Husband Material (London Calling #2)(26)

This was worryingly easy. Suspiciously easy. “And we need to know as soon as possible because it’s this weekend and we need to work out how to get everybody to the new venue.”

“I said I have it covered, Luc.” Technically he hadn’t said anything of the sort. “Trust me.”

And for a moment, against all the odds and against all evidence, I did. “Thanks.”

“Leave it to me,” he said. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

And then he was gone.

Honestly, the whole thing started to feel unreal three seconds after he’d hung up. Partly it was just the image my dad worked so hard to project. That larger-than-life sense of magic and wonder, like he was a grizzled angel from rock heaven who you’d be lucky to have touch your life for an instant before he moved on. And it was partly that I knew from experience that relying on Jon Fleming to do anything for anybody not named Jon Fleming was a complete sucker’s game.

I buzzed the buzzer, and Bridge let me up to the flat where I gave her the good news.

“You don’t seem very excited,” observed Liz.

“I know.” I sat down on the sofa. “It’s…it’s—”

“He has a complicated relationship with his father,” explained Bridget. “Which is why it was so sweet to reach out to him for us.”

“It’ll probably not come to anything,” I told them. “He’s not exactly reliable.”

But that didn’t stop me hoping. And hoping didn’t stop me being surprised when, three hours later, my phone rang.

Except it wasn’t my dad; it was my mum.

“I just wanted to find out how it went with your father,” she said.

“About how you’d expect.” I tucked the phone against my shoulder and mouthed “It’s my mother” to the room before putting it back to my ear.

“The thing is, mon caneton, after you called, I spoke to Judy and she said that if your father couldn’t help you or if you—um, well—if you wanted to tell him to go and fuck himself, then you could have the wedding in her garden.”

I shouldered her again. “We do have a backup, Bridge,” I relayed. “Apparently you can have the wedding in Mum’s friend’s garden.”

“I heard that,” said Mum from shoulder height, “and I will have you know it is a very nice garden.”

“Apparently it’s a very nice garden,” I clarified.

“Luc, I think you are being very dismissive of Judy’s lovely garden.”

I scooped the phone back to my ear. “Sorry, Mum, it’s been a long day, and a long few days, and while I’m sure Judy’s garden is lovely, I really want this to be special for Bridge.”

“Just have a look on the internet and see if you would like it.”

It was the least I could do. “Tom,” I said, “can you grab the laptop and Google something for me?”

Tom obligingly opened up a browser.

“Is she on Facebook or something?” I asked. It seemed improbable, but then again everybody was on some kind of social media these days.

“No, they have a proper website. Well, English Heritage does.”

I made an I’m-not-sure-I-heard-that-correctly noise. “English Heritage?”

“Pfaffle Court is a very old building. According to Judy, the hedge maze goes back to the Restoration.”

I passed the words Pfaffle Court, no, Pfaffle, with a P and English Heritage to Tom. “Hang on, so when you said ‘in her garden,’

did you mean ‘in the grounds of her palatial estate’?”

“I did say it was a very nice garden.”

Bridget was staring over Tom’s shoulder with a look of mounting joy. “Oh, Luc,” she said, “it’s perfect.”

“Was that Bridget?” asked my mum, who was never one to stay out of other people’s conversations. “Does she like the garden?”

“Yes,” I told her. “Yes, she likes the garden very much. But why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”

“You never asked. And you seemed so set on talking to your father, I thought maybe it was important to you.”

“Mum, he’s never going to be important to me. He’s a cockweasel.”

“With a small penis,” she added. “Actually, he doesn’t, but I can pretend. So shall I tell Judy you want her help?”

I glanced at Bridge and Tom for confirmation, and they both confirmed enthusiastically. “God, yes, please. Thank you so much.

You are the actual best.”

“I know. And you should try to remember that instead of running off to your cockweasel father when you need a favour. In any case, Judy will be very pleased. She said she hasn’t officiated at a wedding since 1987.”

Wait one tiny minute. “Officiated?”

“Of course, it’s her garden. She should be involved.”

I was about to protest, but this was getting far too complicated, and there was still the massive logistical task of shifting a large, meticulously planned wedding with over a hundred guests from West London to somewhere in Surrey. “You know what,” I said. “I’m sure that’ll be fine.”

After all that, I didn’t get to try Oliver’s sticky miso peppers. But then, neither did Oliver because he came to Bridge’s. Where he helped us reinvite the entire guest list and arrange transportation and accommodation for everybody who’d already arranged transport and accommodation for somewhere else entirely.