken (one of the one’s he’s planning on husbanding, perhaps) getting into a relationship with a particularly dangerous fox, I’d probably do it like a shot.

Oh, and then there’s the Olly thing, obviously.

Which, now that it’s a brand-new day, and the shock of it all has subsided, is starting to seem …

Who am I kidding? It’s not starting to seem any different at all. Not yet.

If anything, the brand-new day has just made the whole thing seem even more huge and impossible.

Because now that I’m out and about in the world again, jostling my way back home on the tube and inhaling the noxious fumes of Colliers Wood High Street, it’s actually feeling real.

And ever since I woke up this morning (to diabolical coffee and badly singed toast; Dillon may be adorable but he’s a shocking cook), I haven’t been able to stop playing everything over in my mind.

Re-playing it, more accurately: replaying moment after moment in Olly’s company these past seventeen years: the first time we met, in the inauspicious surroundings of the top tier at the New Wimbledon Theatre; the first time we went out for the evening, with Nora, when they both talked nineteen to the dozen about their plans for their futures and I sat there, revelling, for once, in finding people who seemed to really like me; the first time we went out for an evening without Nora, to see Bringing Up Baby (my choice) at the Prince Charles cinema in Leicester Square, followed by The Mummy Returns (his choice) at the Odeon around the corner; the time when I surprised him with a homemade cake the day he graduated from catering college, and then had to spend the next three days hanging out with him at his student digs because I’d accidentally used seriously out-of-date eggs in the cake and given him a nasty dose of food poisoning …

All these times, and he was harbouring this burning desire for me all along? While I teased him about his taste in films, and proffered toxic baking?

And then there are all the more recent times, after we’d left behind those easy teenage years, and made our way into adulthood. The dinners he’s cooked for me, while we sat around his kitchen table, putting the world to rights. The practical help he’s always been there to offer, from lugging my furniture up endless flights of stairs when I moved into my flat, to hanging on the end of the phone to the British Embassy in Washington for hours, trying to work out if it might be possible to fly me home (with a ticket he was going to pay for) from hurricane-hit Miami. Coming all the way up to Scotland with me, at a time when he’s been busier than he’s ever been in his life, to offer me moral support at Dad’s wedding.

I mean, here I was thinking he was doing all these things in the spirit of a big brother. It’s a total head-spin to realize he was doing them in the spirit of someone with distinctly un-brotherly thoughts instead.

Such a head-spin that I can’t even begin to work out how, in the light of all this brand-new knowledge, I feel about him.

Though there is one thing that keeps popping into my head. One more thing that I’m replaying even more obsessively than all the memories I’ve just told you about.

That kiss, in Paris. That lovely kiss, so comfortable and natural and – more surprisingly – heart-stoppingly erotic. Our Mistaken Thing, which we’ve never spoken about, never even alluded to, ever since.

Which might not, it appears, have been quite such a Mistaken Thing after all.

I stop in at the little coffee takeout place right outside the tube stop for a decent-ish coffee to clear my head, and I’m just approaching my building when I see a by-now familiar-looking motorbike pulling up on the pavement outside.

It’s Tash, with the tiny figure of Nora riding pillion.

I’d forgotten that Nora said she was going to come over and pick up Grandmother’s veil before she heads to Gatwick.

While I’d actually like nothing more, right now, than to sit down and have the biggest heart-to-heart with Nora that I’ve ever had, it’s not going to be quite as easy with Tash present at the same time.

Especially not if Tash really is on the verge of something with Olly, the way it looked last night.

‘Nora!’ I say, trying to sound normal, as she gets off the back of the bike and pulls off her helmet. ‘Sorry, I was just … grabbing a coffee.’ I think this is enough of an explanation; I don’t need to add that the main reason I’m grabbing a coffee is because I was on my way back from the tube station, having just been served a spectacularly undrinkable one by Dillon, at his flat.

‘So, did you stay over at Dillon’s last night?’ Nora demands.

Which pretty much undoes my attempt to keep the whole staying-over-at-Dillon’s thing on the down-low.

‘Mmmm, coffee,’ says Tash, who’s just taken off her own helmet, and looks as if she wishes she’d left it on. She gets off the bike. ‘I might go and grab myself one of those,’ she adds, in her nice, helpful, spectacularly irritating oil-on-troubled-waters way. ‘Keep me fresh for the ride out to Gatwick. Anything for you, Nor?’

