“Well?” Lawrence leaned the glittering microphone toward my mouth.
I said the first song that came to mind. “‘Love Machine’ by Girls Aloud.”
She looked me up and down, lifting a tasseled shoulder. “All right.” The music switched tracks. “Can everyone give a big hand for ‘Love Machine’ . . . by Girl Alone.” Laughter rippled throughout the pub and my cheeks burned.
There was a rush of movement, and before I knew it, my friends were hurrying up the steps to join me.
“She’s not alone!” shouted Maria, breathlessly. Sarah took the mic from the amused Lawrence and Jeremy pulled me to my feet.
“Come on, Nicola, let’s show them how it’s done.”
But before we could follow through with that threat, a shout rang out across the room.
“What’s all this, then?”
The whole pub fell silent, the music ending abruptly as a police officer pushed his way through the room to examine the questionable “stage” setup with his flashlight.
“Officer,” said Lawrence of a Labia, the epitome of dignity. “However may we help you?”
“I’m not here for you,” the man replied.
Beside me, Jeremy made a curious sound.
Which is when I saw the flashlight was sticking out of the officer’s pants.
“Sarah Mathers,” he shouted, yanking said pants off with one tug. “You’ve been a very naughty girl. Get up against the wall and spread ’em!”
* * *
My friends gathered behind me as I opened the door to the cottage. We stepped into the dark hallway.
“Now, Sarah,” Jeremy said, stumbling a little. “You’re about to see that Linda had the right idea, staying at the pub.”
“Linda didn’t have a choice,” Sarah said darkly. “She knew my No Penises policy.”
“Ready?” Maria and I reached for her hands, taking one each.
“I’m ready,” she said bravely.
I took a deep breath and turned on the light.
Sarah breathed in sharply. “Oh, you guys.”
The living room had been filled with rose-gold helium balloons, obscuring the damp ceiling, creating a forest of curling ribbons.
We all slowly stepped into the room.
Maria’s face was full of awe. “What is this?” she asked me quietly.
Ribbons tickled my cheek. “I have no idea.”
I turned the projector on, clearing the balloons that had drifted in front of the screen. The first picture was of us in our Pretty Woman fancy dress. Jeremy dimmed the lights. The balloons all took on a soft glow.
Who could have done this? The only other people who knew about this cottage were NOB and Ben. And NOB had come to my rescue before . . .
EVIE: was this you?
This time I sent the message to both men. Maria covered one of the sofas with a bedsheet, and my friends all gathered on it in front of the screen.
“Come on, Evie. We have wine.” They oohed and aahed at the photographs, and I checked my phone.
BEN: the owner took delivery. You should be getting a refund for the cottage.
“It was Ben,” I said wonderingly. I’d hoped that was true, though he hadn’t said anything about balloons when I’d picked up the projector from Gil’s the day before. Why would he . . . With a sickening jolt, I realized he still believed I blamed him for the ruined hen do. With everything that had happened, I’d forgotten to explain myself. The balloons were an apology. Oh, God.
“I knew I liked him,” Jeremy said.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I warned, as he pulled me down to sit beside him. “All this proves is that I really am ridiculous.” I was going to have to explain myself to Ben. Dread twisted in my stomach, mixing with the alcohol.
EVIE: I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Ben. Sorry you felt you had to do this. I meant that message for stupid NOB, not you. NONE of this was your fault. If it helps at all, you’ve made Sarah’s weekend!
“Ben is typing” reappeared and disappeared a few times.
BEN: NOB? So the weekend was a meet-cute?
My first reaction was shame, then I immediately felt annoyed. It was one step forward, two steps back with him. Why did he have such a problem with me doing the meet-cutes?
EVIE: I’m grateful for the balloons. And the photos. And for all of your help . . . But there’s no need to get all Mr. Judgy
With that, I tossed my phone onto the carpet and turned back to my friends and the photos. Ben hadn’t arranged the images in chronological order. As we watched, holding each other slightly tighter with each passing photo, themes started to emerge. Holidays, celebrations, graduations, mid-laughter shots, me and my laptop . . . Somewhere in the part of my brain that remained a few millimeters above alcohol level was the thought that this slideshow didn’t look like something that had taken Ben “no time at all.”
* * *
Knock knock knock.
We all stirred beneath the bedding on the sofa.
“What is it?” asked Maria. She held on to her head. “Are we moving?”
Jeremy was on the chair, wrapped up in a bedsheet like a chrysalis. He blinked sleepily at us.
“Evie, what heinous part of your plan is this?”
“It had better involve Deliveroo-ing a sausage butty,” Sarah said.
Knock knock knock.
I frowned, struggling to recall the itinerary. “Oh, God, no,” I realized. “It’s Barbara’s Bootcamp.”
“No. Absolutely not,” Jeremy said.
Pushing the duvet aside, I scrambled up, then braced myself as the room swayed.
“Evie,” said Sarah. “I cannot cope with any more of this hen do. Tell them to go away.”
“You wanted an exercise class!” I said, dismantling the pillow barricade we’d built last night to cover the gap beneath the door to prevent a visit from Jeremy’s rat friend. “Anyway, you’ll get pampered afterward. We have Shelley’s Shellacs coming at eleven.”
Jeremy cocked his head. “Do any of these sound like real things?”
I shot him an exasperated look as I pulled back the dead bolt on the front door.
“Evie.” Sarah snuggled down into the duvet. “For all I care, you can tell Barbara to shove her bootcamp up her arse.”