"Iris. We invitedforty."
"I have raised this with Monique."
"And?"
Iris sits down. She looks tired. "She asked me which ones I was proposing to remove."
I think about it.
"Right," I say. "A hundred and ten."
Michel rings from Heathrow.
"I've brought a cushion," he says.
"You've brought a what?"
"A cushion. Small one. Velvet." A pause. "For the rings."
"Michel—"
"I've never been a ring bearer, Cat. Not once. Forty-one years old and nobody's ever asked."
"You're not achild—"
"I know how old I am. That's the whole point."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Fine. Bring the cushion."
"Great." A rustling sound. "I've also brought a basket."
"A what?"
"A basket. For petals. In case the ring thing doesn't work out." He clears his throat. "Never been a flower girl either."
"Michel. It's a lavender field."
"Yes."
"We're getting married in afield of lavender.What are you planning to throw?"
Long pause.
"Lavender," he says.
And hangs up on me.
Duval cries when we tell him. Properly cries, in his own office, then apologises at length in three languages, then agrees to be a witness, then cries again.
The dress is a problem I hadn't anticipated.
"You can't both wear white," Sophie says.
"I wasn't going to wear white."
"Good. Two brides in white, in a lavender field, in front of a hundred and ten French people — you'd be a meringue emergency."
"Sophie."
