Husband Material (London Calling #2)(33)

Liz ceased scurrying. “Ah. Enough that it took me a moment to realise why this would be a bad idea.”

A buzzing emanated from my phonular region. It was a picture of a smug man with white hair. A second or two later, Oliver sent, Richard Dawkins. A dick, a dawk, and a dork.

My heart sank. Not because Oliver was at peak Oliver but because I was going to have to send him away. I called him.

And, true to form, he answered within two rings. “Lucien?”

Oh God. “I’m…I’m really sorry,” I said. “But I might need you to go back to London.”

“I’m choosing to believe that if you were breaking up with me, you would have done it in a less bizarre way. Although, knowing you, I’m not sure why I think that.”

I wanted to bants back but there wasn’t time, and this wasn’t about me. “Bridge’s dress got left behind. Can you…um, pick it up?

While driving fast enough that you have a chance to be back here by two, but not so fast you get arrested or killed.”

“I will certainly try.” It was his I-don’t-think-this-is-a-good-plan-but-I’ll-do-it-because-I-love-you voice. Incidentally, he had used the same voice when booking tickets for Pretty Woman: The Musical.

“But this is going to be a very tight turnaround.”

“I’ll meet you outside.” I hung up, then turned to Bridge. “Keys, please. Oliver’s going.”

We all knew he wouldn’t make it, but the fact that someone was trying made us feel very slightly better—the operative word being slightly. Because, when I’d got back from sprinting to the main house and sending Oliver sprinting to the car park, the mood was teetering between sombre and inconsolable.

“I don’t want to sound pessimistic,” began Melanie. “But I think we should have a backup plan. Because even if Oliver makes it, you still might not have time to get changed.”

Bridge made a noise that was an unholy amalgamation of a hiccough, a wail, and a sob. “Fine. I’ll get in my pyjamas.”

“There must be something else we can do.” Jennifer had a mimosa in each hand. “What if you wore one of our dresses?”

“Then”—Bridge’s voice clicked up half an octave—“I’ll be dressed as a bridesmaid at my own wedding. I’ll be always the bridesmaid, never the bride at my own wedding.”

We all paced and drank and thought. Honestly, the drinking wasn’t helping with the thinking. But it was helping with the not freaking the fuck out.

Eventually Melanie lifted her head from her hands. “Hang on a sec, we’re in a rich old woman’s house. She must have something fancy you can wear.”

“There’s a suit of armour in the main hall,” Bridge said. “I’ll just slip into that.”

The great curse of Bridge’s life was that she had a tremendous ability to solve other people’s problems. But when it came to her own, she could be—and I say this with love—unhelpful sometimes.

“No, no.” I gave her an encouraging shoulder pat. “Judy’s been married about twenty times. I bet she’s got a dozen wedding dresses lying around.”

There was a pause as Bridge considered this. “So my choices are naked, pyjamas and hoodies, bridesmaid, or whatever your mum’s friend can drag out of her bottom drawer.”

“Maybe,” I admitted, feeling like the worst maid of honour who had ever made honour. “But I think four might be the least worst option.”

“Naked would be a statement,” offered Bernadette.

“I’ll…” I was edging towards the door. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

Bridge’s reply was kind of a burble, but it sounded like an appreciative burble, so—hoping that all this dashing backwards and forwards wasn’t turning me into too much of an unattractive ball of sweat—I set off back to the main house. Of course I didn’t know where Judy was, but I was hoping that if I rang Mum, I’d find Judy not far away.

She picked up somewhat less quickly than Oliver had, not because she cared less but because she had a more relaxed attitude to life in general. Actually, come to think of it, I wasn’t sure I could imagine two people more different life-attitude-relaxedness-wise than Mum and Oliver.

“All?, Luc.” I heard the sounds of clinking crockery over the phone.

“Hi, Mum.”

“You sound out of breath. Are you getting enough exercise?”

Right now, I definitely was. “There’s a lot to sort out.”

“I’m sure there is, but you are a young man. A little bit of wedding drama shouldn’t be making you so tired.”

“I’ve been running all over the place.”

She made a dismissive, Gallic noise. “When I was your age, I ran everywhere. It is your job. That is the problem. You are at a desk the whole day, and you never get any fresh air or sunshine.”

“I walk to work.”

“That does not count. The air in London, it is not fresh at all.”

Getting into a debate about air quality in the capital didn’t seem likely to help with my current predicament, so I let it slide. “I don’t suppose Judy’s with you, is she?”

“She is. She is having a croissant.”

“A croissant?”