Husband Material (London Calling #2)(30)

“I’ll put a podcast on.”

I groaned massively. “Not The Magnus Archives.”

“What’s wrong with The Magnus Archives?”

“I’m trying to sleep. It’ll give me nightmares. About worms.” I paused. “Or spiders. Or strangers. Or the sea. Or the sky. Or meat.

Or Edinburgh.”

“It’s Magnus,” said Oliver firmly, “or This American Life.”

I groaned massively again. “Fine. Put on Magnus.”

So Oliver put on Magnus, and we either trundled or whooshed— depending on traffic—our way to Surrey. And, fortunately, I was knackered enough that whatever horrendous things were happening to the employees of the Magnus Institute, this time I slept right through it.

When next I stirred, we’d arrived. Or rather, we’d arrived in the car park, which given how English stately homes worked meant that we were still a moderately long walk from the actual house. In a display of unexpected couple efficiency—given that fifty percent of the couple was me—we retrieved what was left of our wedding costumes from the back seat and took turns straightening each other’s ties and brushing off each other’s lapels. Not that Oliver’s lapels needed that much brushing. I just wanted an excuse to cop a feel. Because while Oliver wore a suit to work every day, this was a special-occasion suit and Oliver in a special-occasion suit was different from Oliver in a barrister suit in a way that was only noticeable if you’d spent slightly too long looking at him.

He was in pearl grey, which brought out the silvers in his eyes, and he’d gone with one of his I’m-secretly-more-flamboyant-than-Ilet-on ties—with a pattern of subtle pewter swirls and dusty-pink roses. As it happened, my tie was pink as well, but that was because midnight blue and rose gold were the wedding colours, and given the choice between blue suit/pink tie or blue tie/pink suit, I’d put my foot very firmly down on the side of not looking like a lost flamingo.

“Is there something wrong with my lapels?” asked Oliver.

I kept stroking. “Oh yeah, they’re a mess. Extremely dusty.”

“Thrilled as I am for you to dust me in a car park, are there not maid-of-honour duties you need to attend to?”

Leaning in, I nuzzled needily into his neck. “I know. I mean, I think it’ll mostly be standing around providing moral support while Bridge gets her hair done or whatever. But…your lapels. What if they get dusty again?”

“Then”—his voice was soft and full of his smile—“I shall seek you out at once.”

“Please do. Spending a whole wedding without you would be awful.”

“I promise you faithfully, Lucien, you will only have to spend parts of weddings without me.”

Duly reassured, I left Oliver’s lapels alone and we set off down a long gravel drive towards the speck on the horizon that was apparently Judy’s house.

“You know”—Oliver had taken my hand as we walked, a habit we’d honed over a number of slightly embarrassing strolls around the parks of Clerkenwell—“it’s occurring to me that one day you might have to admit that you’re just a bit posh.”

I made a choking sound. “I am not posh. I’ve only got one surname, and I come from a broken home.”

“So does Prince Harry. And generally people who make a big deal out of being too common for opera can’t also get a baroness to lend them her front room at short notice.”

“It’s not her front room, it’s her—”

“Grounds?” finished Oliver.

Okay, that sounded worse. And, worse still, Oliver totally had a point. “Oh, this is nice,” I told him. “It reminds me of when we were first going out and I didn’t like you.”

And it was testament to how far we’d come that I could say something like that and he’d laugh. And Oliver laughing in a special-occasion suit was a very good Oliver indeed.

Eventually we arrived at the court bit of Pfaffle Court. And while I didn’t know much about history, it was definitely the kind of place that the kind of person who wanted to get married in that kind place would want to get married in. Which was to say, big and fancy-looking with lots of windows and a dedicated posing staircase between two ornate pillars.

“Oh my,” said Oliver. “What a lovely Tudor manor.”

And, again, it was testament to how far we’d come that I had only a slight desire to shove him into a ditch. “Stop showing off.”

“But I’ve always felt my passing familiarity with well-known, highly distinctive architectural styles is an essential part of my bad-boy image.”

It felt bad to be laughing at the notion of Oliver having a bad-boy image because I knew he could be a bad boy when it counted.

“Should I ask how you know it’s Tudor, or will I regret it?”

He shrugged. “We do a special house-recognising course in barrister school.”

“I know you’re joking, but even if you weren’t, that would not be the weirdest thing about your job.”

“My job,” began Oliver with the gravity of a legal professional, “is —”

Before he could insist that his job wasn’t weird and I could point out that any career that involved wearing a wig but never lip-synching was weird by definition, Melanie came flying towards us with impressive speed for a woman in a rose-gold frock and matching stilettos.