'What's her latest crime?'

'How long have you got? She rang me at seven this morning to talk about chocolate mousse.'

'Are we having chocolate mousse?'

'No.'

'Right. So what can I do to help?'

'Buy some poison.'

'Ellen. Count to ten. Slowly.'

'Just get up there as soon as you can.'

'Vin's renting a big car on their way back from seeing Lulu's mum. We'll leave as soon as the boys finish school tomorrow. Is that okay? Vin loves driving at night so Lulu and me will do the first bit and then he'll take over. We should be with you by Friday morning. Soon enough?'

'No. Tell him to put his fucking foot down.'

Oh dear; after packing Mum and Dad off yesterday I was hoping for a calm couple of days to get my breath back. We got a text from Reg saying they were having a lovely time; I'm guessing he got their steward to do it since it was full of un-Reglike we r abbreviations, but apparently there were flowers in their cabin and a note from the Captain . But I can't help thinking that keeping Ellen happy over the next few days is going to make Gran's wedding look like a complete doddle.

It's 8 a.m. on Friday morning and Lulu and I are having a map-reading crisis while Vin snoozes in the back with the boys. He did most of the driving last night so I'm feeling fine; there's something about cars at night that lulls me straight off to sleep, and Vin's rented the biggest people carrier he could find so it's all been remarkably painless, and much cheaper than flying us all up. Even if Vin does think he's taking part in a new world-record attempt for the number of times a pregnant person can need a loo break on one journey.

'There should be a lake soon.'

'How soon?'

We appear to be driving through the middle of a forest.

'About ten minutes ago.'

Oh God. Ellen will kill me if we get lost.

My phone beeps.

'Don't read it it'll be a text from the bride, and she's getting a bit fraught.'

'It just says Help. Look, there's a signpost.'

I slow down beside a Forestry Commission notice telling us we're welcome to have a picnic but if we could try not burn the forest down as we're leaving they'd be very grateful. Damn. Lighting a fire may be the only way we'll be able to attract the attention of someone who knows where the hell we are.

'Let's carry on up this road for a bit. It's bound to end up somewhere.'

'You're definitely one of life's optimists, aren't you, Lulu?'

She smiles.

Please let there be a lake soon.

'Is this some kind of girly short cut?'

Excellent. Vin's awake.

'Yes.'

The road starts to bend to the right.

'Liar. You've got no idea where we are, have you? I hope you packed some flares in one of those seven hundred bags you've got in the boot.'

Lulu turns round to look at him.

'No. We thought we'd set fire to your hat.'

He's wearing a tartan-fleece hat that he bought in a motorway service station at some point during the night when we were all asleep.

'How long before we get there then?'

'Not long.'

Lulu and I exchange anxious glances as the road takes a sharp left turn and we emerge from the forest to find ourselves driving along the side of a lake with what looks like a large castle-shaped building in the distance.

Hurrah.

'There, you see. Pretty nifty short cut.'

Please let this be the hotel, and not some stately home where trespassers will be prosecuted, because we appear to be motoring up what looks like their front drive. We pass a very discreet navy-blue sign. It's the hotel. Double hurrah.

A young man comes out to help us with the bags, and it's all going rather well until Ellen sweeps into reception.

'Thank Christ you've arrived. Welcome to Loch Loon.'

The young man retreats behind the reception desk.

Oh dear.

Our rooms are beautiful; the boys are in a little bedroom off mine, with a huge telly and a stack of age-appropriate DVDs, and the bathroom is bigger than our living room, with a power shower that's so enormous it nearly knocked me over when I had a quick shower to try to wake up. Everything is in slate and chrome with piles of white towels and every kind of lotion you could possibly want, so we're all squeaky clean and we've just had breakfast in our room, which was fabulous, particularly the kippers.

The boys are watching The Incredibles while Vin and Lulu keep an eye on them; they're just down the corridor from us, and while their room isn't quite as palatial as ours, they've got a sunken bath, which the boys are desperate to try out, after the swimming pool in the spa. So it's all looking rather good.

I'm in Ellen's suite, and the perfect white roses have been tracked down, but the rehearsal dinner wasn't a complete success, particularly after Harry had a drinking competition with his brother Jimmy.

'Where is Harry, by the way?'

'Fuck knows. Last time I saw him he was heading off fishing.'

'I didn't know he was into fishing.'

'He's not. His mates have organised it, so he'll probably come back Super Glued to his waders.'

