“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.
“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.