“It’s no good,” I concluded at last. “I am a shitty maid of honour.”

“And I,” added Tom, “am a shitty fiancé.”

“There’s just no way we’re getting a venue at such short notice. We’d have to be royalty.”

Tom laughed. He’d always had an irritatingly sexy laugh, which I think I could comfortably admit now he was getting married and I was in a stable relationship. “Yeah, that or massive celebrities.”

Well, fuck.

“How massive?” I asked, with a sinking feeling.

“I was mostly joking,” said Tom.

“Okay, I get that, but how massive?”

I didn’t think Tom was quite on board yet, but he went along with it anyway. “I dunno. Love Island–runner-up level?”

“Or…eighties-rock-star-who’s-just-released-a-multiplatinum-album-and-has-a-hit-reality-TV-show level?”

Tom gave me a suspicious look. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. But… I mean, what’s the point of your dad being a dickhead superstar if you can’t use it to help your mates?”

“What’s the point of having mates if they’re just going to use you for your dickhead superstar dad?”

That was also fair, but when it came to my friends, my balance of sacrifices made versus bullshit dumped was tilted heavily towards bullshit. “I can’t make any promises,” I said. “Because, well, he is still a dickhead. But I’m hoping that he’ll like the opportunity to flex.”

“It’s worth a try,” Tom agreed. “And…no pressure?”

No pressure was, as always, one of the most pressurising things a person could possibly say, but it sounded like Tom meant it sincerely. “Yeah. I’ll… I might take it outside if that’s okay with you?”

Tom gave me a nod, and I sloped downstairs with my phone. I wasn’t completely sure who I was going to call. The last time I’d reached out to my dad’s manager, he’d fobbed me off with a Pull the other one, Charlie, and Dad had only got in touch with me because, at the time, he’d thought he was dying of cancer. Since he now definitely wasn’t, I didn’t think going through official channels was likely to work.

Huddled on the steps outside the converted town house that was now Bridge’s block of flats, I texted Oliver. Y’know, that wonderful boyfriend who I hadn’t seen for days.

No luck finding a venue. I’m going to try and call my dad.

For a while there was nothing. Then, Is this a support-me text or a talk-me-out-of-it text?

How the hell should I know? Support me, I think?

Another texty silence. It’s a very kind gesture.

That was Oliver code for “I will be there for you even though you and I both know this will end poorly.” It’s a bad idea, isn’t it?