'That'll be nice for the photographs.'

She pours herself some more coffee.

'And my mother wants to see you at some point, to lobby you about the tablecloths.'

'What's the matter with them?'

'She doesn't like the colour. We're doing the tables in different shades of butterscotch and cream. Something like that. Ask Rebecca. Anyway, she wants pink or something, for the top table. I wasn't really listening. Christ, it's starting already. I'm turning into one of those women who talk about fucking tablecloths and I'm not even married yet.'

'Ellen.'

'Let's do a runner.'

'And go where?'

'I don't care.' She starts to cry.

'Sweetheart.' I kneel by her chair and put my arms round her. 'It'll all be fine. You love Harry, and it's all going to be perfect.'

'I love him like he is now, but what if I don't still love him when he's my husband? Jesus Christ, even saying it makes me feel like I'm one of those women who settle for total losers just so they can say me and my husband.'

'Harry's not like that.'

'I know, but let's face it, he's never going to earn any decent money, so it'll be down to me to keep everything going, and I'm fine with that, at least I think I am. But then I look at other women working full-time so some fucker can sponge off them and be a house husband, and it's always total bollocks.'

'I can't see Harry doing that.'

'I know. But he might. Freelance work can dry up, particularly if you can't be arsed to get out there and hustle, and then what would I do? And I hate the way everyone keeps saying you'll be having babies next, like you're not a real woman unless you've got puke on one shoulder and a handbag full of Wipe Wets.'

'Wet Wipes.'

'Those too. It's total bollocks.'

'I know, but you want children, you said you did, so what do you care?'

'I don't want people expecting me to have them. Didn't you feel like that?'

'No, mainly because Mum was never that keen. She'd have preferred it if I'd stayed at work and concentrated on my glittering career.'

She smiles.

'I keep getting the occasional glimpse of something, like when you see the perfect shoes in a window when you're in a taxi, but when you go back they're not there, or they haven't got them in your size. Do you know what I mean?'

'Sort of.'

'What if I hate it? Being married and having babies and everything. What will I do?'

'Have a panic and get on with it, like the rest of us?'

'What if it's not enough?'

'Of course it won't be enough, not for every second of the day. Nothing ever is. But if you love him, and he loves you, it's a bloody good start.'

'But you and Nick were like that once; you were so perfect together.'

'I'm not so sure about that, not really. I think I always loved him more than he loved me. When I look back on it, I can see that now. He was the beloved. And I was so bloody grateful.'

She smiles.

'You're selling yourself short, as usual.'

'No, I'm not, Ellen, and anyway, you and Harry are different. He adores you. And Nick and I wanted such different things.'

'Like?'

'I wanted the boys to be happy, and he wanted to be a famous reporter and sleep with younger women.'

She laughs.

'Bastard. But promise me, if I fuck it up, you'll help me bail out.'

'Of course.'

'I can come and live with you by the seaside and knit?'

'Any time.'

'Good. That's my emergency exit sorted. Right, let's get down to the spa. Rebecca's booked us in for the full works; they're doing some sort of pregnancy version for you, with special stuff.'

'Oh God. I haven't got the right kind of pants on for a spa.'

'Please. You're pregnant. They won't be expecting Agent Provocateur.'

I'm pretty sure they won't be expecting vintage M & S, with unreliable elastic in a fetching shade of frequent-wash grey either, but never mind. I suppose it'll make a nice change for them.

The combination of the spa and copious amounts of champagne managed to transform Ellen's mood last night, and she was threatening to start a round of strip poker when I went up to bed. Harry's Glaswegian relatives have turned out to be a real treat, particularly his Auntie Nell, who's a total star, although she's very bossy, like Gran; she made me sit with my feet up on a chair at one point, which amused Vin no end.

It was nearly twelve by the time I got the boys into bed; they'd gone past the slow-motion stage like bunnies in the Duracell ads, and straight into Tired and Tragic. But at least they're both still asleep when I wake up at ten-past nine, which is the longest lie-in I've had since I can't remember when.

I even manage a quick bath before Archie wakes up, in one of his I'm a Little Sunbeam moods, which is encouraging, particularly since I've got to try to get him into a kilt. The wedding's not till two, so all the media types will have a chance to get here from their various smart hotels in Glasgow and Edinburgh. So I think I'll build up to the kilt thing as slowly as I can.

'Are you hungry, darling?'

'Yes, but not for porridge.'

'Okay. You didn't have to try it yesterday, you know.'