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‘I’m going to be sick.’

‘It’s nerves, love, though I think your mum
was
sick on our wedding day.’

‘Brilliant,’ I mutter. I’m sort of glad that I am finally starting to feel nervous, but a tingly kind of nerves would be preferable to the pukey variety.

Dad laughs. ‘I don’t think that sort of thing is genetic, and you’ll be fine once you see Piers. I’ll get you a drink, shall I? Champagne?’

The last thing I fancy is champagne – I’m so nervous that I have a super dry mouth. I’m pretty certain I’ll need to give myself a quick swill and reapply my deodorant before I put on my dress as I’m sweating so much, but champagne
is
traditional. Toast away my life as Miss Lockley, welcome in my new life as Mrs Bramley.
Mrs Bramley
. It sounds so grown-up.

‘Champagne, and a cup of tea please, though ask one of the guys to do it.’

‘I think I can make my own daughter a drink on her wedding day,’ Dad says with a wink as he heads towards the kitchen.

We’re in the bridal suite at Carmichael, an exclusive and extravagant hotel in the Upper West Side that overlooks Central Park. Piers’ Christmas work do was held in their London hotel’s breathtaking ballroom. Think blinding floor to ceiling windows, a ceiling painted by Myanmar – yes, the modern-day Michelangelo who has managed to make the Sistine Chapel look pretty amateurish – as well as being home to the world’s most expensive chandelier. Designed in 1734 for Baron van Pennington, the Carmichael bought the gilt-bronze cut-glass chandelier at auction for a cool £9.9 million. Like you do.

Oh, and if you get tired of the dazzling view of London from the ballroom, which no one ever does since you can see all the landmarks, pull across the opulent silk curtains, hand-stitched with thousands of pearls using twenty-four carat gold thread. I doubt they have ever been closed; they just hang there. It is truly decadent, though I spent most of the evening frozen in one spot, afraid I’d break something staggeringly expensive.

When Piers told me he’d booked us into the presidential suite of the New York Carmichael hotel I screamed.
A lot
. The presidential suite is just as luxurious and overwhelming as my London experience and, of course, I’m terrified that I’ll break something.

We have a painting on the bedroom wall by Myanmar – a sprawling modern interpretation of Central Park painted in rich green shades for the trees and lush wildflower blues for the lake. It’s a painting I saw mentioned in
Vanity Fair
last month because they wouldn’t reveal how much it cost. I’m pretty sure that was a Picasso I spotted in the study, too.

We also have a team of three butlers available for our exclusive use 24-7, our own personal chef, and a Steinway grand piano favoured by the world’s most prestigious concert halls parked in the corner of our vast sitting room.

Oh, and whilst I have never been one of those people to steal hotel toiletries or bathrobes, I will now. Who wouldn’t want free luxury spa products that cost a bomb and a $500 bathrobe? OK, my minimalistic style approach has petered off slightly, but who can blame me – this hotel is in a league of its own.

I checked in this morning with my parents – they are staying here tonight in one of the more modest rooms, then moving into our apartment until they fly home – whilst Giles, Rhonda, Zlata and Annabelle have a suite down the road at the Mandarin Oriental. Piers is getting ready over there with them.

It’s felt like the longest day with the ceremony timed for 4pm. I spent most of the morning trying to read my book, getting distracted, putting it down, and then picking it back up again in a restless cycle. It’s worse than that Christmas Day feeling when you’re seven years old and still believe in the magic of Santa Claus.

Whilst the morning passed slowly, my hair and make-up went by in a blur, though time has slowed down once again as we wait for Mum who is having her hair done downstairs in the hotel’s spa. Once she gets back it’s time to put my dress on and my transformation into a bride will be complete.

We need to leave for the park in forty-five minutes, and I can’t believe that will be it – in ninety minutes’ time I will officially be Mrs Piers Bramley.

I glance at myself again in the ornate French gilt mirror – the decorative scrolls, flowers and foliage tie in beautifully with the opulence of the room – and I can’t believe I’m getting married. I can’t believe that is me in the mirror.

My hair is in a half-up, half-down do. The sections that are twisted up away from my face are intricately braided, and tiny, dusky-pink roses decorate throughout. My loose hanging hair is wavy.

My make-up is natural, though natural in a
professional
way that makes me look one hundred times better than I usually do. I look enhanced, but I still look like me. I’m delighted with their work, and the make-up artist is on hand if I need a touch-up before I leave. She’s sitting in one of the other rooms as if she hangs out in suites like this all the time. Maybe she does.

