“Now the fun part,” Ben said lightly. I must have looked dubious. “We find a new venue. Then we each take half of the activities and rebook like for like. Where would your friend Sarah like to stay?”
Anything other than Shrewskbury Manor would pale in comparison for her.
“She’s a little particular,” I understated. “It would need to be absolutely perfect, like something out of a fairy tale.” I shrugged apologetically. “That’s her wedding theme,” I clarified. “Bonus points if it’s called something like Loganberry Lodge.”
“Or Foxgloveington Hall,” Ben offered.
“Honeysuckle Cottage,” I smiled. Wait. I’d heard that somewhere. I racked my brains. My mum had told me about it on New Year’s Eve. I’d been too distracted by Anette Sleepless in Seattle–ing me, I hadn’t even looked it up.
What had she said? It was exactly how you imagine a cottage should be. There were only five of us, including Beth. We didn’t necessarily need a manor . . .
Ben was now absorbed in dividing up the pages of the presentation. A curl of dark hair had fallen onto his forehead. It was longer than I’d seen it before. My fingers twitched, as if urging me to brush it back from his eyes. Whoa, Evie. Where had that come from? The man thinks you’re a fool, remember? He’s probably helping you out of pity for Sarah.
To distract myself, I searched for the cottage my mum had mentioned. It must be somewhere in Yorkshire . . . Aha!
The photos on the site were a little blurry, but the cottage itself was exactly as my mother had described. Picture-perfect. Built from roughly hewn gray stones, it had a snug thatched roof, beautiful sash windows, and a merry wooden door painted duck-egg blue. There were pale pink roses all up one side of the house, like it was delicately blushing. It was small—two up, two down—but still had enough rooms for all of us, and it really was “cheap as chips,” as my mother had promised. It couldn’t have been more ideal for a Holiday Romance meet-cute.
Hen do, I caught myself. This is for a hen do. This wasn’t about me. This was about saving Sarah’s weekend.
And it would be ideal for Sarah’s hen.
Hope cautiously bloomed inside me. The cottage was, aptly, in Little Thrumpton, a village just like Shrewksbury. We could bring the luxury with us. Sarah was going to be disappointed about the manor, and I’d still have to face Maria and Jeremy, but it was either this or a field. It could just work. Plus, a little voice said, you can kill two birds with one stone and keep NOB writing.
Before I could change my mind, I said, “I’ve found it.”
“See?” Ben said distractedly. I noticed the slide he was reading was the “no penises” policy. “You’ve got this.”
While I was sorting the booking, Ben made two piles from the presentation slides. He pointed to the one nearest me. “Saturday activities.” And the one near him. “Sunday.”
I made a third pile with the accommodation slide page. “Booked,” I said, and we shared a moment of joint appreciation for a good system.
Ten minutes later, Ben had found a replacement for the Olympic trainer Sarah had requested for our morning exercise class—Barbara’s Bootcamp, he told me as he’d placed the page on the middle pile—and a woman who’d come to the cottage to do our nails and massages—Shelley’s Shellacs. Little Thrumpton apparently prided itself on being twee.
I was still plotting out a new scavenger hunt. Luckily, the village boasted a large plot of land that was used for a maize maze (It’s Amaizeing!). It was out of season but still open. Beth could just give Sarah a prize when she reached the middle. It wasn’t a manor garden, but it would keep them occupied while we set up the cottage.
Ben glanced over at my phone, which had been buzzing relentlessly while we worked. I snatched it up.
NOB: I can’t believe you’re reneging on your side of the deal
NOB: Clearly you aren’t taking this as seriously as I am
Not taking it seriously? Maybe I’d get more done if I didn’t have to deal with the world’s biggest ego needing attention every five seconds. Enough interruptions.
RED: I’m doing the Holiday Romance meet-cute this weekend at my friend’s hen do. You can get back to your writing
NOB: You’re using your friend’s hen do for a meet-cute? Pretty ruthless, Red
NOB: I like it
I turned my phone over so I didn’t have to see the screen. Was NOB right? I fully intended on making the entire weekend about Sarah—except, when we went for drinks in the evening I might happen to bump into some locals.
“How are you doing?” Ben asked.
I jumped, trying not to overthink how guilty I felt. “I think I’ve found a restaurant,” I said, showing him the website.
“The Hangman’s Daughter? Is it Michelin-starred?” He leaned over to look at my laptop. He smelled like fresh air and cinnamon.
“It’s award-winning,” I said.
Ben checked his tablet. “It’s also the only one in the village that serves food.”
“Then it’s perfect,” I declared, tossing the page of the presentation onto the growing “booked” pile.
Next, I found a local drawing class. Sarah had chosen Shrewksbury Manor not only because it was luxurious but because a local artist, Martine (no last name), held painting classes there on an extremely selective basis. Sarah wasn’t remotely artistic, but Martine had once given a lesson to Kim Kardashian. The artist in Little Thrumpton couldn’t claim that honor, but he was very relaxed when it came to alcohol being drunk during his class.
“Done!” Ben dropped his last page onto the pile. “What’s next for you?”
“The cocktail class,” I replied. “I thought I’d ask the restaurant if they could help.”
As I made the call, he pulled up the website for the restaurant—did it look like more of a pub?—on his tablet. The drinks menu was just a photograph of the blackboard over the bar. “It does everything from Sex on the Beach to . . .” He paused. Someone picked up on the other end. “Slippery Nipples.”
“Excuse me?” the person asked. I waved Ben quiet so I could ask about the private cocktail class.
“I don’t suppose it’s too late to look elsewhere?” he wondered aloud when I’d finished the conversation.
“Extremely,” I said, adding the page to the pile and double-checking just to be sure. It was my last one. “I don’t believe it . . . We’ve actually done it!” I held up my palm and Ben had already high-fived me before I could stop to think about who it was I was asking.