Everything else, however, was kind of amazing. Which shouldn’t have been surprising on account of how Priya was also kind of amazing—not that I’d ever tell her to her face, in case she thought I liked her or something. The gallery was one of those old Victorian warehouses that had been repurposed just enough to be usable but not so much that it didn’t feel like the owner was elbowing you in the ribs every five minutes, saying Hey, look at that exposed brickwork and those authentic window fittings. Aren’t they funky and incongruous. It was currently exhibiting a bunch of queer artists who did the type of work that I really liked knowing existed, because it made me feel part of an important cultural thing, but didn’t particularly understand because, at the end of the day, queer art was still art. And I was still a total pleb.

Along with the art, there were also drinks, music, lights, and a whole lot of people, approximately half of whom I knew, and the other half Priya knew and had brought along to make me feel cooler than I was. And actually, it was working. I was incredibly cool. I was the sort of person who got to have a super-queer, super-modern non-gender-specific animal party full of exciting people in an exciting venue organised by my exciting lesbian best man. This was, without a doubt, the best part of getting married so far. And the man I was getting married to would have hated it. Well, to be fair, he might have liked the art bit.

For a little while I just floated, drink in hand, basking in reflected relevance, accepting hugs and congratulations from friends, acquaintances, and total strangers. It was like I’d won something, which I suppose from a romantic perspective I kind of had. Eventually I found Priya, tucked in an alcove, next to a mural depicting The Birth of Venus as a hot, naked twink. She was with Theresa and Andi and deep in conversation with someone I thought was the gallery owner—a tall woman with a shaved head, who looked like she’d been in the art game long enough to give no fucks.

“Thank you for my party,” I said in a rush of un-me-like ebullience.

“Whatever,” Priya replied. “You know I think marriage is bollocks. But if it makes you happy, fine.”

“Nuanced as ever,” observed Theresa, who had put aside her usual academic chic for a little black cocktail dress that still managed to make me feel like I was late for a lecture.

Priya, though, looked like Priya, rainbow-laced Docs and all. “Hey, there’s a reason I work in a visual medium.”