Husband Material (London Calling #2)(31)

“Luc,” she cried. “Great to see you. Can you tell Bridge I’ll be back in two minutes? There’s an emergency at work. Don’t really have time to talk about it”—she took a deep breath—“but one of our authors is starting a book tour of the States on Monday. And we’ve accidentally booked him appearances in New York, Los Angeles, and Las Vegas.”

This seemed a fairly minor crisis by the standards of Bridge and Melanie’s jobs. “Aren’t they quite good places for a book tour?”

“Not when they’re New York, Texas; Los Angeles, Texas; and Las Vegas, New Mexico. This is why we don’t normally have the UK

office book the U.S. tour dates.”

Oliver was doing his interested-in-everyone face. “I take it none of those are big book towns?”

“New York, Texas,” replied Melanie, sweeping a stray braid out of her face, “has a population of twenty and Los Angeles, Texas, is less than a mile across, but there’s quite a nice library in Las Vegas, New Mexico, so…he might like that. Anyway, I have to go and sort this out. Bridge is in a small guest room in the Lodge—that way.”

And with that, she dashed off to disappoint a dozen Texans.

“You should probably commence maid-of-honouring.” Oliver gently de-coupled our hands. “I’ll see if I can be useful somewhere else. Call me if you need me—or even if you don’t.”

I certainly wasn’t sappy enough to stand and watch as Oliver made his way up to the house. And I certainly wasn’t shallow enough to linger on the effect some steps and a well-cut suit had on his arse.

So having done neither of those things, I went looking for the Lodge and for Bridget.

I found them both in roughly the direction that Melanie had indicated. The guest room looked kind of like the pyjama party scene from Grease, although I was sure nobody had been sing-dissing any of the other bridesmaids. There were clothes literally everywhere, and every spare surface was covered in either cosmetics or mimosas. Bridge, mimosa within reach, was sitting at a dressing table with a huge mirror having arcane things done to her hair by someone I hoped was a professional.

“Luc.” Her reflection beamed at me. “Have a mimosa.”

On the one hand, I really wanted a mimosa. On the other hand, it was 9:00 a.m. and I was barely conscious as it stood. “Maybe in about six hours?”

“In six hours I’ll be married and we’ll be starting on the champagne.” A look of wonderful yet terrifying realisation crept across her face. “Oh my God, I’ll be married in six hours. I’ll be Ms.

Bridget Welles.”

We all stared at her. “Bridge,” said Jennifer, emerging from what I assumed was the en suite. “That’s already your name.”

“Yes, but I’ll be Ms. Bridget Welles who’s married.”

Liz pressed a mimosa into my hand anyway. “I think you’re going to need this,” she whispered.

I looked round for somewhere to sit and found nowhere that wasn’t a lap, and that was one step too gay best friend even for me.

Eventually, I propped my coccyx against the corner of a chest of drawers, which was very much a sidegrade from just standing.

“Sooo,” began Liz in a tone that seemed far too implication-laden for a woman of the cloth. “How was your evening? Was it lovely?”

For a moment I wasn’t sure what she meant. Then I glared at mirror-Bridge. “Oh, so you were in on it, then?”

She gave me a look of winsome triumph. “Oliver said he’d missed you. And you’d been so nice to me I thought you deserved a night off.”

“It was great,” I said, offering the PG/appropriate-for-relative-strangers version of events. “We watched old movies and got a relatively good night’s sleep.”

“That does sound great,” agreed Jennifer. “Perhaps it’s because I’m in my thirties now, but a good night’s sleep is one of my top-five bedroom fantasies.”

Bernadette looked around from where she was adjusting the line of her deep-blue bridesmaid’s dress. “What are the other four?”

“New bookshelves, a husband who knows how to share a duvet, one of those pillows that are good for your back, and Dwayne ‘the Rock’ Johnson covered in lemon sorbet.”

“Lemon sorbet?” asked the hairdresser, who until that moment had been screening the bridal banter with consummate professionalism.

“I like lemon sorbet.”

Liz squinted like someone trying to solve a difficult maths puzzle.

“Wouldn’t it sting?”

“I don’t want him totally covered in lemon sorbet,” protested Jennifer.

“Oh, right.” Bridge’s mirror face was also trying to solve a difficult maths puzzle. “Because that would be strange.”

“Also,” I added, “wouldn’t it ruin your nice new pillow?”

Finding the room as seat-deprived as I had, Jennifer slumped against the wall. “Given that I’m married, he’s married, we live in different countries, and he’s the most electrifying man in all of entertainment, I don’t think sorbet logistics are the largest barrier to my having a night of steamy passion with the bloke from Jumanji.”

“Actually”—Bernadette poured herself another mimosa—“if you are going to use a dessert in a sexual context, sorbet is a really good choice. It’s mostly water and sugar so it doesn’t stain and it doesn’t curdle, and it’s not as sticky as you might imagine.”