‘How are you feeling?’ Dad asks breaking the spell as he comes back into the room. He’s not carrying any drinks. ‘They got very offended when I tried to make tea,’ he explains with a shrug at my bemused face, ‘so who am I to deny them their job?’

I laugh. ‘I’m OK,’ I answer, even though I still feel queasy, ‘but I’d quite like today to be over.’

Dad raises his eyebrows again, and I notice they’ve started to turn really grey. He’s getting old I realise with a start, and he must be thinking that too, today of all days. He looks dapper in his suit though –
refined
– and I focus on that instead of his ’brows.

‘Well, the waiting part,’ I admit, kicking my heels against the back of my chair like an impatient child. ‘I just want to get married!’

I glance at the clock again. Only five minutes have passed since I last looked, though the sound of the door opening means that Mum is finally back. The photographer follows her in.

When Mum walks towards us Dad’s expression gives me a glimpse into their past, and I’m pleased to hear the whirr of the camera. My dad looks as besotted as if Mum was walking down the aisle towards him on their wedding day. She’s had her silvery-blonde hair cut into a tapered bob and a bold, mint-green pillbox hat sits on top of her head matching her chic, mint-green tailored dress and boxed suit jacket – a delicate dusky-pink rose corsage is pinned to her jacket. She looks
stunning
.

‘Oh, Gilly,’ he says, giving her a gentle hug and a kiss. She’s already seen him in his wedding suit. The pair of them look brilliant together.

After a few more snaps the photographer and Dad give us some privacy so Mum can help me into my dress. It’s mesmerising, and I’m almost scared to put it on. What if I fall and rip it or, worse, do something silly like spill tea on it? I eye up the teapot and china teacups that were subtly left on a side table along with a champagne bucket, flutes and a selection of tiny sandwiches, scones and macaroons. I’m not going anywhere near that table. I’m not risking my dress!

‘Oh, Arielle!’ Mum sighs wistfully as she lifts up the bottom of my dress and I slip on my red-soled white Follies heels by Christian Louboutin. She arranges the dress back over them and leads me towards the full-length mirror.

A bride is stood in the mirror. Her delicate lace cap-sleeved, ivory-coloured bodice  is intricately covered in tiny hand-sewn beads and crystals that make it shimmer subtlety. A grosgrain ribbon sash nips in her waist, and below it a tulle skirt flows gracefully down to the ground. That’s
me
.

You can’t see my pointed Louboutins at all now, but
I
know I’m wearing them. The sweetheart neckline of the dress looks tasteful, as do the string of freshwater pearls that sit above it. I’m wearing matching pearl earrings, but no other jewellery other than my engagement ring which now sits on my right hand, ready for Piers to place my wedding ring where my engagement ring used to be. My left hand feels weird without it.

‘Is that me?’ I whisper.

Mum’s face says it all, and she dabs at the tears running down her face. ‘You look beautiful.’

We look into the mirror for an age, and I feel amazing. It’s more than just the dress, even though the dress is, quite frankly, epic – it’s marrying Piers today after all we’ve been through. Today I get to marry my best friend, soul mate and partner in crime. I no longer feel sick with nerves; I feel invincible.

I don’t realise Mum has left my side until Dad clears his throat and I see them both standing next to me beaming with pride. I notice Dad also has tears in his eyes.

‘We wanted to give you this,’ Mum says, taking my hand with her free hand and squeezing it. She passes over a small box that’s seen better days. ‘For your something old,’ she explains.

I open the box and inside are a pair of pink sapphire and diamond, white gold earrings in a claw setting. Twelve tiny white diamonds surround each dazzling sapphire. They’re incredible.

I gasp. ‘Mum! Dad! You shouldn’t have.’

‘We didn’t,’ Dad says, clearing his throat. ‘These are from Felicity.’

I gape at Mum and Dad as I take out my pearl earrings. These will go perfectly with the roses in my hair, and my rose bouquet, but will equally work so well with the pink cherry blossom in the park. I may have to rethink my choice of a pearl necklace though, I think, as I fasten the earrings with the backs. My earlobes feel heavy, unsurprising given the carat count. They are utterly priceless – not because of this, but because they were Flick’s.