‘No. Actually, yes. I’ll have a black coffee.’

‘Decaf?’

‘No,’ Nora practically barks. ‘Regular.’

‘Right,’ Tash says. ‘It’s just that, strictly speaking, you have already had a coffee this morning, and from the point of view of a neo-natologist—’

‘Tash, please, just get me a bloody coffee.’ Nora looks a bit desperate. ‘I’ve only drunk one small coffee a day for weeks. I haven’t let so much as a millilitre of alcohol past my lips. I’m avoiding my usual lunch of Pret sushi like it’s radioactive waste. Can I just have a day where I drink a solitary extra coffee without feeling like I’m drip-feeding my unborn child nothing but McDonald’s chicken nuggets and crack cocaine?’

Tash looks marginally peeved, but she hides it well. ‘One regular black coffee, coming up,’ she says, before adding, meaningfully, ‘It’ll probably take me a few minutes.’

‘I think she’s giving us a bit of privacy,’ I say, as Tash sets off, long legs striding as purposefully along Colliers Wood High Street as if she were setting off from base camp on K2.

‘Yes. Because she knows how pissed off I am with you.’

‘How pissed off you are with me?’

‘Dillon, Libby. Dillon. And you didn’t even say anything.’

So Olly’s obviously told her, by now, about the video footage.

I can feel my hackles rising, defensively.

‘OK, well, if we’re talking about people not saying anything about really important stuff …’

‘Can we leave the baby out of it?’ she asks, putting a hand on her stomach. ‘I’ve already explained why I didn’t tell you over the phone.’

‘I’m not talking about the baby.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I’m talking about your brother.’

Just for a moment, Nora’s eyes widen.

Then she says, too casually, ‘Jack?’

‘Yes, Nora. Jack’s the brother I’m talking about. The forty-three-year-old with the wife and three children in Andover, who I haven’t seen hide nor hair of since your parents’ ruby wedding anniversary party eight years ago.’

‘So, Olly, then?’

‘Yes. Olly, then.’

We stand in silence for a moment, a Mexican standoff on Colliers Wood High Street.

Because Nora knows what I’m talking about; the expression on her face tells me that she’s worked out the reason for the expression on my face. You can’t be best friends for seventeen years without developing that kind of emotional shorthand somewhere along the way.

‘All this time,’ I say, being the first to back down from our standoff, ‘and you never found the right moment to say anything?’

‘Libby …’

‘All those nights out, and hungover Sundays in, and the holidays in Greece, and Ibiza, and St Tropez, and backpacking in Vietnam, and that week you took off work to look after me when I had shingles …’ I make myself stop just randomly listing all the occasions, big and small, that we’ve spent time together over the past two decades, because we’ll be here long after Tash comes back with those coffees otherwise. ‘And then I ended up learning that Olly’s in love with me from Dillon O’Hara, of all people?’

‘Dillon told you?’ Nora looks astonished. ‘When you were with him last night?’

‘Yes, look, just for the record, I wasn’t with Dillon last night. And I only left with him because—’

‘He shouldn’t have even been there,’ Nora says, abruptly. ‘Not on Olly’s big night.’

‘Yes. I know that. You can thank Bogdan for that.’

‘OK, but Bogdan didn’t leave with him, did he? And Bogdan didn’t break my brother’s heart by getting back together with Dillon and leaving him to find out from your sister, of all people.’

‘How the hell was I supposed to know I was breaking his heart?’ I demand, raising my voice for the first time in this conversation, ‘when even my best friend didn’t think to mention that her brother felt that way about me?’

‘All right. Maybe I should have said something. But you should have noticed, Libby. It was staring you in the bloody face! You just weren’t paying attention.’

OK, now I want this to stop. It’s in danger of getting out of hand, things being said that can’t be unsaid.

But Nora clearly doesn’t feel this way. Maybe it’s hormones; maybe it’s just the result of years of frustration building up in her. Whatever the reason, she’s not stopping.

‘I mean, you’ve always ignored the fact that he worshipped the ground you walked on. You’re always looking for something shiny, and new, and better. It’s like you don’t think Olly is good enough for you, or something …’

‘Are you kidding?’ I stare at her. ‘I’ve never thought Olly wasn’t good enough for me! If anything, the reason I’ve not noticed is because I’ve always assumed he was far too good for me!’

