I’d been naive to think getting out of London on a Saturday lunchtime would be quick. After spending far too long in gridlock, I tried to make up time by racing down narrow hedge-sided lanes and flinging the Volvo around corners it had no business attempting in an effort to be no more than fashionably late to Tina’s wedding.

When I finally turned into Hayburn Stead’s long driveway I regretted not washing the car before I set off, even though it would have been another delay. Bentleys, Aston Martins, Jaguars, Rolls-Royces, Ferraris and other expensive cars whose marques I didn’t even recognise lined the tree-capped avenue. The closest thing to my rusty, dusty old thing was an occasional Range Rover, but no land vehicles they, all sparkling and gleaming like they’d come directly from the showroom. Never mind washing the car; I should have rented one. Not that I could afford it.

Hayburn Stead was a faux manor house, a late nineteenth-century structure built to look a century or two older, in a neoclassical style. Behind a fountain, wide stone steps led to a columned portico from where the house extended and rose on either side. Its symmetry was marred by several extensions that had all been added to one wing during the twentieth century, making the silhouette lopsided. Not that it mattered in the context of its grounds, which were extensive and kept largely natural, although I knew how much it actually cost to maintain that seemingly wild appearance. Tina had bought the house thanks to the lucky combination of a run of successful film roles, her third divorce and the previous owner needing a quick sale after falling on hard times. It had always been excessive. Even when her children were young and boisterous, the three of them plus a small staff in a house this size was outlandish. But as a weekend getaway from the city, it was unrivalled.

It was also normally replete with places to park, but not today. Slowly making my way up the tree-lined driveway, I passed an unbroken chain of cars on both sides. There wasn’t enough room for a motorcycle to pull in, let alone a boxy car like mine. I drove around the fountain, intending to double back and see if I’d missed a space, when I saw two white-suited young men standing idle. Of course – Tina had hired valets for the wedding. I breathed a sigh of relief, juddered to a halt and leapt out of the car with keys in hand.

‘Staff parking round the side,’ said one of them immediately, thumbing in the direction of the house’s east wing. ‘And get a move on, they’re already on pre-service drinks.’

I halted mid-key toss and took a moment to level my voice before speaking. ‘Young man, I am a guest. I know this house better than you do.’

The valet hesitated, but stood his ground. ‘Can I see your invite?’

Forcing a smile, I reached into my handbag. ‘You mean my invitation. It’s a noun, not a verb. Now … oh.’ I trailed off, suddenly picturing the invitation in my mind’s eye, not to mention in the middle of my kitchen table. I’d placed it there so I’d remember to put it in whichever bag I brought to the wedding. But, rushing around after that morning’s audition, I’d promptly forgotten to put it in any bag whatsoever. ‘Look,’ I said, groaning inwardly, ‘I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but … don’t you know who I am?’

The second valet had come to see what the fuss was about, and their combined blank looks were all the answer I needed. When I was last a famous face, these boys were still in nursery. ‘Fine, fine, don’t trouble yourselves,’ I said, climbing back inside my car and starting the engine. I stamped too hard on the accelerator, spun the wheels and kicked gravel all over the place as I wheeled it around the fountain and took the access lane to the east wing.

Sure enough, staff cars, a minibus and even some catering trucks were parked in front of the side entrance. But there were spaces left too. I pulled into one, took my clothes and shoe bags from the back seat, kicked the car door closed and marched through the kitchen’s open side entrance.

‘Miss Gwinny? Can I help you? I thought you’d be in the garden.’

I looked up at the familiar face of Mrs Evans and felt a wave of relief. She’d been Hayburn Stead’s housekeeper for twenty-five years, ten under the previous owner and another fifteen for Tina. With the children grown and flown and Tina working in London most of the time anyway, Mrs Evans now spent most days here alone, her solitude punctuated only by visits from groundsmen and tree surgeons. Between acting jobs, though, Tina would come to the house for weeks at a time, alternating between chilling out and holding lavish parties at the drop of a hat. On those occasions Mrs Evans had to quickly hire a small army of temporary staff to cook, clean and serve, running the place like a five-star general. I envied my friend having someone so efficient to rely on.

‘I forgot my invitation, and the schoolboys at the front door wouldn’t let me in without it. I just need five minutes to change. Where’s free?’

She snapped her fingers at a maid arranging a silver tray of fizz. ‘Come on, girl, hurry it up. Nobody likes a sober wedding.’ Then she thought for a moment and said, ‘We have several guests staying over, so every room is occupied already. How about you use the small bathroom? Off the second stairs.’

I traced the route in my mind. ‘Next to the ocean room, right? Actually, isn’t that free?’

‘Sorry, bedroom four is now permanently reserved for Miss Francesca.’ Seeing my puzzled expression, the housekeeper clarified, ‘Mr De Lucia’s sister, when she comes to stay.’

I remembered Tina mentioning the sister. ‘But I thought she didn’t approve of the marriage.’

‘When has that ever stopped women like her availing themselves of hospitality?’ Mrs Evans snorted with contempt. ‘Now, the ceremony begins at two, so you have plenty of time.’ With that she bustled away into one of the kitchen’s huge pantries, leaving me standing with wait staff and cooks weaving around me on their way to and from food stations.

I shouted my thanks after her and quickly walked through the service corridor into the house, apologising for being in everyone’s way as I went. Opening the door into the entrance hall, I ran into a wall of noise, the wedding party already in full swing. Champagne-fuelled guests spilt in from the garden terrace and milled around the hall, filling it with chatter. Carrying my clothes in both hands, I skirted the crowd, hoping nobody would notice and recognise me. At the other, newer side of the house I came to the foot of the second stairs, a narrow dog-leg leading up into the house’s lopsided extension, and quickly climbed them.

I passed two bridesmaids in matching dresses on their way down. One pulled a pack of cigarettes from her clutch while the other smiled at me in passing. There was no recognition in the greeting, but I knew them immediately. June and Joan O’Connor, veteran sisters of soap and comedy. I assumed Tina must have acted in a production with them. The sisters were hardly known as the sharpest knives in the drawer, but as showbiz stalwarts they’d had long careers, often cast together. Upon reaching the first floor landing, I saw the library entrance across the corridor and felt confident that wasn’t where they’d come from. Then I chided myself for being unkind.

I continued to the second floor, where the piano room lay across the corridor, directly above the library. This was where the sisters had undoubtedly been; through its half-open door I saw Tina’s back, a trio of young stylists working on her hair and make-up. This floor was also further extended past the stairs, with a ‘small bathroom’ (actually as big as my sitting room) and the fourth bedroom, or ‘ocean room’ as it was known. I turned the bathroom door handle, but then remembered something else Tina had mentioned about Remington’s sister: that she wasn’t coming to the wedding. Francesca may have claimed the ocean room as her own, but if she wasn’t here, what harm could there be in my using it?

Small and cosy, with blue walls and a single round window facing over the garden, the room was well-named but nobody’s idea of palatial luxury. I couldn’t actually swear it was any bigger than the bathroom next door. It had a wardrobe to hang my casual clothes, though, and a good, large bed on which to lay out my wedding outfit. Much more suitable for getting changed in.

The wall clock read a quarter past one as I closed the door and placed my clothes bags on the bed. It had been years since I’d last attended any kind of formal do. Come to think of it, the last time may have been when I was maid of honour at Tina’s fourth wedding. But that was nearly twelve years ago, before I moved back to Chelsea. On this occasion, with all my time consumed by caring for my father, there’d been no question I could be any kind of bridesmaid, let alone maid of honour again. I’d only definitely decided to attend a week ago, following his death. I’d then spent a...