I didn’t send the call out on our usual WhatsApp group—currently going under the situationally unfortunate name of Bi-bi Baby, Baby Bi-bi—because Tom was in it and, however this played out, it was unfair to be having the Tom-might-be-cheating-on-Bridge conversation in a group chat he was technically part of. It had all the worst elements of talking behind his back and to his face.

Instead, I pinged a message around the Bridge’s Bitches (In the Reclaimed Sense) list.

Minor wedding emergency, I texted, Tom seems to have vanished, help pls.

A few moments later, Bridge followed up with AND HE IS SEEING ANOTHER WOMAN AND I AM SAD

From there, the conversation got quite complex in the way that multiperson text chains always did. Priya got in first with a Luc, is this legit and James Royce-Royce crossed that with an Oh what a prize bastard, assuming this isn’t all a tremendous misunderstanding. Then Liz came back, probably replying to Priya with It might be legit, I saw him with somebody and it looked suspicious, which she followed up with But I don’t know anything for sure but not before Bernadette had stepped in with Whatever you need darling, we’re here for you and Priya had shot a Not sure that’s helpful probably replying to James Royce-Royce, to which he had replied with Well, excuse me for caring, I’m sure while the other James Royce-Royce had followed up with I think we can locate him if we work systematically from his last known location. All of which Bridget capped off with a YOUR SO LOVELY BUT I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO??

Neither did anyone else, so we called an emergency in-person meeting for those who could make it, with those who couldn’t keeping up as best they could via text. By noon, Bridge’s tiny flat was packed out with me, Liz, Priya, and James Royce-Royce, who’d spent ten minutes manoeuvring an incredibly complicated stroller up a flight of stairs and then another ten minutes painstakingly de-strollering Baby J and strapping him to his chest.

“This is going to involve you lot needing my truck again, isn’t it,” said Priya, helping herself to what was left of the Toblerone.

Liz—a small, blond woman who was currently not wearing a dog collar, presumably because she was off duty—leaned back against the wall. “I don’t think driving around London without a plan is necessarily going to be the most useful thing to do.”

“Do you think we should just leave it to God?” asked Priya.

“In my experience,” Liz replied, “God really hates being taken for granted.”

James Royce-Royce was gently swaying for what I presumed were baby-related reasons. “Come on, Baby J. We have to help Auntie Bridget.”

Priya watched this little routine with visible incredulity. “He can’t speak or walk. What help is he going to be?”