Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
I Heart New York first published by Harper 2009
I Heart Hollywood first published by Harper 2010
I Heart Paris first published by Harper 2010
I Heart Vegas first published by Harper 2011
I Heart London first published by Harper 2012
Copyright © Lindsey Kelk 2013
Jacket layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013
Cover illustrations © Bree Leman; © Adrian Valencia
Lindsey Kelk asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007331604, 9780007353163, 9780007368679, 9780007383450, 9780007383733
Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007564309
Version: 2017-08-22
To the people that taught me everything I need to know: Nana, Granddad, Janice, Phillip and Bobby
And to the people that taught me everything else: James, Della, Catherine, Beth, Mark and Louise
The aisle looks really, really long.
And my tiara feels so tight.
Can you put weight on around your head? Have I got muffin top on my scalp? And my shoes really hurt. No matter how beautiful or how expensive they might be; the balls of my feet feel as if they’ve been up and down a cheese grater and then dipped in TCP.
I saw Mark standing at the end of the aisle, looking relaxed and happy. Well, I suppose he doesn’t have to walk down it in four-inch Christian Louboutins and a fishtail floor-length gown. You can’t even see the bloody shoes, Angela, I chide myself. Not even the tip of the toe.
And now my hands feel sweaty. Do I have sweat patches? I tried to sneak a peak under my arms without dislodging anything important from my bouquet.
‘Angela? Are you all right?’ Louisa frowned at me, a picture of perfection, calm as anything, immaculate make-up and not teetering a touch. And her heels are higher than mine.
‘Uh-huh,’ I replied, as eloquent as ever. Thank God it’s her wedding and not mine. And please God, while I’m at it, could you not let Mark focus on what a shoddy bridesmaid I’m turning out to be, just in case it puts him off setting our date. Seriously though, sweat patches would show horribly, the dress is a light coffee colour, specially selected to make me look sick as a dog.