“Sentimental twaddle,” Bea said, her voice muffled by so many arms. “But yes. None of us is getting any younger. It seemed well past time to make honest women of the both of us.”

Gaz backed out of the embrace and scratched his head. “I have loads of ideas about wedding cakes,” he said. “Not that I would ever assume you’d turn to me for yours. But if it tips the scales, I’ve done some very interesting things with marzipan lately.”

Cilla elbowed him. “Please don’t make this moment about you.”

“I’m not,” Gaz said. “I’m being helpful.”

“I’ll put it in the back of the wedding binder,” Bea said, but she was smiling.

*  *  *

By the time everyone left, it was late, and my back was killing me. I’d also eaten more buttery bread products than was strictly reasonable, plus we’d ordered Indian because I’d gotten a real yen for samosas. I was stuffed, and my stomach was unhappy with me, so I waddled upstairs and took a quick shower and then crawled into bed. Nick was on his side, flipping through the news channels on the TV.

“Oooh, look, there you are,” he said, over a shot of me walking around outside Freddie’s wedding.

“I look even crazier in motion,” I said. “It’s like I shoved a really big beach ball up my dress. I can’t believe the press hasn’t accused me of faking it.”

Nick laughed. “You are so hard on yourself,” he said. “You look amazing, both in that dress and also in this…robe?”

“It’s a caftan,” I told him. “And men are required to say that to their uncomfortably pregnant partners.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not sincere,” he said. “You are a very sexy pregnant lady.”

“Thank you,” I said. “If I weren’t so physically uncomfortable and exhausted, I’d put the moves on you right now.”

“If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d let you,” he said. “I’ll settle for a rain check. Also, what is my face doing right there?”

He pointed at the TV; the news was now showing footage of Daphne and Freddie leaving the church after their religious ceremony, over a very benign story about famous well-wishers who’d popped onto Twitter with their congratulations. As Daphne and Freddie stepped out into the sunshine, he had pulled her into a swoony kiss, to the delight of the crowd that had gathered outside; behind them, Nick appeared to be wincing.

“I was trying not to sneeze!” he insisted now. “That’s going to be the shot on the cover of People next week, you watch. Freddie and Daphne looking romantic, and me, lurking behind them like a skeptical creep.”

“Frame it and give it to Freddie. It’s the wedding gift he’ll love the most,” I said. “Way more than the Dutch oven we got him.”