“Yeah,” he calls back, “got it all under control.” “Freddy,” I call into the kitchen, “will you be starting on the dinner soon?” And I know just who would be in the firing line. More the sort to get angry and look for someone to blame. Though I’m not sure that she is the sort to panic. It’s still sunny out but this afternoon the needle on the old barometer in the hallway swung from fair to changeable. We get the brunt of all the weather here often the storms are much worse than they end up being on the mainland, as if they’ve exhausted themselves on us. The end of the weather forecast I caught on the radio mentioned wind. Today has been surprisingly warm, at least by the standards of these parts, but the same’s not looking likely for tomorrow.

The Folly’s old stone walls keep the warmth out and aren’t so good at holding it in. It may be midsummer but it gets cool at night on the island. The smoky, earthy smell of the turf fires will add to the sense of local atmosphere. Freddy and I have started cutting and drying our own turf from the bog, as has been done for centuries past. I move through the Folly’s downstairs rooms, lighting the blocks of turf in the grates, so they can get a good smolder on for this evening. And here’s another thing I’ve learned-sometimes the smallest currents are the strongest. If I didn’t pay attention, one of those currents could grow into a huge riptide, destroying all my careful planning. You have to be alert to every detail, all the smaller eddies beneath the surface. As a wedding planner you can’t afford to miss anything. All the gossip that the guests would kill to have. You see the things no one else is privileged to see. You learn all the insider secrets, doing this sort of work. And the bridesmaid-the bride’s half sister-I’ve seen her on her solitary wanderings of the island, hunched over and walking fast like she’s trying to outpace something. That best man seems a bit of a liability-all of the ushers do, to be honest. I’m sure they know how to restrain themselves. It is not for me to comment, but it seems rather a lot. It’s vintage Bollinger: eight bottles of it, plus the wine for dinner and a couple of crates of Guinness-all as per the bride’s instructions.

I’ve put the champagne on ice ready for the predinner drinks. Things are about to crank into another gear: there’s the rehearsal dinner this evening, with the chosen guests, so the wedding really begins tonight.

Lucy foley the guest list