“To Tom and Bridget, who are also great,” the room dutifully echoed.
And I sat down faster than I had ever sat down in my life.
“Well done.” Oliver leaned in to kiss me on the cheek.
Thank God that was over. Now I could just sit here and clap politely while the next person… Fuck. I sprang up again. “Shit. Um, the best man.”
Now that I’d actually introduced him, Mike stood up with, I noticed, very un-sweated-on cue cards in his hands. While I was sure his speech would be excellent, I wasn’t quite able to stay conscious for it. Instead, I plopped my head onto the table, narrowly missing the remains of my souffle. And then felt Oliver rubbing reassuringly between my shoulder blades.
“I fucked that up,” I whispered. “I really wanted Bridge to know how much she means to me, and I fucked it up so hard.”
Oliver levered my face gently out of the crockery. “Lucien, you’ve spent the past three months helping Bridget with everything. You organised her non-gender-specific bird party with the slightly offensive T-shirts. You helped track down her fiancé when he went missing. You found her a venue and, for that matter, a dress. And while your speech was”—he gave a tactful little pause—“unstudied, it was clearly heartfelt.”
“Yes but—”
Putting a hand to my jaw, he turned my head towards Bridget, who was gazing across the table, misty-eyed and doing heart-hands at me.
“I love you,” I mouthed.
“I love you too,” she mouthed back.
And I absolutely did not cry.
After that, things were back to being blurry—not that they’d ever stopped. Once we were done with the speeches and the coffee, the dancing began, and at some point Bridge vanished and came back in the dress she was supposed to have been wearing all day. It was simple to the point of minimalism, which felt totally unlike Bridge until you realised it was exactly like her: just a clean sweep of white satin with a scoop neck and a full skirt. And she did look stunning—even more stunning, I mean—and I did tell her so. At least I think I told her so, but the music was loud at that point and she and Tom had a first dance, and a third dance, and a ninth dance to be getting on with, which wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to interrupt.
Sometime around sunset, as the evening buffet was being laid out, I got something that felt a little bit like a second wind—although given the day I’d had, it was more like a fourth or fifth. Grabbing Oliver by the hand, I dragged him towards the dance floor where my friends were already clustered. And suddenly it was like seeing a decade telescoped in front of me. There were the James Royce-Royces, inseparable as always, except now James Royce-Royce had Baby J strapped firmly to his chest. And there was Priya, still doggedly goth-stomping to a song you couldn’t goth-stomp to, except the girl who didn’t do relationships was now in a relationship with two other women. And there was Bridge, except she was on the other side of the room, in the arms of the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with. Which felt bad for a moment, then good, then something else that was neither. A sort of soft, nostalgic ache for a time you didn’t particularly want to go back to but resented that you couldn’t.
Then I noticed Oliver was being slightly resistant. “Lucien, you know I’m a terrible dancer.”
“You’re good at everything,” I shouted over the music. “It’s one of the things I like-slash-find-intimidating about you.”
“There are many things I am poor at, Lucien, and dancing is one of them.”
I kept dragging. “Your dancing can’t be anything like as bad as my cooking.”
I waited for a reply, but there wasn’t one.
“Well?”
“I’m afraid I can’t think of a rebuttal. Your cooking really is that bad.”
“Then dance with me.”
“Lucien…”
“Seriously”—I stopped dragging and stepped in close—“dance with me.”
He gave a long-suffering sigh. “If it will make you happy, but be warned I am not exaggerating. If I were on Strictly Come Dancing, they’d put me with Anton du Beke.”
“You know,” I told him, “I would legitimately love to see that.”
We hit the floor just as the playlist flicked over from “Thinking Out Loud” to “I Wanna Dance with Somebody （Who Loves Me）。” And I did. I did want to dance with somebody who loved me. And I was.
Which was pretty cool.
Although it turned out that Oliver’s dancing was, in fact, as bad as my cooking. All elbows and rocking side to side like a dad at a disco, which, thinking about it, was the age group we were both rapidly entering. And wasn’t that a sobering thought.