It Started With A Tweet(3)

I tweet my response and a couple of the other responses too, all for Amelie’s benefit, of course, so that she doesn’t feel she’s missing out. At university the five of us lived together and it seems strange for her not to be here. With Helen having moved back to her native York after uni, it’s usually her that’s missing from our quintet.

‘I think Erica’s is the best,’ says Helen, as Erica does a quick fist bump in victory. ‘The secret to good sex is being up for anything.’

‘Nailed it,’ she says, giving me a wink. She can be so competitive but it makes me want to win the next round.

‘The key to a good marriage is .?.?.’ reads Helen, as she turns over the next card.

‘Damn it,’ I say to Erica. ‘Surely that should have been owning a whip.’

‘Ah, that’s always a bugger when you play your trump card too early.’

I throw down my ‘a good right hook’ card and, of course, I’m not surprised when it’s beaten by one of the other hens who has ‘always being on top’.

I tweet the updates to Amelie, and to the rest of my one thousand, nine hundred and ninety-seven followers, who, I’m sure, are on the edge of their seats waiting for the next instalment.

‘OK, next up: blank is a woman’s worse enemy,’ says Helen. ‘So we’re looking for the answer at the beginning of the sentence.’

‘Too bad I don’t have a card that says hen dos,’ says Erica, nudging me.

I look down at my ever-escaping cleavage. ‘If only,’ I say, thinking that would hands down be a winner.

I scan my cards and select the only appropriate one left.

Helen peruses the answers before settling on mine. ‘Here we are – the missionary position is a woman’s worst enemy. Good job, Daisy!’

I beam, the cocktails making me feel like I’ve just won a Nobel Prize rather than a silly hen-do game.

I don’t win any of the other rounds, and it doesn’t take long for us to finish the game.

‘Right, then, hens. We’re leaving for the river cruise at sixteen forty, so that gives you fifteen minutes to drink up and go to the loo. We’ll rendezvous by the door,’ shouts Zoe.

I give her an X-Factor Cheryl salute and turn my attention back to my drink.

Erica shimmies off the sofa and joins the mass exodus with the other hens who run to the bar and the loos in equal numbers.

I glance at my Twitter responses before I scan my Twitter work account quickly. There doesn’t seem to be anything that can’t wait until Monday morning, or at least my hungover stupor tomorrow. I’m currently looking after the social networking for the marketing agency I work for, but I’d much rather tweet late than tweet drunk, I’m not a moron.

My phone buzzes with a text from my sister:

Thanks, Daisy. Having a quiet birthday as Rupert’s away on business. Haven’t got your card, maybe I’ll get it on Monday. Looks like I’m going to be in London next week, do you fancy meeting for lunch or dinner on Wednesday or Thursday?

I feel a little guilty that not only did I forget her birthday, but also her husband isn’t even there to take her to some fancy Michelin star restaurant or luxury spa, or whatever it is he usually does that involves spending copious amounts of money. But it sounds as if she’s doing OK. And it’s a bonus that I get to see her for lunch one day next week, which means I don’t have to make the effort to go up to see her. We’re not mega close sisters; we’re more the type that catch up at Mum’s at Christmas.

I know I should visit her more often, but I’m always slightly nervous that I’d get all the way there and we’d have nothing to talk about. When we were growing up, the three years between us seemed cavernous, and while the years between us don’t matter so much anymore, our lives are still so different. She’s a kept woman who’s married and living happily ever after, whereas I’m more working girl and unlucky in love.

It’s really busy at work at the moment so lunch would probably be best. Shall we try for Wednesday? xx

‘Man alive, the queue for the bar was crazy. Here, get this down your grid before we go.’

I eye the glass suspiciously.

‘Shots? Are we there yet, really? It’s not even five o’clock.’

‘Somewhere in the world it is, and, believe me, we’re that desperate. I overheard the game that Zoe’s got in mind for on the way to the boat. You’re going to want this.’

Reluctantly, I take the glass from Erica and shudder as I sniff it. Tequila. I try and think of a time when something good happened after tequila, but most things that follow it are hazy. If the game that Zoe’s going to have us play is as bad as Erica is making out, then maybe that’s no bad thing.

Erica shakes a little sachet of salt onto her wrist before she pours some on mine.

‘Three, two, one!’ shouts Erica, before we both throw the shot back. And as I recoil at the putrid taste she thrusts a wedge of lime at me.

‘Hold that pose,’ says Erica as she snaps a photo of me. ‘Adorable.’

‘I bet that’s my new Facebook profile picture right there,’ I say laughing as I snatch her phone and see my gurning face.

‘One more selfie for the road?’ she asks and we both pick up our phones.

‘Pose slutty,’ I say, mocking the theme, and we both pout and push up our cleavage.