It was hard enough when it was just a hen party. Now it’s . . . what even is this? A co-ed bridal party bonding retreat?
Panic takes over. My thumbs move on instinct.
What a fun idea! I’m happy to arrange, don’t worry! X
I hit send and stare at the message in horror. Who wrote that? That wasn’t me. That was the ghost of a competent bridesmaid temporarily possessing my body.
A joint weekend.
A sharp jolt runs through me, at the thought of spending an entire weekend in close quarters with Sophia’s oldest brother. Yeah, that won’t be awkward at all.
The ginger baby rolls past me in his trolley, still staring. Still judging, that tiny hand thumping in silent disapproval.
I give him a subtle nod.I know, mate.
“I’ve found it. The perfect spot. It’ll blow their posh little minds,” Jamie says.
I glance up from my phone, where I’m halfway through a YouTube tutorial titledHow to Cry Beautifully. I’ve got three hours before my late shift at BritShop, and instead of doing anything useful, I’m here perfecting the art of dainty tears. You never know when it might come in handy again.
“What is it?” I ask, only half paying attention.
“Glamping,” he says, dropping the word like it’s a grand revelation. “This place is brand-new, exclusive—proper luxe. Those fancy birds’ll eat it up.”
“Since when do rich people camp?”
He looks personally offended. “It’sglamping. There’s a difference. And you know that, so don’t be a smart-arse.”
I’ve already wasted a week trying to plan this bridesmaids-and-groomsmen extravaganza, and all I’ve got to show for it is a browser history full of frantic searches like “how to entertain posh people without going bankrupt.”
The clock’s ticking.
“There isn’t a difference to the Cavendishes,” I mutter.
“These tents have actual furniture,” he argues, undeterred. “Four-poster beds. The works.”
“Four-poster beds? In a tent? Pull the other one, mate.”
“Just look at this.” He shoves the screen under my nose. “It’s on land owned by some minor royal’s third cousin or something. They needed to do something with their spare field that didn’t involve farming. Dead posh.”
Curiosity wins out over cynicism, and I lean in.
The photos are stunning. Bell tents glowing with fairy lights, draped in plush bedding and scattered with cushions. Gorgeous rugs stretched over polished wooden floors. It’s like someone decided to drop a five-star hotel in the middle of a meadow.
“Sophia would love this,” I say under my breath, memories flickering of us camping in her garden as kids—before those demonic peacocks showed up. This could be that, but grown-up and gorgeous.
I can already see myself sprawled on one of those giant beds, fairy lights twinkling, champagne in hand.
“Plus,” he says, his smirk turning cocky, “they’re booked solid for two years, but I’ve got the inside scoop on a last-minute cancellation.”
The magic words. Nothing makes something more appealing to rich people than being told theycan’t have it.
“How much?” I ask, bracing myself. “And can you pull some strings for a discount?”
Jamie spins his phone around, showing me the price.
Ouch. Bye-bye, anything but beans on toast for the next six months.
But what’s the alternative? Let Imogen swoop in and cement my status as the world’s worst maid of honor? No chance.
