Bridget carries on. ‘All to find out that this is some big joke and you’re not getting married after all?’
‘Iamgetting married. I’m marrying Alex. I need a visa.’
She falls silent. ‘Are you serious?’ she asks after a moment.
‘Oh,nowyou believe me,’ I say with a grin.
‘Are you serious?’ she asks again. ‘You’re marrying him? For a visa?’
‘Sort of,’ I reply. ‘I mean, he wants to marry me. And I do want to be with him for the rest of my life. It makes sense.’
‘How dreamy,’ she says drily.
I laugh. ‘Sorry, but you know what I’m like! I’m not going to change overnight.’
‘You’re really getting married? On Christmas Eve?’
‘Yes, and I would love you to be my witness. My sort of matron of honour, even though you don’t have to buy a special dress or anything. But I understand if it’s too much of a hassle to drive from Cornwall.’
She screams.
Right. In. My. Ear.
‘HolyshitfuckinghellBronteyou’regettingmarried?!’
‘Yes.’
‘You love him. You really, really love him.’
‘We’ve been trying to make babies together.’
‘Holy fuck!’ she gasps. ‘This is real. This is happening.’
‘Yes!’ I’m laughing properly now. ‘Will you come?’
‘Yes, I’ll fucking come! I wouldn’t miss it for the world!’
Alex and I both agree that we will not make a big deal out of this. But our friends and family seem to have other ideas. His mates – including Ed, whom I actually really,reallylike, which is just as well, because he’s always popping over for post-work drinks – drag him out for a meal the night before we tie the knot. My friends do the same for me, but, when we end up at the same tacky eighties club night where Alex and I met, I stamp my heels on the pavement.
‘No way. No frigging way. I amnothaving my hen night here.’
Polly looks affronted. ‘What’s wrong with this place?’
Whoops… I never did tell her I wasn’t a fan.
‘Just a couple of shots, I promise,’ Bridget says. ‘For old times’ sake. It’s where you met!’ she urges, shaking my upper arms.
I dither. ‘Okay, but just two shots,’ I agree.
‘And a bit of a boogie,’ Rachel chips in.
I narrow my eyes at her. ‘Okay, maybe one or two.’
Luckily I’m already tipsy after all of the Prosecco at dinner.
The joint is just as bad as I remembered, but, damn, I feel full of affection for it. I look around, drinking in the cheesy eighties outfits as we walk down the stairs. Bridget takes me straight to the bar, putting her arm around my shoulders as we wait for the bartender to line up our shots. She looks over towards the pillar.
‘That’s where you met,’ she says in my ear, letting me go and stepping back.
