The look of confusion on Melanie’s face was, in context, understandable. “Johnson? Or Gibraltar?”

“I’m not even going to ask”—Jennifer slid slowly down the wall—“why you think I might want to lick the Rock of Gibraltar.”

Melanie shrugged. “I don’t know. White people shit?”

“If I had to lick a geographical feature,” said Bridge with the air of somebody who had drunk way too many mimosas and was giving this way too much thought, “I’d pick Arthur’s Seat.”

The ensuing discussion of which parts of the country we’d put which parts of our body on lasted long enough for the hairdresser to be replaced by a makeup artist. And I found myself wondering what the hell this ritual would look like if I was, say, marrying Oliver. Would I sit around in a new suit, drinking cocktails with Priya, Bridge, and the James Royce-Royces while a highly trained professional ran a comb through my hair exactly once? Of course, maybe that said more about my hair than the institution of marriage.

Though I had to admit that when the experts had done their work, Bridge did look fucking fantastic. Not that she ever looked un-fucking fantastic. But she looked fucking fantastic…er? Just all happy and glowy and with her flower-woven hair framing her face in ways I could appreciate but not understand.

“Oh my God.” Bridge stood up, wobbling slightly with nerves. “Oh my God. I’m getting married in…less than six hours.”

I checked my phone. “In two hours. So unless you want to walk down the aisle in a fluffy bathrobe, you should probably think about getting the dress on.”

She gave a little squeak. “Oh my God. The dress. Jennifer, can you grab it for me?”

“Sure.” Jennifer climbed gingerly back to her feet. “Where is it?”

There was a silence where you would very much hope there would not be a silence.

Bridge turned slowly round. “Bernadette, where’s the dress?”

“I thought,” said Bernadette, “Jennifer was taking care of it.”

Bridge kept turning. “Melanie, where’s the dress?”

“I agree with Bridge,” said Melanie. “I thought it was Bernadette’s job.”

“Oh my God.” The tenor of Bridge’s oh my Gods had changed dramatically. “Liz, tell me you picked up the dress.”

Liz put her hands in the air. “Hey, I’m not even a bridesmaid! I’m just a redundant vicar. I’m here for the booze and the sex tips.”

“I’m sure,” I said, not at all sure, “that it’s here somewhere.”

“It’s a wedding dress,” cried Bridge. “It’s enormous. It’s not going to be under someone’s lipstick.”

From a mixture of helpfulness and denial, I started looking inside, behind, and beneath anything you could conceivably have hidden a very large frock inside, behind, or beneath.