The entire room glittered.
The ‘MRS QUINN’ neon sign glowed on the back wall. The Veuve Clicquot tower Cleo and I had assembled with the precision of NASA technicians was somehow still upright. And every surface shimmered with glitter.
Caroline, glowing in her monogrammed white silk robe with a glittering tiara balanced on her head, spotted me instantly and practicallybeamed. It was such a dramatic transformation from earlier, when she’d been pale, mascara-smudged, emotionally wrung-out and mysteriously missing, that it took me a moment to process she was the same person.
Now her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, her smile big enough to power the estate.
“Holly!” she squealed, lifting her glass at me. “Look at this! Isn’t it amazing?”
She spun around, robe floating behind her like a couture cloud. Glitter clung to her collarbones, her hair had regainedits effortless wave, and she radiated a level ofI’m fine nowenergy that only quality champagne and supportive girlfriends can deliver.
Behind her, on the table, sat a selection of penis-shaped… things.
An impressive collection, really.
Tiny pink penis straws poked out of cocktails like happy little periscopes.
Penis-shaped chocolates lay arranged on a slate board like some avant-garde charcuterie board.
A large inflatable penis had made its way into the corner, wearing a glittery top hat.
Caroline gestured to all of it with genuine delight. “Emma said the theme was ‘fun and flirty,’ so naturally she bought everything shaped like a penis she could find.”
Emma, unbothered and glamorous as always, lifted her Cosmo. “You’re welcome!”
It would have been an elegant moment, the expensive lighting catching her cheekbones, the exquisitely tailored silk robe draped over her shoulders, the subtle waft of Calvin Klein perfume…
If she hadn’t been wearing a bright pink headband with two bouncing, glitter-coated penises bobbing enthusiastically above her head.
The contrast was almost artistic.
A cluster of Caroline’s London friends had taken over the champagne tower, already halfway through their second round and completely out of sync with the barefoot ease of Margaret River.
One of them had attached a feather boa to the Veuve bottle like it was a styling decision. Another was filming everything for Instagram, narrating like a wildlife documentary.
I blinked, taking it all in.
Caroline leaned closer to me, whispering conspiratorially, “I’m having the best night already. And I’m not even wearing shoes.”
She lifted one foot to prove her point, no shoes, perfect pedicure, toe rings that definitely cost more than my couch.
Behind them, Sophie hovered near the corner of the cheese table talking with Izzy, but looking… off.
She kept checking her phone every thirty seconds, frowning at the screen. She’d pick up a cube of cheese, stare at it like it contained the secrets of the universe, then absentmindedly set it back down beside the penis-shaped chocolates like the world’s saddest still-life arrangement.
Cleo clocked her, narrowed her eyes smiling, and said loudly, “Sophie is giving us ‘mysterious woman with a secret’ energy tonight.”
Sophie flinched, stuffed her phone into her robe pocket, and grabbed another cheese cube like she’d been caught doing something illegal.
“Oh, I’m fine,” she said, way too brightly. “Just… enjoying the brie.”
No one enjoys brie with that level of tension.
The corner of the room belonged entirely to the matriarchs, not because we’d designated it, but because they’d collectively decided that was Their Space.
It looked like they had been attacked with LED tiaras.
That was honestly the only way to explain it.
