“Not when they’re New York, Texas; Los Angeles, Texas; and Las Vegas, New Mexico. This is why we don’t normally have the UK office book the U.S. tour dates.”

Oliver was doing his interested-in-everyone face. “I take it none of those are big book towns?”

“New York, Texas,” replied Melanie, sweeping a stray braid out of her face, “has a population of twenty and Los Angeles, Texas, is less than a mile across, but there’s quite a nice library in Las Vegas, New Mexico, so…he might like that. Anyway, I have to go and sort this out. Bridge is in a small guest room in the Lodge—that way.”

And with that, she dashed off to disappoint a dozen Texans.

“You should probably commence maid-of-honouring.” Oliver gently de-coupled our hands. “I’ll see if I can be useful somewhere else. Call me if you need me—or even if you don’t.”

I certainly wasn’t sappy enough to stand and watch as Oliver made his way up to the house. And I certainly wasn’t shallow enough to linger on the effect some steps and a well-cut suit had on his arse. So having done neither of those things, I went looking for the Lodge and for Bridget.

I found them both in roughly the direction that Melanie had indicated. The guest room looked kind of like the pyjama party scene from Grease, although I was sure nobody had been sing-dissing any of the other bridesmaids. There were clothes literally everywhere, and every spare surface was covered in either cosmetics or mimosas. Bridge, mimosa within reach, was sitting at a dressing table with a huge mirror having arcane things done to her hair by someone I hoped was a professional.

“Luc.” Her reflection beamed at me. “Have a mimosa.”

On the one hand, I really wanted a mimosa. On the other hand, it was 9:00 a.m. and I was barely conscious as it stood. “Maybe in about six hours?”

“In six hours I’ll be married and we’ll be starting on the champagne.” A look of wonderful yet terrifying realisation crept across her face. “Oh my God, I’ll be married in six hours. I’ll be Ms. Bridget Welles.”

We all stared at her. “Bridge,” said Jennifer, emerging from what I assumed was the en suite. “That’s already your name.”

“Yes, but I’ll be Ms. Bridget Welles who’s married.”

Liz pressed a mimosa into my hand anyway. “I think you’re going to need this,” she whispered.

I looked round for somewhere to sit and found nowhere that wasn’t a lap, and that was one step too gay best friend even for me. Eventually, I propped my coccyx against the corner of a chest of drawers, which was very much a sidegrade from just standing.