Husband Material (London Calling #2)(23)

“Traitor.” Bridge wasn’t genuinely angry, but given how emotional the last couple of days had turned out to be, she was straying close to it.

“I think a civil ceremony might be out of the question as well,” I added. “Every registered venue I’ve tried has been booked for months.”

Staring at his laptop screen, Tom shook his head. “He’s right.

We’re not going to find anywhere.”

“I think”—Liz stood up and ran her hands through her hair—“that you might have to decide whether you want a wedding or a wedding ceremony.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Tom, glancing up.

“A wedding has legal status. A wedding ceremony is just a party, and then you do the legal bit quietly afterwards.”

“I don’t want my wedding to be just a party,” wailed Bridget. “This is supposed to be the most important day of my life.”

“Well,” I tried, “I suppose it depends on what you think makes it important.”

I must have done a good job with my calming voice because Bridge seemed genuinely calmed. “What do you mean?”

Urgh. That was what happened when you said nebulously reassuring things you hadn’t thought through. You had to back them up. And I had a seriously limited up-backing game. “I guess…if I was marrying Oliver, what I’d really want—what would really matter to me —would be making sure that it was him and me saying how much we loved each other and wanted to be together in front of all the people we cared most about. Our friends, our family. Well, my family.

Well, my mum.”

I wasn’t quite sure why I’d gone to myself as an example because Oliver and I were a long way from the ’til-death-do-us-part conversation. But it was hard not to have weddings on the brain when everyone around you—including your dickhead ex—was getting married. Still, now that I’d put the possibility out there, it didn’t seem…entirely terrible? There was a certain something to it, wasn’t there? The idea of your thing being a thing that you shared with everyone in a way that, like, made it an official thing.

In any case, I’d pressed the right Bridge-distracting button because she leaned across the sofa and hugged me. “Oh, Luc, that’s beautiful. And are you?”

“Are I what?”

“Are you and Oliver getting married?”

Ah. That was the other side of the everyone-getting-married stage of life. I guess I was going to have to get used to that question.

“We’ve not really talked about it.”

“Bridge”—Tom had closed his laptop—“can we get back to our wedding? You know, the one that’s meant to be happening in five days?”

She dehugged. “Right. Sorry. I suppose…I suppose if we can get everybody there, and if it’s somewhere nice, and”—her phone buzzed—“oh God, the dress is still being adjusted. I was meant to pick it up today, and now I can’t. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t they make a dress fit my weird alien proportions?”

“You don’t have weird proportions,” said Tom, with a timing that I suspected came from practice. “But I would love you and find you sexy even if you did.”

“Then why won’t my dress be ready ’til tomorrow?”

Tom did not look like he had any idea what might make adjusting a dress take longer than average. “It’s probably just technical issues at their end.”

“Technical issues.” Bridge’s voice rose. “It’s a dress, not a Dyson Airblade.”

There was a soft flump as Liz manoeuvred her planner into her bag. “How about we take a walk? Maybe grab a cocktail—”

“It’s two in the afternoon,” Bridge pointed out.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Bridge’s lip wobbled. “Right now, everything feels like a bad thing.”

Being Bridget’s maid of honour had taught me a lot about how weddings worked, and not necessarily in a good way. Because, sure, it was a joyous celebration of your relationship, but it was also a logistical nightmare that you had to be the James Royce-Royces to enjoy. And, to be fair, their wedding had kicked quite a lot of arse. “I agree with Liz,” I said. “Why don’t you give us a rundown of what you want in your dream venue, and Tom and I will try to swing it for you while you go and…and…have a relax?”

“Maybe two relaxes,” Liz added, “if we hit happy hour.”

For a moment, Bridge looked mutinous, and then her shoulders slumped. “Thank you, everyone. I suppose I want somewhere…I don’t know…beautiful?”

“The nice thing about doing just the ceremony is that you can go outdoors if you want to.” Liz was also doing calming voice, and way better than me, partly because it was her literal job and partly because I’d always been quite bad at it.

That seemed to genuinely cheer Bridge up, and fuck knows she needed it right then. “What do you think, Tom? We could have the wedding in some kind of park? Or a garden?”

“Or a field?” I suggested.

“Not a field.” Bridge was pretty adamant about this.

“I think a garden would be lovely,” said Tom. “If we can get one.”