There’s too much rage in me to reply like an adult – a happy adult. And so instead, I’ve been standing here, silent and open-mouthed, for an uncomfortable amount of time, unable to make any words reach my mouth. Eventually I decide to say nothing and hobble away as fast as my pinched feet will take me. But as soon as I leave, I worry that I have disappointed all the feminists. I’ve definitely disappointed myself.

Already too late to turn back with a quip (and still too stunned to think of one), I continue on my path. As I head past the obligatory awkward dancing and over to the bar, I hear someone yell my name.

‘Bea! Bea! Let me buy you a drink!’

I turn and see Peter – Peter Bodley, Oddly Bodley to his closest friends. I do feel kinda bad that the name stuck. I probably should have kept it to myself.

But the thing is, Peter is just a bit odd.

He can speak Latin but he can’t bake a potato, he knows every European capital but he can’t paint a room without getting more paint on himself than the walls, and he wears some of the most subtly strange outfits. At university it became quite a well-known fact that his mum would try to organize his clothes for him in a way that made it impossible for him to pick out offensively clashing colours and patterns. He frequently found ways to go rogue.

Looking at him now, not much has changed. He’s wearing a very nice suit, but he’s also wearing a really old-fashioned shirt and the grubbiest trainers I have ever seen.

‘It’s an open bar, you idiot. And I can get my own drink.’

But still, we wander over together and order a couple of whisky sours.

‘Ugh. I know Tomorrow Me will regret this. The older I get, the more I like whisky, but the less it likes me.’

‘I’ve always liked whisky. Although I do prefer a sherry.’

Of course he does.

I take a sip and let out a noise that’s somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

‘God, it’s nice to get away from people. I love Mia, but being her maid of honour has been like having a second full-time job, with no benefits, no lunch breaks and a restrictive uniform.’ I’m slouching more than I should in public, and more than I should in this dress, but the idea of pulling my shoulders back makes me want to cry. As it’s only Peter, I continue to slouch.

He looks at me and appears to be taking in the tulle and the corset for the first time. Not that he knows what tulle is. He nods in appreciation and feigned understanding, and I take it as a sign that it’s OK to keep the tirade going.

‘The thing I find most odd is that Mia has really good taste in clothes – she always looks amazing. But I think I’ve finally found her one weakness: she has shit taste in bridesmaids’ dresses. Unless she’s done this on purpose, but I don’t think she would have.’ I drop my head into my hands.