‘She gave them to us a few weeks before she...’ Mum pauses and doesn’t say the word which makes me feel unbearably sad. ‘She asked us to give these to you for your something old. They were hers, obviously,’ she finishes with a sad smile.

‘They’re amazing,’ I mutter, too overwhelmed to say much more. Felicity is with me today, and I am honoured.

Dad reaches over to grab a bag and pulls out two more boxes – one a bit battered, the other brand new. I shoot a look between my parents. There’s
more
?

‘Open them,’ Mum says as she takes a box from Dad and passes it to me with a smile.

The battered box contains a beautiful diamond tennis bracelet.

‘I wore it on my wedding day, so I want it back,’ Mum jokes.

‘Something borrowed then,’ I laugh as she fastens the bracelet around my wrist. Tears are running down my face. From the size of the newer-looking box that Dad hands over, I can already guess that it’s a necklace.

‘From Piers,’ Mum says softly as I gasp, ‘your something new.’

I really start sobbing then, which immediately has Mum rushing forwards with tissues and instructing me to look up towards the ceiling in an effort to stop my face from being completely ruined.

That’s because in this box is a pink sapphire and diamond necklace that matches my earrings perfectly. My fiancé is one in a million. The pear-shaped diamond and sapphire pendant is dazzling, and it catches the light spectacularly. 

‘So that’s the rhyme taken care of,’ I say huskily as Dad unfastens my pearl necklace and replaces it with Piers’ gift. I painted my toenails blue since they can’t be seen in my shoes. ‘Thank you so much.’

My parents stand and hold me close for a very long time.

After my make-up is touched up and we’ve had photos taken in the ballroom, I’m running fifteen minutes late. I bet Piers is having kittens.

As I make my way through the foyer to the sound of low-called good wishes, I can’t help but laugh out joyfully as I spy the three rickshaws parked outside the hotel – I hear the faint whirr of the photographer’s camera capture my delighted expression.

I know which one is mine: the one in the middle painted bright white and decorated with beautiful pink roses – vivid green stems and leaves are woven all around.

‘Are you ready?’ Dad asks, squeezing my shoulder as a group of Japanese tourists point at me. A few take photos.

‘I am,’ I grin as he helps me into the rickshaw.

My cheeks ache already, but I won’t stop smiling today. That’s because when I return to the hotel tonight, I’ll be Mrs Piers Bramley.
Finally
.

‘You may kiss the bride.’

As Piers leans over to kiss me, our families cheering – other than Annabelle, who looks revolted – I detect a hint of lime, which is usually my favourite sort of scent on Piers. It smells weird today. Do American and UK cologne recipes differ? They must do. After all an eggplant is an aubergine over here and don’t even get me started on how Coke tastes... What weird thoughts to be having when I’m supposed to be kissing my new husband.
My husband!

I lean forward to kiss Piers and as we break apart we both turn, delighted, to smile at my parents, Giles and Rhonda. Annabelle has disappeared, but I can hear her in the distance somewhere shouting to Zlata. She looks adorable in her pink dress.

Today has been perfect, even if I did rock up forty minutes late. The expression on Piers’ face when he saw me hopefully made up for his wait, and he always knew I was going to make it. How could I not have?

‘We did it, Mrs Bramley,’ he whispers to me, as everyone descends on us. I squeeze his hand with a big grin on my face before I turn to hug my mum who is crying her eyes out behind me.

‘Welcome to the family,’ Giles booms as he pulls me in for a semi-awkward hug before it’s Dad’s turn.

‘My little girl. Married!’

‘Dad!’ I half-moan, but I’m so pleased we didn’t elope, that we’re sharing today with some of our loved ones. It’s made all the difference.

As I stare around the beautiful Shakespeare Garden, I’m thrilled this was our wedding venue. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and everything looks beautiful. We’re very blessed to have had such a gorgeous wedding day.

*

The rest of the afternoon seems to pass in a blur of photographs and laughter, and even though there are only six of us, it still feels like I’ve barely spent any time with Piers. Once we head to The Atrium for dinner, we pause on the cool metal stairs that lead to the rooftop terrace and take a moment – just us two. No family, no photographer, no expectations. Just me and my husband in a New York stairwell, enjoying this moment on our wedding day.

‘Hello, Mrs Bramley,’ Piers mutters into my earlobe, teasing me with a nip of his teeth.

‘Mr Bramley,’ I trill back, all Southern belle and flirty.

‘You look so beautiful. That dress...’

