“Yep.”
“So I embarrassed myself?”
“I mean, there’s some stories there.”
“Great.” I sit up very slowly. “There’s photographic evidence?”
“Oh, yes.” She pats my leg, and the look she is giving me is worrying.
“Why do you have that look?”
“I’m just happy.”
“Happy that I’m dying from alcohol poisoning and there’s forever going to be evidence?”
“Something like that.”
I run my hand down my face, groaning. “Why are you being evasive?”
“I’m not.” She stands quickly, pulling me with her. “Now go shower; you smell like a foot.”
“Ugh, okay.” I stumble into the bathroom, grabbing hold of the basin to ground myself and stop my head from spinning.
Jesus, I’m on a detox today.
Opening my eyes, I frown as I take in the apparently new tattoo on my wrist.
Well done, Ria. Five-star effort for the ultimate bachelorette cliché. Of course I got a tattoo.
Inspecting it closer, I trace the lines of the small and delicate drawing of the joker card who is holding an ice hockey stick. It’s beautiful. Wisps of various shades of blue are dotted throughout the tattoo. I try to pull some memories from last night, but I have no recollection from after I left the club.
Continuing to trace the tattoo, my mind reels as I hate the thought of not being in control. But my heart stops and my mouth goes dry when I catch sight of the delicate white gold band on my ring finger.
“G-Grace,” I stutter. “Grace!” I shout louder when she doesn’t appear.
“Yes, my love,” she says smugly, sauntering into the bathroom.
“What is this?” I thrust my hand in her face, and she gives me a toothy grin.
“Why, that’s your wedding ring.”
“Why am I wearing a wedding ring, Grace?”
“Maybe because you went and got married and didn’t invite me. Which I’m very salty about and will be reminding you of for years to come.”
“You put this on me to mess with me?” I scream.
“Babe, if I wanted to mess with you, I’d have put a live pigeon in your room and watched you flap more than the bird.” She cackles.
“They are rats with wings.” I thrust my hands in the air as I pace the small bathroom. “The worst thing about living in London.”
“Or the funniest in my case. Girl, you are an actual boss babe and you crumble at a beady-eyed bird.”
“We’re getting off track.” I stop pacing and stand in front of her, my eyes wide, my hangover long forgotten. “Who the fuck did I marry, Grace?”
“Do you really not remember?” She actually looks shocked as she unfolds her arms and grabs my shoulders.
“Does this face look like the face of someone who remembers that she got married last night and to who?” I’m panicking now because fuck, this could be bad if I married a random person. They could now be entitled to half my family’s fortune.
