She picked up somewhat less quickly than Oliver had, not because she cared less but because she had a more relaxed attitude to life in general. Actually, come to think of it, I wasn’t sure I could imagine two people more different life-attitude-relaxedness-wise than Mum and Oliver.

“Allô, Luc.” I heard the sounds of clinking crockery over the phone.

“Hi, Mum.”

“You sound out of breath. Are you getting enough exercise?”

Right now, I definitely was. “There’s a lot to sort out.”

“I’m sure there is, but you are a young man. A little bit of wedding drama shouldn’t be making you so tired.”

“I’ve been running all over the place.”

She made a dismissive, Gallic noise. “When I was your age, I ran everywhere. It is your job. That is the problem. You are at a desk the whole day, and you never get any fresh air or sunshine.”

“I walk to work.”

“That does not count. The air in London, it is not fresh at all.”

Getting into a debate about air quality in the capital didn’t seem likely to help with my current predicament, so I let it slide. “I don’t suppose Judy’s with you, is she?”

“She is. She is having a croissant.”

“A croissant?”

“We are having breakfast.”

“It’s noon.”

I heard the chink of a knife being set down. “Of course. Who eats breakfast before noon?”

A muffled, posh voice said something at Mum’s end of the telephone.

“Apparently Judy does normally because she has to get up to feed the chickens, but I do not think that counts. Chickens get up far too early.”

More commentary from just out of hearing.

“They cannot be that sensible, or they would not let themselves be eaten. Anyway, mon caneton”—she seemed to be addressing me again—“what do you need Judy for?”

“There’s no dress.”

For a moment, Mum was quiet. “What do you mean there is no dress?”

“Somehow the bridal party forgot to bring the dress down from London. We were hoping that Judy might have something?”

I heard Mum explaining the situation and Judy responding and the two of them carrying on for quite some while about—from the little I could gather—what a terrible state the younger generation had got themselves into.

“I am handing you over,” Mum said at last, and then there was a phone-passing sound before Judy assumed telephonic control.

“Luc, m’boy. Spot of bother with the old frock, is that right?”

“Yes. In that we don’t have one. And we were hoping maybe that you did.”

“Bound to. Old place is full of tat like that.”

That was reassuring in some ways, but not in others. “I was hoping for something non-tat?”

“Pish posh, just a figure of speech. Tell you what, let me rustle up some bits and bobs and I’ll let you know.”