There was no melancholy in the way she said it, even if it was in some ways an inherently melancholy sentiment. And Mum was always very adamant that she was proud of the life she’d lived and the choices she’d made. Which was good because I was proud of them too. And I wouldn’t really have minded if she’d wanted to marry Judy. Although since it might have put me in line to be Baron Pfaffle, I would at that point have had to admit that Oliver was right and I was posher than I thought.

We bustled back into the guest room and laid down our various offerings on top of the discarded articles of clothing that Bridge had decided she didn’t want to get married in.

“Well,” said Judy. “Here they are. Not all of them are mine, technically. That one was my sister’s.” She pointed at a long, flowing gown in an ’80s style. “That one was my aunt’s, and that one, I think, I wound up with after a particularly heavy night of drinking somewhere in Monaco—don’t ask.”

Bridge came hesitantly over and took a look. “Oh,” she said with a tremor in her voice that should have sent ripples through people’s mimosas, “they seem…lovely?”

“No need to be polite,” insisted Judy, for whom No need to be polite was practically a family motto. “Well aware that half of them are ghastly and the other half are worse, but they are suitable. And certainly better than wearing nothing at all—and I speak from experience in that regard.”

The bridesmaids gave her a look of collective interrogation.

“It was the sixties, he was American, there was a lot of mud and flowers,” she explained. “All very harmonious, I’m sure, but one does get rather bitten.”

Bridge was holding dresses up to herself and checking the mirror. “I think this one’s too short.”

“Sixties again,” explained Judy. “Fabulous time.”

“And this one”—she tried another—“might be too frilly.”

“That’s the sister. Frilly woman all around.”

“And this one…” Bridge held up a full-sleeved, almost fairy-tale gown with a train that stayed on the bed as she took the rest of it across the room. “Luc, talk me out of this because this is exactly the dress I wanted when I was nine years old, and nine-year-olds have no taste.”

Judy had a faraway look on her face. “Now that is from my 1980s husband. Rich as Croesus, fabulous in bed, otherwise a complete shit.”

“Well”—Mum gave a laconic shrug—“that was the eighties for you.”

“Yes, I don’t know how I’d have got through it if it hadn’t been for the cocaine.”