James Royce-Royce contrived to look both huffy and smug. “I have a very helpful husband.”

Baby J was transferred to the seat, and the seat was transferred to the truck, where it was strapped in securely by people who knew what they were doing. Then we piled in again and were just about to get underway, like we were in a disappointingly middle-aged road movie, when Bridge burst into tears. And I abruptly discovered it was really hard to comfort somebody when they were sitting behind you in a truck.

“Bridge”—Melanie reached over to make the most reassuring physical contact she could make given the whole truck situation—“babe. It’ll be okay. We’ll sort this out.”

Bridge sobbed. “I know. I mean, I don’t know. It’s just the last time I was jammed in a truck doing something silly we were taking Luc to Durham because he was in love with Oliver, and Tom was with me and everything seemed so wonderful.”

“That was not wonderful,” Priya and I chorused.

“Because my relationship had fallen apart,” I went on.

“And,” Priya pushed in, “I had to drive you bunch of ungrateful shits the whole length of the country.”

“And Oliver wasn’t even there.”

“And none of you chipped in for petrol.”

“And then you dumped me on his doorstep in the middle of the night.”

“Even though you always say you’re going to.”

At which point, Baby J started crying, which meant James Royce-Royce had to unstrap him and do parental things to calm him down, and we were still outside Bridge’s flat.

“Sugarplums,” said James Royce-Royce, “I love you but if you keep shouting, you’ll upset Baby J, and if you upset Baby J, he’ll cry all afternoon.”

“I’m sorry, Baby J.” Bridge half turned in an attempt to join in the baby soothing. “It’s just we were so young and hopeful then.”

“It was two years ago,” said Priya. “And I wasn’t hopeful. I was pissed off.”

“I’ve never been hopeful,” I added.

“Well, I was so young and hopeful.” Weirdly, Bridge seemed to have stopped crying. Maybe because it was quite hard to cry and bicker at the same.

Liz leaned forward from the very back seat. “How about we get on the road? It might help you feel better. And your youth and hope might come flooding back to you.”

“Hang on”—James Royce-Royce started bundling and strapping—“got to get Baby J settled again.”

I thunked my head gently against the dashboard. “We are kind of on a clock here, James.”

“Fine. I’ll just leave my child untethered so he flies through the windscreen the first time we brake suddenly.”

“I think it’s more,” I tried, “that emergency marriage rescue and baby aren’t completely compatible?”