“Did either of you hear from them?”
“Nothing.”
“Me neither.” I allowed myself to relax a little. That seemed like a good sign.
“That sound is back,” Jeremy said. He sniffed a half-eaten packet of digestives from the first set of cupboards. “Do you think Kate Winslet was this much of a slob?”
“Wine,” I reminded him. The last thing I needed was to think about rom-coms.
“Nothing,” Jeremy said, opening and closing the next set of cupboards. “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.” He went to the last two cupboards. “Pray with me,” he said, as he flung them open.
A rat the size of a Yorkshire terrier leaped out at his face.
Chapter 22
Mathers Meltdown™
INT: THE HANGMAN’S DAUGHTER—SATURDAY, JANUARY 12, 4:32 P.M.
The pub can be described only as a “local.” There are hundreds of horseshoes nailed to one wall; the other walls are covered in a vast collection of metal signs bearing jokes and slogans that range from cutesy to questionable. BETH and SARAH are sitting around a stained table. SARAH is wearing a silver “Bride” sash. Her expression is closed as she takes in the dark pub, its crackling fire, and the mostly male locals staring at the two blondes in matching pink tracksuits. The small entrance door opens and JEREMY, MARIA, and EVIE enter, looking nervous.
Jeremy took one look at the locals lining the tables along the walls. “I’ll be at the bar,” he announced, shaking out his umbrella. He still hadn’t quite recovered from the rat.
“Ask about the cocktail class,” I called after him.
The place was almost empty. Three men sat at separate tables along the far wall, each bearing the ruddy nose of the well-seasoned drinker. Two women eyed us distrustfully, their hair appearing to have been done by the same hairdresser, whose style book, like our cottage, dated from the 1970s: bouffant perms with stark blond streaks.
It was very clearly a pub, not a restaurant. Where had I brought us to?
“Evie,” Maria said urgently, holding me back. She smiled for Sarah’s sake, and showed me her phone. YOU HAVE 21 MISSED CALLS FROM SARAH MATHERS.
I quickly checked my own. I had fifteen, all spread out over the last few hours. There mustn’t have been any reception at the cottage. And she wasn’t the only person who’d tried to get in touch.
BEN: good luck with the hen do! Let me know how it goes.
NOB: Can’t wait to hear about my meet-cute, Red
I sent NOB the picture of the cottage.
RED: I’m holding you responsible for this. I hope you’re pleased. My friend’s hen do is ruined
“Come on,” Maria said, taking a breath. “Time to face the music.”
Sarah and Beth had draped their soaking-wet pink jackets over the spare stools, leaving me and Maria no choice but to stand. Beth’s arms were tightly folded. Her hair, which had been beautifully styled at the start of the day, was now expanding as it dried, like she’d been backcombed for a power ballad. There was a twig tangled in the thick strands. Sarah had tried to wrangle hers into a side pony, but most of it was refusing to stay in the hair elastic. She didn’t look up straight away. Instead, she stirred her gin and tonic with a plastic spoon.
I swallowed tightly. “How was your day?”
“Sorry we couldn’t join you sooner,” Maria added.
Sarah tried to smooth her fringe down, but it sprang back up again. “Do you know,” she said, “what an out-of-season maize maze is?” Beth huffed. “It’s a field.”
“Oh, Sarah,” I said, feeling awful. “How was the art class, at least?”
Beth reached out a sympathetic hand toward Sarah. “It’s okay, hon. I didn’t want to say, because you were so sure they were booking her, but I did warn you. Martine doesn’t just give classes to everyone. Even Kim had to pull strings.”
“Just show them, Beth,” Sarah snapped.
Beth pulled a roll of paper from the back of the seat and started to unravel it.
“Now, I’m not unreasonable,” Sarah said. I tried very hard not to react. “But you do remember what I specifically said I didn’t want for my hen do.”
The picture gradually came into view as Beth tugged on the paper. It was like watching an image loading on the old dial-up Internet.
“What is . . .”
“Oh.”
Beth was still unrolling.
“Just how big is that thing?” Maria asked weakly.
“The artist gave us a life drawing class,” Sarah said.
I couldn’t look at her. “They can be very tasteful.”
“He was the model.”
“I come bearing drinks!” Jeremy called. “Holy shit, Linda, that’s a big dick.”
The other patrons bridged the gaps between their tables with shared glances. They did not look happy.
“What?” asked Jeremy. “She drew it.”
“Put it away, Beth,” Sarah told her. Beth started to wrestle it back into a roll. “Can we just go and check into the manor?” Sarah asked tiredly, rotating her shoulders. “I need a sauna and a swim to feel human again.”
Beth had a self-satisfied smirk on her face as she looked at us, her brows slightly raised in a challenge. Sarah hadn’t realized we weren’t in Shrewksbury, and Beth hadn’t corrected her.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah said warily.
“I think she’s talking to you, Evie.” Jeremy perched on top of Beth’s jacket. She yanked it out from under him.
“What on earth is that?” Sarah demanded. He’d placed a silver dinner tray on the table containing bottles of vodka, gin, and tequila; a carton of orange juice; and five glasses. One of them had a squashed paper umbrella in it.
“Oh, this? It’s our bespoke cocktail-making class.” Jeremy tilted his head at me. “It’s DIY. They don’t cater for hen dos, apparently.”
My stomach plummeted as we all looked to the bar. Behind it stood a woman somewhere in her forties with wiry gray hair pulled back in a loose bun. Her mouth was set in a thin line, eyes full of blanket disapproval.
“Exactly what,” said Sarah evenly, “is going on here?”
“I can explain . . .” I began.
“We all can,” Maria said. She nudged Jeremy.
He poured some vodka into one of the water-stained glasses. “Sure, why not. The rat clearly wasn’t punishment enough.”