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wait.’
    ‘Well, in that case, Lucy, would you mind grabbing those placecards there? The guests’ names need writing out. You still remember how to use a calligraphy pen, don’t you?’
    I peer over at the pile of silver cards on the sideboard, then Molly laughs. ‘I’m joking, you idiot. Sam, put the kettle on, let’s have a brew.’
    It’s great to be back. I thought it would feel strange being here inside their house without Sam’s parents around but it doesn’t. It feels like home. Sam and Molly’s home. I look at them laughing in the kitchen as they tussle with teabags and milk, both fighting to make me a cuppa. They look so perfect together. I picture Molly walking down the aisle to Sam, all suited up and waiting for her. It’s going to be emotional.

Chapter 2
    The next couple of days pass by in a jet-lag-induced blur. I have a short nap on the day I arrive and as a result manage to stay up until nine o’clock that night before crashing out. But early the next morning a fruit bat outside my window wakes me by squeaking and noisily munching on figs. I bash on the glass, but he ignores me and carries on as he was, bony little hook-like hands jutting out of his spooky black bat wings.
    A batty bat expert on a school excursion once told my classmates and me that bats are four times more intelligent than dogs–‘Their brains are more advanced!’ she’d cried. I beg to differ, judging by the way this one is failing to respond to my knocking. Then again, maybe he’s made an informed decision to pay no heed to the wild-eyed madwoman on the other side of the glass. ‘Just ignore her and she’ll go away,’ he’s probably thinking.
    I consider calling James–it would be Sunday evening at home–but in the end I really can’t get my head around another conversation with him. I’m still feeling unsettled, and he just seems so very far away.
    Eventually I accept that I won’t be going back to sleep and get up. I make myself a coffee and take it through to the new living room, which looks like it’s been recently refurbished in neutral shades of cream and grey. Very stylish. I sit there for an hour or so, reading Molly’s old copies of NW and looking out through the new French windows at the pink and grey galahs in the fig tree.
    ‘There you are.’ Molly eventually appears in the doorway. ‘Still jet-lagged?’
    ‘Yes. And the bloody bat outside the window didn’t help.’
    ‘Aah, you’ve met Bert.’
    ‘Bert?’
    ‘Bert the bat. Or it might be Bertina, we’re really not sure. Cute, isn’t he?’
    ‘Er, not at five o’clock in the morning.’
    Molly just laughs. ‘Lucy, come here. I want to show you something before I go to work.’ She leads me up the stairs and into a large room.
    Aside from running the B&B, Molly is also a clothes designer and she works part-time in a shop in Manly where her boss lets her sell some of her own designs.
    Multicoloured patterned fabric spills and drapes over almost every surface, a large sewing machine takes up a good portion of the desk and ribbons and pins and scissors are scattered across the rest of the workspace.
    ‘This is my workshop,’ she exclaims proudly. ‘And this,’ she says, going to a large wooden wardrobe and pulling out a plastic-encased garment, ‘is for you.’
    I take it from her, intrigued and also, if I’m being honest, a little apprehensive.
    I feel embarrassed that I don’t own any of Molly’s designs. Icould order items from her website, but our styles are so completely different. She’s more wacky and funky whereas my look is more high street. I hate to think of her being offended, but I just wouldn’t look right in her clothes. I hope she understands.
    So, with a certain amount of trepidation, I lift up the plastic and see a long, silver satin gown.
    ‘This is stunning !’
    ‘Will you be my bridesmaid?’ Molly smiles.
    I squeal with excitement and proceed to jump up and down on the spot for a few seconds while she