He plods back to the fridge and returns to fill her glass, before seeing to mine.
“Do you know what?” she says, once we’ve clinked. “This could be my hen do.”
“What? Don’t be silly.”
“Come on, I’m not having a hen do, am I?”
“You haven’t requested one.”
“Then this can be it!” She holds her glass up at the barman, who has wandered back to his stool and is watching her with an unimpressed expression. “This is my hen do!”
“Congratulations,” he says to his phone screen.
“You should count yourself lucky, Sophie—”
“Emily.”
“Many people would be very honored to be the only person in the whole world invited to Lady Cordelia Swann’s hen do. Come on, then, what do you do at a hen do?”
“Normally, I’d have been given a little more preparation time,” I tell her.
“Time to get creative.”
“OK. Well, we’d do some drinking games, bring up some embarrassing moments from the past, and probably tease the bride about ex-boyfriends.”
“Oh, God.” She grimaces. “Who do you want to hear about?”
“All the famous ones.”
“Course.” She sighs. “I bet you lap up all that celeb stuff.”
“I won’t deny it. Is it true you dated Prince Harry?”
“No. We really were just friends.”
“What about Justin Timberlake? Oooh, and the guy from Westlife.”
“Do you believe everything you read?”
“No smoke without fire,” I say as she laughs, burying her head in her hands. “You can’t be embarrassed already, we’ve only just started. Once we’ve run through all your ex-boyfriends and some hilarious tales, we move on to your fiancé.”
“What about him?”
“You have to spill the beans.”
“On what?” she asks, aghast.
“On your sex life—normally we’d do it via a game like Mr. and Mrs., but unfortunately we don’t have such tools, so I’m just going to have to ask you a load of quick-fire questions and you can answer them.”
“So, your version of a last-minute hen do is purely to embarrass me? How is this fair? Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating the bride, not humiliating her?” She smiles mischievously. “And on a hen do, isn’t there supposed to be a stripper?”
“Usually, but I’m not sure who’d be available at such late notice.”
We pause and crane our necks to look at the barman. He glances up and then, blushing furiously, shuffles round on his stool to face away from us. We giggle uncontrollably, and once we’ve wiped the tears from our eyes, I get back to grilling Cordelia about her love life.
After our third large glass of wine in the pub, combined with the champagne at the party, I’m pretty tipsy and ask the barman to provide us with pints of water. I’m also having a great time. Cordelia isfinallyopening up. I wish she was like this all the time—relaxed, funny, feisty, and excellent company. I’m seeing the side to her that I’d heard about from Jonathan, Tom, and Beth.
I thank the barman for our water and take some large gulps. He’s warming to us and, every so often, I notice him chuckling at something we say.
