“There’s a bloody phone on the desk.”

Right.

I mean I’d still lost my phone. Those things are expensive. I didn’t say anything, though. I didn’t think Beth would really see that as particularly important right in this moment.

I lifted the room phone and asked reception to get me the number for Pronuptuous.

“Would you like me to put you straight through?” the girl on reception asked calmly, like this wasn’t a DEFCON 1 situation.

“Pronuptuous. Barbara speaking.” Barbara answered the phone after one ring.

“Barbara, it’s Saoirse . . . from the Clarke wedding.”

“Ah, yes, the little lesbian.”

“Er, yeah. Look I’m not saying you did anything wrong but—”

“Let me stop you right there, missy. I don’t make mistakes. Not with dresses anyway. My third husband, on the other hand—”

“Yep, don’t have time for this, Barb. Beth’s dress doesn’t fit.”

“Did she lose weight? Brides these days. I told her not to lose any weight. Why do you need to be half your normal size because you’re getting married. Honestly—”

“No, look, it’s too small. In the . . . boob-al area.”

“Has she got the jelly tits in? She said she wasn’t going to wear them. I told her if she wanted jelly tits she should say so.”

“No, she isn’t wearing—” I couldn’t bring myself to say the words jelly tits to an elderly woman even if she’d said them first. “Barbara, it just won’t button up.”

“I’ll be right there,” she said seriously. I had a sudden image of Barbara clipping on her emergency sewing-kit belt and getting into some kind of Barbmobile. A VW Beetle with an outsize veil attached to the roof.

“Don’t worry, Beth, help is on its way.”

Beth lifted her head, her eyes dry but red and makeup smeared all over her face. She looked like less like the damsel in distress and more like a deranged bride-villain that Barbman would have to battle in the final showdown.

“Maybe let’s find some face wipes, hmm?”

Barbara burst through the door, smoke surrounding her and a swell of triumphant music in the background. And by that I mean she had a cigarette dangling out of her mouth and the violin quartet for the wedding were warming up outside. Barb stubbed the cigarette out in an increasingly stale croissant and swapped it for a needle, which hung between her lips like a cowboy’s toothpick. She charged across the room where Beth was standing, still in her dress, with her makeup restored to its former glory. She inspected the buttons, then whipped Beth around and squeezed her left boob.

“You’re pregnant,” she said accusingly.

“I don’t think so,” Beth scoffed, and in response Barb honked on her right boob.