“But don’t you think people give up too easily these days?” I ask as my glass hits the table. “Relationships take work. Maybe once he realizes how special what we had was, he’ll come back and want to work at it. After all, he’s dependable. Do you know how rare that is?”
Lucy groans into her drink. “Dear God, here we go again.”
Sandra leans in, her grin mischievous. “You just miss his dependable what? Bank account? Netflix password?”
“We had separate bank accounts,” I correct crossly. “If you really must know, I miss his cuddles. And his laugh. And the way he always remembered to put the kettle on when he knew I was coming over.”
Sandra fake swoons. “Oh, stop. You’ll make me fall in love with him myself.”
Lucy rolls her eyes. “For God’s sake, Sandra. Don’t encourage her.”
But Sandra just giggles and tosses back another shot. “What? I’m just saying, dependable kettle-boiling is a rare quality in a man.”
I laugh, but it’s shaky. “Exactly. You get it,” I say, purposely ignoring her mocking tone.
“No,” Lucy cuts in firmly. “She doesn’t. And neither do you. Pips, he wasn’t your soul mate. He was your safety net. And now he’s gone, and you’re dangling, and it’s uncomfortable, but you’ll live. In fact, you’ll thrive.”
I slump against the back of my chair, pouting like a child. “I don’t want to thrive. I want George.”
Sandra and Lucy exchange a look over my head. That silent best friend conversation that I know too well. Then Sandra downs her shot, puts the glass down on the table, and claps her hands.
“Right,” she says, her tone brisk, decisive. “We’re done with Sad Pippa. New rule: no more talking about George tonight.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she cuts me off by handing me another shot, which I swallow down.
“Nope. Not another word. In fact,” she says with a smirk, her blue eyes glittering with mischief. “We’re going to play a little game.”
Chapter Two
Pippa
“A game?” I ask, my suspicions up. I narrow my eyes at Sandra like she’s just suggested we all take up professional pole vaulting. “What kind of a game?”
Sandra grins like the proverbial cat who has just discovered the jug of cream and is plotting to drink it all herself. She slaps her hands on the table, making the empty shot glasses stacked on it clink together.
“The kind of game that guarantees you’ll finally stop whining about George bloody Parker,” she says.
I don’t think anything exists that can stop me thinking about George, let alone a game, but now Lucy perks up, already intrigued, and I see that I am outnumbered.
“I like this already,” Lucy says with a smile.
“Oh no. No way. Whenever you two start conspiring, I end up humiliated. Or drunk. Or both,” I say, with a groan, but I fear I am already too late now that Sandra has Lucy on her side.
Sandra points at me with mock severity. “Us humiliate you? You do a good job of it yourself.”
“That’s not comforting,” I grumble.
She ignores me and launches into her grand explanation of her game. “Ok, so it’s a pretty simple game. It’s called the truth blitz.”
Lucy raises an eyebrow. “That sounds made up,” she says.
“Of course it’s made up. All games are made up. What, you think Monopoly grows out in the fields and Scrabble is native to North America?” Sandra replies, making Lucy nod approvingly at her to go on. “Trust me, it’ll be brilliant. Here’s how it works. I will ask you some questions - ten in a row, rapid fire style. You must answer honestly, and without hesitating. If Lucy, our impartial referee, decides you hesitated or lied, you lose a point. If you answer quickly and honestly, you gain a point. If you refuse to answer, you lose twenty points. The same goes for me when it is your turn to ask me the questions. At the end, whoever has the most points wins.”
Lucy leans back in her chair, sipping her gin with an air of importance. “I can live with being the referee. And I’ll be fair. Probably.”
Sandra shoots her a look. “You’d better be fair. This is a high-stakes competition.”
I frown at them both. “What are the stakes exactly?”
