Liz shifted uncomfortably. “I think as a vicar I should be on the side of taking marriage seriously?”

“Traitor.” Bridge wasn’t genuinely angry, but given how emotional the last couple of days had turned out to be, she was straying close to it.

“I think a civil ceremony might be out of the question as well,” I added. “Every registered venue I’ve tried has been booked for months.”

Staring at his laptop screen, Tom shook his head. “He’s right. We’re not going to find anywhere.”

“I think”—Liz stood up and ran her hands through her hair—“that you might have to decide whether you want a wedding or a wedding ceremony.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Tom, glancing up.

“A wedding has legal status. A wedding ceremony is just a party, and then you do the legal bit quietly afterwards.”

“I don’t want my wedding to be just a party,” wailed Bridget. “This is supposed to be the most important day of my life.”

“Well,” I tried, “I suppose it depends on what you think makes it important.”

I must have done a good job with my calming voice because Bridge seemed genuinely calmed. “What do you mean?”

Urgh. That was what happened when you said nebulously reassuring things you hadn’t thought through. You had to back them up. And I had a seriously limited up-backing game. “I guess…if I was marrying Oliver, what I’d really want—what would really matter to me—would be making sure that it was him and me saying how much we loved each other and wanted to be together in front of all the people we cared most about. Our friends, our family. Well, my family. Well, my mum.”

I wasn’t quite sure why I’d gone to myself as an example because Oliver and I were a long way from the ’til-death-do-us-part conversation. But it was hard not to have weddings on the brain when everyone around you—including your dickhead ex—was getting married. Still, now that I’d put the possibility out there, it didn’t seem…entirely terrible? There was a certain something to it, wasn’t there? The idea of your thing being a thing that you shared with everyone in a way that, like, made it an official thing.

In any case, I’d pressed the right Bridge-distracting button because she leaned across the sofa and hugged me. “Oh, Luc, that’s beautiful. And are you?”

“Are I what?”

“Are you and Oliver getting married?”

Ah. That was the other side of the everyone-getting-married stage of life. I guess I was going to have to get used to that question. “We’ve not really talked about it.”

“Bridge”—Tom had closed his laptop—“can we get back to our wedding? You know, the one that’s meant to be happening in five days?”