‘He’s not far too good for you: you’re fucking perfect for each other. And just when he’d finally decided he couldn’t carry on like this, you choose the moment to stamp all over his heart by parading Dillon O’Hara around the place!’

‘Will you listen to yourself for a moment? It’s not like I cheated on Olly, or anything! And as for him finally deciding he was going to say something, well, if it really was that big a moment for him, why the hell did he back away so easily at the last moment? Take my name off the restaurant? Start making doe-eyes at Tash?’

‘Because when he heard about you and Dillon getting back together, he finally realized.’

‘Finally realized what?’

‘That there’s always going to be a Dillon. That you’re addicted to the romance. Hooked on the fairy-tale ending.’

The words fairy tale make me think, quite suddenly, of Marilyn.

But I’m not as lost as her, am I? Not quite so obsessed with escaping reality?

‘That what he has to offer you,’ Nora goes on, ‘is never going to be able to outweigh that.’

‘But that’s … ridiculous. How could he even know, if he never tried?’

Nora doesn’t answer this. She’s looking upset as she says, ‘You didn’t see him right before the party, Libby. When he told me you’d started seeing Dillon again. He was broken. And it takes quite a lot to break Olly.’

This hurts so much that I say, harshly, ‘He didn’t look all that broken when he was cosying up to Tash a couple of hours later.’

‘Oh, Libby. Come on. A drowning man will reach out to grab anything he thinks is going to keep him afloat. Besides, Tash is a breath of fresh air. She’d be good for him, after all this time. He needs to stop putting his life on hold for you, and move on. He needs a girlfriend … actually, no, not my brother: he needs a wife. And children, and a life … A life that doesn’t just revolve around waiting for you to stop messing around with whatever dream hunk you’ve set your sights on, and notice the man who’s always – always – been there for you.’

I can see Tash coming back along the street towards us with two cups of coffee.

Which is both bad timing (because I don’t want her walking in on a very private quarrel) and great timing (because I want an end to this very private quarrel).

‘I’ll go and get the veil,’ I mumble, turning on my heel and heading for the door, ‘if you even still want it, that is.’

‘Well, of course I want it,’ Nora says, in a hopeless sort of voice, with a hint of tears behind it. ‘You’re still family, for God’s sake, Libby.’

I ignore this, because it’s giving me a lump in my own throat, and set off up the stairs to my flat while they wait with their coffee on the street below.

When I open my door, I can see immediately that there isn’t any sign of Marilyn: mink-clad, pink-clad, or otherwise.

There is only the very, very faintest lingering whiff of Chanel No. 5.

Just when I could have really done with having Marilyn around. Just when I would have appreciated her take, however left-field, or pre-feminist, or just plain kooky, on the brand-new situation with Olly. Just when I really needed a friend.

But there’s no time to stand around here feeling sorry for myself, because I need to take Grandmother’s veil down to Nora, so that she and Tash can ride off on that motorbike together and get her to her flight on time.

I go to the drawers beneath my wardrobe, where I put the veil after I brought it back from Dad’s wedding, and lift it out. It’s still packed in its flat box, carefully folded in its layers of tissue, so – for ease of transport in Nora’s large rucksack – I take it out of the box, still in the tissue, and then head off down the stairs again to hand it over.

Nora, when I open the door on to the street, is looking a bit tearful. She and Tash have already got back on the bike, and they’re both sipping their coffee in silence.

‘Here.’ I walk up to them and hold out the tissue-wrapped veil. ‘Have a look, if you like.’

Nora peels back a section of the tissue to reveal the ivory lace loveliness within.

‘Oh, Libby,’ she says, in a wobbly voice.

‘It’s even nicer than that when you fold it all out.’

She hands her coffee to Tash – who places it, and her own, ready for travel in the rather nifty cup-holder either side of the handlebars – and then turns round so her rucksack is facing me.

‘I think it’s best if you put it in. I don’t want to damage it in any way. I mean, it might get a bit crumpled in there …’

‘Crumpled isn’t a problem. You can get the crumples out with a delicate steam when you get home.’

Then I busy myself opening up her backpack, folding the veil down inside, and then zipping the backpack up as far as it will go: there’s a final inch of zip that won’t close, because it’s full to bursting, but the veil is safely packed down in there nevertheless.