Piers’ tone tells me exactly what he thinks of my beautiful wedding dress – that he wants it off me, not on – but I can’t help but worry about the weariness around his eyes. He looks shattered.

‘And you look very handsome in your suit,’ I mutter, tugging at his lapels suggestively with a grin.

Piers is wearing, along with my dad and Giles, a steel-grey, fitted, three-piece suit with a crisp white shirt, mint-green cravat and pocket square. His dusky-pink rose lapel must has dropped off somewhere between Central Park and here, or did he give it to Annabelle? I can’t recall.

Annabelle will be enjoying her TGI Friday’s round about now, before
Mary Poppins
with Zlata, but she did make a super cute bridesmaid this afternoon. I noticed Piers, once or twice, staring at her with a look of endearment on his face. I have a feeling he’ll be suggesting a cousin or two for Annabelle sooner rather than later.

‘How are you feeling?’ I ask.

‘I’m great.’ He grins at me.

‘Really? That wouldn’t be a lie to me on our wedding day,’ I tease, but I’m only half-joking. Now, more than ever before, we need to be one hundred per cent honest and open with one another – like we vowed to one another. We stuck with traditional vows as we didn’t have time to write our own. Well, not decent ones.

‘I could do with a sit-down,’ he admits.

‘Should we go and have some dinner then?’ I suggest. ‘Join our guests.’

I start to head up the rest of the stairs, but Piers stops me. ‘Before we do, I want to say thank you. Thank you for being my wife, Arielle Demi Lockley, and for today. I love you.’

‘I love you, too, though it’s Arielle Demi
Bramley
now,’ I whisper filthily, each word a promise.

I lean in and kiss my husband, and in this moment I’m the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life. To be loved, and to have someone, is truly the greatest thing.

Opening the door that leads us out onto the rooftop, the smell of frangipani I remember from before is still strong, though the lush green plants and creamy yellow flowers that were here before have gone. They’ve been replaced by miniature cherry blossom bonsai trees that mimic the tall ones we stood under today in Central Park. It looks incredible, like our own miniature Japanese garden.

I laugh, amazed, as we walk towards my parents, Giles and Rhonda. ‘This is incredible!’ I exclaim as I spin around, trying to take it all in. ‘Did you do this?’

There are shakes of heads and cries of no as Piers and I head towards the large round table where everyone is gathered. Tall cut-glass vases in smooth sweeping shapes filled with pink roses are dotted all around. There must be two dozen roses in each vase. Who has sorted this out? It looks wonderful, but it must have cost a fortune.

‘Seriously?’ I ask.

Still no one owns up to it, but I wonder if Mum and Dad secretly organised this – they managed to keep Felicity’s earrings from me, after all, and I doubt the club did this for us. I’m truly touched. I forget about them though as Giles taps his glass and proposes a toast to us. It’s no raucous best man’s speech, just a wonderful tribute to the two of us.

Two delicious courses later and I’m already feeling stuffed, though I can’t wait for dessert. We’ve eaten a beautifully light clam chowder garnished with vivid orange and deep purple tiny tuiles made out of carrot and beetroot for our starter, followed by Wagyu beef tenderloin, spiced beef cheek croquettes, buttery mashed potato and greens for our main course. Salted caramel brownies with a peanut parfait are up next, except that’s not what’s being brought over to us.

‘I thought we weren’t having a cake,’ Piers says with a grin as a wedding cake is placed on the table in front of us.

The cake is three tiers high, decorated in pink roses that match the ones in my hair perfectly. Green foliage is dotted around the roses, and the butter cream icing that covers the cake is thick but smooth. A little bride and groom are perched on the top.

‘Don’t look at me!’ I say, throwing my hands up in the air. ‘This was nothing to do with me. ‘This was you, right? Just like the bonsai trees?’

‘No,’ Piers says slowly as he turns to look around the table. He looks too confused to be faking.

‘Cut the cake!’ Giles calls at us, his hand cupped around his mouth, his phone ready in the other to snap a picture. Our photographer is long gone.

‘Did you organise this, Gee?’ Piers asks.

Giles shakes his head.

‘Arielle?’

I laugh. ‘No, I didn’t sort out a cake. You know how I felt about those brownies after the tasting.’

Is it wrong that I’m wondering if I can have a doggy bag? The sharply sweet salted caramel and chocolate crumbliness of the brownies had me craving them for a good few days after our tasting. I’ll be seriously miffed to miss out on them.

