She noticed it immediately: her name and address handwritten on the front in black ink, the calligraphy stylish and precise. Hand-addressed letters were becoming rarer these days and usually meant a treat, or at least not a bill, so it was the first envelope she opened once she’d let herself in and put her bag down. She slid the card out of its envelope with a pleasant sense of anticipation, and read it three times before bafflement gave way to astonishment. It informed her that a Mr and Mrs Jeremy Price-Kennington requested the pleasure of her company at the marriage of their daughter Lydia Sarah to The Hon. Benedict Michael Waverley, at a church in Dorset some three weeks hence. She was still standing in the hallway staring down at it when her phone started to ring. ‘Have you got one of these?’ she demanded before Sylvie had a chance to speak. ‘An invitation to Benedict’s wedding? Is this some sort of a joke?’ ‘Nope, deadly serious apparently,’ Sylvie told her.
