‘Christ,’ she said, taking a sip of wine and wincing again. ‘What is that?’
‘Only Kenny knows. I think he calls it a Christmas Warmer. Probably all the leftover bottles mixed.’
‘It tastes like paint stripper.’ Amanda scrunched her nose.
‘You’ll get used to it eventually,’ Claire laughed.
‘Oh, I’m only here until the twenty-eight, so it’ll thankfully be a one-time occurrence.’
The sting that bit me when she said that took great care to hide. It was a reminder that whatever was going on between us was just a fling. If that. When I already wanted so much more.
Rita, at her ripe age of eighty-three, downed hers like it was cordial.
Claire’s sister-in-law, Isla, shouted, ‘That’s the spirit!’
Amanda groaned. ‘I’m going to have to find at least six sick buckets when we get back.’
‘At least they’re enjoying it,’ I said, letting my hand drape behind her.
‘That’s true.’ She blinked up at me, those dark eyes glittering with the reflected fairy lights above us.
And then, from the corner of my eye, I saw Isla head for the bar, grabbing her friend Eilidh on the way. Then, grabbing Rita.
‘Rita!’ she shrieked. ‘Come dance.’
Before either of us could intervene, Rita, Eilidh and Isla clambered onto the bar.
All of them giggled as they looked down at us. Someone wolf-whistled, and the pub erupted as the jukebox kicked in. The three women started dancing tipsily, as multiple others stood below them, looking ready to catch them from the inevitable fall.
And then they started dancing.
Full Coyote Ugly style.
Tinsel yanked from the ceiling as boas. A bowl of crisps kicked into a lap.
Amanda jolted upright.
‘Oh my God. Rita, get down! Rita!’
I caught her forearm as she rose, and eased her back into her seat.
‘Breathe,’ I said quietly.
‘Henry—’
‘They’re fine.’
‘They’re on the bar.’
‘And?’
‘And?!’
‘They are adults. They can bar dance until Kenny kicks them out.’
She glanced at the bar where Rita was absolutely living her best life, Isla laughing so hard she was clutching her stomach, Eilidh flicking fairy lights like a lasso. Then she looked at the Petersens, who looked delighted by the carnage.
‘My insurance absolutely doesn’t cover bar dancing,’ she said at last.
