Husband Material (London Calling #2)(34)

“We are having breakfast.”

“It’s noon.”

I heard the chink of a knife being set down. “Of course. Who eats breakfast before noon?”

A muffled, posh voice said something at Mum’s end of the telephone.

“Apparently Judy does normally because she has to get up to feed the chickens, but I do not think that counts. Chickens get up far too early.”

More commentary from just out of hearing.

“They cannot be that sensible, or they would not let themselves be eaten. Anyway, mon caneton”—she seemed to be addressing me again—“what do you need Judy for?”

“There’s no dress.”

For a moment, Mum was quiet. “What do you mean there is no dress?”

“Somehow the bridal party forgot to bring the dress down from London. We were hoping that Judy might have something?”

I heard Mum explaining the situation and Judy responding and the two of them carrying on for quite some while about—from the little I could gather—what a terrible state the younger generation had got themselves into.

“I am handing you over,” Mum said at last, and then there was a phone-passing sound before Judy assumed telephonic control.

“Luc, m’boy. Spot of bother with the old frock, is that right?”

“Yes. In that we don’t have one. And we were hoping maybe that you did.”

“Bound to. Old place is full of tat like that.”

That was reassuring in some ways, but not in others. “I was hoping for something non-tat?”

“Pish posh, just a figure of speech. Tell you what, let me rustle up some bits and bobs and I’ll let you know.”

I’d have asked to be handed back to Mum, but Judy had already rung off, so I made my way as quickly as I could up to the main house and hoped they’d come down to meet me.

And they had. The courtyard was already swarming with caterers —who, on the whole, had been very good about the last-minute venue change—and was now also graced with two women of a certain age staggering under the weight of more white silk than any reasonable person could have any reasonable use for.

I rushed forward to help and Mum, at least, gratefully unburdened herself, dumping a half ton of dress into my woefully unprepared arms. Judy, who prided herself on making light of all burdens, just fell into step beside me.

“Can’t make any promises,” she told me over a cascade of organza ruffles, “but there’s a fair bit for her to choose from at least.

You know I do miss weddings. Perhaps I should get married again.”

She turned to my mum. “How about it, Odile? It’d make it harder for my bastard relatives to object to your being in my will.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.” I glanced between the two of them. “Mum, you can’t just marry your best mate for a laugh.”

She gave me a disapproving look. “Don’t tell me what I can do, Luc.” Then, to my intense relief, she turned to Judy. “But I do think he’s right. Besides, being married to you would clearly be awful.”

Judy gave a won’t-stand-for-this-disparagement huff. “I beg your pardon. Being married to me is a wonderful experience. That’s why so many people have wanted to do it.”

“I’m with Mum on this one,” I said. “Marriages are like court appearances—the fact that you’ve had a lot of them doesn’t necessarily mean you’re doing them well.”

That didn’t seem to help. “You’re missing out, Odile.”

“Perhaps. But I wouldn’t want to ruin our friendship. And anyway, I do not think I enjoyed being married so much the last time.”

I could see that, but I wasn’t sure I liked the implication. “Do you not think Dad was a bit of an outlier? Like he’s basically the worst person you could possibly have been married to.”

Mum gave me a reassuring pat. “I am sure that is the case, mon caneton. And I am sure that if you and Oliver want to be married, you will be far happier with each other than I was with your father. But for me—I think it is a boat that has sailed.”

There was no melancholy in the way she said it, even if it was in some ways an inherently melancholy sentiment. And Mum was always very adamant that she was proud of the life she’d lived and the choices she’d made. Which was good because I was proud of them too. And I wouldn’t really have minded if she’d wanted to marry Judy. Although since it might have put me in line to be Baron Pfaffle, I would at that point have had to admit that Oliver was right and I was posher than I thought.

We bustled back into the guest room and laid down our various offerings on top of the discarded articles of clothing that Bridge had decided she didn’t want to get married in.

“Well,” said Judy. “Here they are. Not all of them are mine, technically. That one was my sister’s.” She pointed at a long, flowing gown in an ’80s style. “That one was my aunt’s, and that one, I think, I wound up with after a particularly heavy night of drinking somewhere in Monaco—don’t ask.”

Bridge came hesitantly over and took a look. “Oh,” she said with a tremor in her voice that should have sent ripples through people’s mimosas, “they seem…lovely?”

“No need to be polite,” insisted Judy, for whom No need to be polite was practically a family motto. “Well aware that half of them are ghastly and the other half are worse, but they are suitable. And certainly better than wearing nothing at all—and I speak from experience in that regard.”