I lock eyes with her, refusing to blink. “You bet it will.”
“Perfect,” she says, turning back to the bridal magazine she’s been flipping through, dismissing me like this conversation hasn’t even registered on her radar.
But I know better. My pulse is ticking faster, and that smile of hers? It never reached her eyes.
Oh, it’s game on.Game freaking on.
Daisy, darling! About the hen party
I freeze mid-aisle in Tesco, fish fingers hovering in my hand. I stare at the screen, watching those ominous three dots dance on Sophia’s end.
What now? I still have zero solid ideas, and the last thing I need is added pressure.
So Imogen and I were having a little chat
Nothing good ever starts withhaving a little chat.
I’m being fired, aren’t I?
I can already picture Imogen, rose gold iPhone in one hand, tapping out a color-coded spreadsheet titledHen Party 2.0: Salvaging Daisy’s Disasterwhile sipping an Earl Grey.
The dots stop. Start. Stop again.
Come on, Sophia. Just put me out of my misery.
We thought it would be great if boys could join!
. . .What?
Strippers?
That’s unexpected, but I’m not opposed. If anything, I am here for this character development.
I totally understand if you can’t organize, but a little gathering for the bridal party, where everyone can really bond before the big day, would be so much fun. Like a joint bridesmaids and groomsmen weekend.
What the actual fuck?
“Thoseboys?” I blurt, loud enough to make an elderly woman clutching a bag of frozen peas jump.
I set the fish fingers down, suddenly needing both hands free to process thisdeeply unhingedsuggestion.
Imogen is happy to help if it’s too much. You know how useless the men will be. LOL
I glare at the screen. Of course Imogen is happy to help. I bet it’s her idea in the first place, probably just waiting for the perfect moment to sweep in with her “Don’t worry, darling—I’ll handle this” tone.
“For fuck’s sake,” I hiss.
I realize I’ve directed my rage at a ginger-haired baby sitting in the trolley next to me.
He stares back, smacking his tiny fist against the metal handle.
His mum glares at me, clutching a packet of Birds Eye potato waffles.
I wince. “Sorry.”
She huffs, wheeling her trolley away.
I exhale hard and look back at my phone. The message is still glowing at me.
