Elaine Quinn sat gracefully on a velvet chair, her tiara blinking gently like a polite little lighthouse. She seemed completely unfazed, even amused, and was happy to be part of the fun.
Margaret Harrington, however, wore a totally different expression. Every time her hand brushed the tiara, it lit up brighter, as if responding to her irritation.
“I cannot get this ridiculous thing to stop flashing,” she informed the room.
And then there was Lady Beaumont.
Regal. Stiff. Dignified. Wearing a violently pink blinking tiara like it was a personal punishment assigned by the universe itself.
“I feel like a malfunctioning Christmas ornament,” she declared.
Elaine smiled kindly towards her. “It suits you!”
Caroline fluttered over and beamed at her grandmother. “Grandmother, you look adorable!”
Lady Beaumont sniffed, tiara still flashing. “Adorable is a word best reserved for puppies, Caroline.”
Elaine’s smile was kind. “It’s a lovely party, dear.”
Margaret sniffed. “It’s loud.”
Lady Beaumont’s eyes landed on Cleo, who was now wearing a penis headband and trying to synchronise dance moves with Emma.
“Good heavens,” Lady Beaumont murmured. “They’re breeding.”
I choked on my own laugh.
Caroline leant down to her. “Gran, don’t ruin the fun!”
Clearly the games had already started.
Izzy had convinced the older ladies to participate in a champagne tasting.
Margaret was holding a flute at arm’s length like it might bite. “This one tastes… different.”
“That’s because it’s Prosecco,” Izzy chuckled.
At another table, Cleo and Emma were trying to coax everyone into a conga line.
The London contingent committed fully, linking arms, shrieking lyrics, and somehow turning the conga line into a coordinated performance.
The laughter, glitter, and girl energy continued to build until even the most patient mother had reached her threshold.
Elaine touched Caroline’s arm gently. “We’re going to leave you young ones to enjoy yourselves.”
Lady Beaumont rose gracefully from the sofa, setting down her champagne flute with the calm dignity of a woman refusing to acknowledge the giant glitter-covered penis cookie currently sitting beside the cheese platter.
“Come along, Margaret,” she said smoothly. “I believe we’ve reached the stage of the evening where our presence becomes both unnecessary and potentially traumatic.”
Margaret stood immediately. “Thank God.”
Lady Beaumont made her exit with all the elegance she could muster before peeling away from the room like a cat escaping bathwater, Margaret hurrying after her with visible relief.
Once they disappeared down the hallway, tiaras pulsing in unison, the room erupted.
Emma clapped. “Now this is a hen’s night!”
Caroline climbed onto a velvet ottoman, held her glass high, and declared, “LET’S GO FIND THE GUYS!”
