She dehugged. “Right. Sorry. I suppose…I suppose if we can get everybody there, and if it’s somewhere nice, and”—her phone buzzed—“oh God, the dress is still being adjusted. I was meant to pick it up today, and now I can’t. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t they make a dress fit my weird alien proportions?”

“You don’t have weird proportions,” said Tom, with a timing that I suspected came from practice. “But I would love you and find you sexy even if you did.”

“Then why won’t my dress be ready ’til tomorrow?”

Tom did not look like he had any idea what might make adjusting a dress take longer than average. “It’s probably just technical issues at their end.”

“Technical issues.” Bridge’s voice rose. “It’s a dress, not a Dyson Airblade.”

There was a soft flump as Liz manoeuvred her planner into her bag. “How about we take a walk? Maybe grab a cocktail—”

“It’s two in the afternoon,” Bridge pointed out.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Bridge’s lip wobbled. “Right now, everything feels like a bad thing.”

Being Bridget’s maid of honour had taught me a lot about how weddings worked, and not necessarily in a good way. Because, sure, it was a joyous celebration of your relationship, but it was also a logistical nightmare that you had to be the James Royce-Royces to enjoy. And, to be fair, their wedding had kicked quite a lot of arse. “I agree with Liz,” I said. “Why don’t you give us a rundown of what you want in your dream venue, and Tom and I will try to swing it for you while you go and…and…have a relax?”

“Maybe two relaxes,” Liz added, “if we hit happy hour.”

For a moment, Bridge looked mutinous, and then her shoulders slumped. “Thank you, everyone. I suppose I want somewhere…I don’t know…beautiful?”

“The nice thing about doing just the ceremony is that you can go outdoors if you want to.” Liz was also doing calming voice, and way better than me, partly because it was her literal job and partly because I’d always been quite bad at it.

That seemed to genuinely cheer Bridge up, and fuck knows she needed it right then. “What do you think, Tom? We could have the wedding in some kind of park? Or a garden?”

“Or a field?” I suggested.

“Not a field.” Bridge was pretty adamant about this.

“I think a garden would be lovely,” said Tom. “If we can get one.”

Two hours later, it turned out we couldn’t. Unlicensed venues were as booked up as licensed ones, and unregulated celebrants were as busy as ministers and registry offices. While Liz and Bridge were sitting in a relax bar, downing relaxes, Tom and I had tried every park, hotel, and stately home that Google would throw at us.