‘It’ll look great on you, Nora,’ I say, sounding awkwardly polite. ‘But obviously, you know, let me know if you’d like me to make anything special for you to wear with it … a simple little tiara, or some special jewelled grips, or something …’

‘I will. Thank you, Libby.’ She turns, briefly, and squeezes my hand, which is still on top of her backpack. ‘I’ll … well, I’ll call you when I get home, shall I?’

‘Only when you get the chance.’

‘Of course.’

And then Tash turns on the engine, and she and Nora both put on their helmets, and a moment later the bike pulls off, slowly, into the traffic.

It’s about two seconds later that I realize: I still seem to be holding Grandmother’s veil, which is unravelling from inside the backpack at an alarming speed.

Except that I’m not holding it – I mean, it’s not in my hands – so I don’t understand …

Oh, God. Marilyn’s bracelet.

The lace is caught on Marilyn’s bracelet.

Just as I have time to think that all Marilyn Monroe-related jewellery should come with some sort of health warning, I realize that there’s a second problem: the other end of the veil is still inside Nora’s bag.

I don’t know if the intricate, fine-threaded lace is caught on something else at that end – the zip, perhaps, or a brush or comb inside the bag itself – but there’s no time to discover this one way or the other, because if I don’t want Grandmother’s precious, priceless veil to end up in two tattered pieces, I need to start jogging.

‘Nora!’ I yell, as I start to jog and then, pretty quickly, to run, at a fair old pace, along the pavement behind them. ‘Tash!’

But with their helmets on, and with the rumble of traffic on the High Street, they obviously can’t hear me.

Thank God, the bike is only doing about six or seven miles an hour right now, because Tash is trundling at a relatively slow pace – slow for a bike, that is; it’s bloody fast for me – in the clogged-up traffic of the High Street. If I can’t get to her before the traffic eases, and she speeds up, I’m either going to have to turn into a human version of the Roadrunner (legs cycling wildly and reaching a land-speed record that would astound my old gym teachers and anyone who’s ever known me) just to keep a crucial degree of slack in the veil, or I’m going to risk horrible injury as the bike speeds off, taking half of Grandmother’s veil and – possibly – my arm with it.

Oddly enough, the thing that’s concerning me more than hideous arm-wrenched-from-socket injury is the half of Grandmother’s veil aspect.

I can’t let it rip into two, complete with my arm on one end or not. Not only because it’s a family heirloom. Not only because it’s so very beautiful. Not only because I’m slightly scared of Grandmother’s reaction when she finds out. But for another reason that I’m in too much of a blind panic to explain right now … It’s something to do with me and Olly, and what he said Grandmother told him about me wearing it to marry him one day … Something to do with that expression on his face, when he came across me trying the veil on in my hotel room, and pulled it back, and looked down at me.

It is, I think, the feeling that if this lace is irreparably damaged, we will be, too.

It’s a very, very unhelpful moment for this realization: that I’m just as hopelessly in love with Olly as he is – was – with me.

Because I’m already seriously out of puff, and – oh, shit – the traffic is easing, slightly, and Tash is starting to speed up …

‘Nora!’ I yowl, again. ‘Tash! Stop!’

Now I can see passers-by, making their way to the tube or waiting for buses, staring at me, looking like some sort of demented bridesmaid to a biker. But some of them are cottoning on surprisingly fast because they’re starting to yell out to the motorbike, too: ‘Hey, slow down!’ I hear one smart-looking woman shriek in Tash’s direction. ‘You’ve got some sort of runaway bride behind you!’ A couple of car drivers, alert to their surroundings, even seem to have noticed there’s something going on, and are hooting their horns.

It’s no good. The bike is still moving, and I’m still running behind it, as fast as my legs can possibly carry me, stumbling in my strappy sandals and halter-neck sundress …

… and then one of those very heels catches in a small pothole, and I’m not running any more. I’m falling, falling forwards, and the bike ahead is keeping up its same speed … I feel, mercifully, Marilyn’s bracelet pinging off rather than my arm coming off at the shoulder (I hope, even in all the confusion, I’d still be able to tell the difference), and I just have time to see Grandmother’s veil, still intact, swooshing off on the back of the bike as my head thuds on to the pavement, just outside the tube station.