Husband Material (London Calling #2)(32)

Jennifer made a vindicated gesture. “See. I apparently have incredible sexual instincts. The rest of you would be covering Dwayne ‘the Rock’ Johnson in completely the wrong kind of condiments.”

“Asking for a friend,” asked Liz. For a friend. “Bernadette, what other foods is it either good or bad to lick off somebody?”

Bridge’s mouth dropped open. “Are you allowed to lick things off people?”

“Not at the moment, no,” Liz admitted. “But within the confines of marriage, the Church has no policy for or against licking things off people.”

“I can’t tell”—that was the moment when Melanie rejoined us—“if I have the best or the worst timing. Who is licking what off whom?”

“Jennifer,” said Liz. “Lemon sorbet. The Rock.”

The look of confusion on Melanie’s face was, in context, understandable. “Johnson? Or Gibraltar?”

“I’m not even going to ask”—Jennifer slid slowly down the wall —“why you think I might want to lick the Rock of Gibraltar.”

Melanie shrugged. “I don’t know. White people shit?”

“If I had to lick a geographical feature,” said Bridge with the air of somebody who had drunk way too many mimosas and was giving this way too much thought, “I’d pick Arthur’s Seat.”

The ensuing discussion of which parts of the country we’d put which parts of our body on lasted long enough for the hairdresser to be replaced by a makeup artist. And I found myself wondering what the hell this ritual would look like if I was, say, marrying Oliver. Would I sit around in a new suit, drinking cocktails with Priya, Bridge, and the James Royce-Royces while a highly trained professional ran a comb through my hair exactly once? Of course, maybe that said more about my hair than the institution of marriage.

Though I had to admit that when the experts had done their work, Bridge did look fucking fantastic. Not that she ever looked un-fucking fantastic. But she looked fucking fantastic…er? Just all happy and glowy and with her flower-woven hair framing her face in ways I could appreciate but not understand.

“Oh my God.” Bridge stood up, wobbling slightly with nerves. “Oh my God. I’m getting married in…less than six hours.”

I checked my phone. “In two hours. So unless you want to walk down the aisle in a fluffy bathrobe, you should probably think about getting the dress on.”

She gave a little squeak. “Oh my God. The dress. Jennifer, can you grab it for me?”

“Sure.” Jennifer climbed gingerly back to her feet. “Where is it?”

There was a silence where you would very much hope there would not be a silence.

Bridge turned slowly round. “Bernadette, where’s the dress?”

“I thought,” said Bernadette, “Jennifer was taking care of it.”

Bridge kept turning. “Melanie, where’s the dress?”

“I agree with Bridge,” said Melanie. “I thought it was Bernadette’s job.”

“Oh my God.” The tenor of Bridge’s oh my Gods had changed dramatically. “Liz, tell me you picked up the dress.”

Liz put her hands in the air. “Hey, I’m not even a bridesmaid! I’m just a redundant vicar. I’m here for the booze and the sex tips.”

“I’m sure,” I said, not at all sure, “that it’s here somewhere.”

“It’s a wedding dress,” cried Bridge. “It’s enormous. It’s not going to be under someone’s lipstick.”

From a mixture of helpfulness and denial, I started looking inside, behind, and beneath anything you could conceivably have hidden a very large frock inside, behind, or beneath.

Bridge sank back into her chair. “I can’t believe this is happening. This is my perfect special day. I can’t have a perfect special day without my perfect special dress.”

I exchanged horrified looks with the rest of the bridesmaids because it was looking a lot like she was going to have to. And, as maid of honour, it was my job to tell her that.





"DON’T CRY." JENNIFER WAS KNEELING in front of Bridge. “You’ll ruin your makeup.”

“What does it matter if I ruin my makeup,” wept Bridge. “I don’t have a dress.”

I’d given up the search and was now trying to find literally anything else Bridge could put on her body. “We must be able to pull something together.”

Bridge looked up. “Oh, right, I can get married in my hippo pyjamas and Liz’s hoodie.”

“Hey,” said Liz. “I got that hoodie at an ecclesiastical retreat. It’s practically sacred.”

Pulling out my phone, I checked the time. It was 12:10. “It’s fine.

There’s just enough time to send somebody back to London.”

“I’ll go,” offered Melanie.

“The ceremony starts at two.” Bridge was attempting to signal despair without touching her hair or face, which made her look like an emoji. “You won’t make it back, and then I’ll have to get married in hippo pyjamas and a hoodie while I’m missing a bridesmaid.”

Liz was already scurrying towards the door. “It’s fine. I can go.”

“Um”—Bernadette gave a wary look—“how many mimosas have you had?”