I turn to my parents and they both shake their heads, but if we didn’t do this, and Giles and Rhonda didn’t,
who did
?

‘Really?’

I don’t want to eat this cake if it’s not actually for us, though it has to be for us because we’re the only people up here. I’m also wondering if Giles or Piers organised a change of plan since we were booked to have our wedding breakfast in one of the private dining rooms downstairs. Thinking about it, it’s a little strange that we’ve been given the entire rooftop for our use. It’s a gorgeous summer’s day and the rooftop would usually be packed with the club’s hip, big-spending members.

‘Anyone?’

They all shake their heads again. ‘Not us,’ Mum remarks with a drunken shrug. She looks merry and happy, and I flash her a quick smile. Unlike the rest of the table, Piers and I only had one flute of champagne during Giles’ toast. Everyone else is quite sozzled.

‘Well, where’s this cake from?’

I’m hoping there’s a sweet vanilla sponge for me and a lemon layer for Piers – there would be if
I’d
organised a cake. Someone needs to explain this cake though before I eat a slice.

Giles passes his phone to Rhonda, and walks off. OK, definitely not Giles then.

‘Is there a problem?’ a discreet voice murmurs in our ears a few minutes later.

‘Where has this cake come from?’ Piers asks bluntly.

Maybe it is a surprise on behalf of the club. Maybe they felt sorry for us with our four guests and lack of cake and decided to be kind – not that I would change my wedding day for the world. I glance down at my slim platinum ring that is nestled next to my engagement ring, then look across at Piers’ chunkier wedding band. I’m officially Mrs Bramley! OK, I’m still Arielle Lockley until I get back to the UK and update my documents, but Piers and I are married. Husband and wife. Today has been perfect exactly as it is.

‘Mrs Rothchester,’ he says in a very respectful tone.

Piers and I exchange further puzzled looks, though Piers’ expression changes slightly at the mention of this name.

‘She also did the flowers for you,’ he prompts as I shake my head in confusion, but realisation dawns on me as I remember the conversation I had in the park when I was looking after Annabelle.

‘Eve?’ I ask. ‘Did Eve do this?’

He nods. He must think I’m an utter idiot, but also very rude for calling Eve by her first name going by the way he said Mrs Rothchester in such a reverent tone. I’d completely forgotten about her offer to do the flowers; I never expected it to be serious.

‘I didn’t know her surname,’ I explain to Piers, ‘but Eve is the lady I bumped into in the gardens at Gramercy. Wow!’ I whistle.

‘She does exist then,’ Piers says dryly, but there’s a glint in his eye.

‘Piers!’ I tut, though secretly I’m echoing his remark. Annabelle flat-out refused to tell her Uncle Piers about the nice lady we chatted to in the park, which did worry me for a while. I’m glad I’m not going mad though. Eve,
Mrs Rothchester
, is real, and we have her to thank for all these beautiful trees, flowers and, now, this cake.

I stare at it again, then around the rooftop. ‘Tell her thank you,’ I finally say, realising that everyone is looking at me expectantly. ‘And thank you for the flowers. This is wonderful. I can’t believe she did this for us. She really didn’t have to, but this all looks amazing.’

The manager nods as Piers echoes my thanks, then discreetly leaves us to it. I turn to Piers. ‘You looked like you recognised the name?’

‘This place is owed by the Rothchester family,’ he explains. ‘I wonder if she’s
the
Mrs Rothchester. You said she was quite elderly, right?’

I nod. ‘About Flick’s age.’

The reference to Flick doesn’t cause a stab of pain in my heart, and I know it’s because she’s here with me today. I touch my right earlobe gently, and I smile at her kind gesture in giving me these precious earrings for my something old.

Piers whistles. ‘It must be. Eve Rothchester! Well, you must have made an impression. She’s one of the firm’s biggest clients, this side of the pond. In fact–’

‘No shop talk,’ I interrupt sternly because we’ve got a cake to cut and today, of all days, Piers shouldn’t be thinking about his ruddy work! ‘Are we cutting this cake or what?’

I pass him the cake knife and server as I stand up, making a mental note to find some better way to thank Eve properly rather than merely hoping that the club does pass on our gratitude.

Piers stands up and moves behind me, wrapping his arms around me so we can cut our unexpected wedding cake together. As Giles snaps some photos, Mum, Dad and Rhonda cheer. This is the happiest day of my life.