Wedding Night

see a small Asian-looking girl talking to the camera. “But Marie helpedme learn to write again.” Music starts playing, and there’s a scene of the little girl struggling with a pencil while a woman guides her. The final shot is of the girl beaming proudly while holding up a picture she’s drawn. The image fades and I blink at the TV, puzzled.
    Great Ormond Street. Is that coincidence?
    “My mummy is having a surrogate baby.” A freckled boy appears on-screen as the music changes. “At first I felt left out. But now I’m really excited.”
    What?
    I grab the remote and turn up the volume as Charlie introduces his surrogate baby sister. The piece ends with them all sitting in the garden together. Next up is Romy, who has had a cochlear implant, and then Sara, whose mummy has had plastic surgery and looks different now (but that’s OK), and then David with his new heart.
    The DVD doesn’t have a point to it, I swiftly appreciate. It’s a promotional freebie for
other
DVDs. And it’s just running on a loop. One inspirational, heart-churning story after another.
    I’m almost blinking with tears as each kid tells his or her poignant tale. But I’m seething with frustration too. Did no one think to watch this DVD? Has no one linked Noah’s stories to what he’s been watching?
    “Now I can run and play,” David is saying joyfully to the camera. “I can play with Lucy, my new puppy.”
    Lucy is a cocker spaniel. Of course.
    The door suddenly opens, and Noah is ushered out by the SEN teacher, Mrs. Gregory.
    “Ah, Mrs. Phipps,” she says as she does every week. “Noah’s making very good progress.”
    “Great.” I smile pleasantly back. “Noah, sweetheart, puton your coat.” As he heads to the pegs, I turn back to Mrs. Gregory and lower my voice. “Mrs. Gregory, I was just watching your interesting DVD. Noah has quite an imagination, and I think he may be identifying with the kids shown in it a little too much. Could you possibly turn it off when he’s sitting there?”
    “Identifying?” She looks puzzled. “In what way?”
    “He told Mrs. Hocking he’d had a heart transplant,” I say bluntly. “And an operation on his hand in Great Ormond Street. It all came from that DVD.” I gesture at the TV.
    “Ah.” Her face falls. “Oh goodness.”
    “No harm done, but maybe you could put on a different DVD? Or just turn it off?” I smile sweetly. “Thank you so much.”
    Some children think they’re Harry Potter. Trust mine to think he’s the star of a self-help DVD. As I walk out with Noah, I squeeze his hand.
    “So, darling, I was watching your teacher’s DVD. It’s fun to watch stories, isn’t it? Stories about
other people
,” I add for emphasis.
    Noah considers this for a long, thoughtful moment.
    “If your mummy has plastic surgery,” he says at last, “it doesn’t matter. Even if she looks different. Because she’s probably happier now.”
    My smile freezes.
Please
don’t say he’s told the teachers I’ve had plastic surgery and am happier now.
    “Absolutely.” I try to sound relaxed. “Um, Noah. You do know that Mummy hasn’t had plastic surgery, don’t you?”
    Noah’s avoiding my gaze. Oh God. What’s he said?
    I’m about to reiterate to him my complete lack of plastic surgery (one Botox session doesn’t count) when my phonebleeps. It’s a text from Lottie. Oh God. Please don’t say they’ve somehow managed it.
    We’re boarding. What do u think of the Mile-High Club? Could call baby MilesOr Mileyxxx
    Swiftly I text back:
    Don’t be gross! Have a good one xxx
    I stare at my phone for a few seconds after I’ve pressed
send
. They won’t try to do it on the plane. Surely not. Anyway, the airport staff will have put in a discreet call to the cabin crew, warning them about the frisky couple in business. They’ll be on the case; I can relax.
    Still, my heart’s thudding. I glance at my watch and feel a renewed frustration at the totally crap travel options. One direct flight to Ikonos a day? It’s insane. I want to be there
now
.
    But since I can’t, I’m going to do a bit of research.
    I find it exactly where I expected to: in the box under her bed, stacked with all the others. Lottie started keeping a diary when she was fifteen, and it was a pretty big deal. She used to read bits out to me and talk about getting them published one day. She would say portentously, “As I wrote in my
diary
yesterday …” as though somehow that made her thoughts far