Sandra’s grin turns wicked. “The winner gets to set a forfeit for the loser.”
I sit up straighter and shake my head. “Absolutely not. The last time we did forfeits, I ended up running around Hyde Park in a tutu while yelling that I was the woodland fairy.”
Lucy chuckles at the memory. “That was a good day,” she says dreamily.
“Maybe for you. For me, it was freezing and utterly mortifying,” I remind her. “And there was a man walking his dog who looked genuinely afraid for my mental health.”
Sandra waves away my protests. “Relax. It’ll be fun. Besides, I need something to amuse me since it’s my night off. Considerit entertainment value. And you never know. You might win and get your own back on me.”
I highly doubt that will happen. Sandra has very little in the way of a filter, and I am afraid she won’t hesitate to just blurt out the truth, no matter what I ask her. Me, I am a little bit more caged-off than that. They are both looking at me with eager, expectant smiles, though. God, I hate disappointing them. I groan into my cocktail.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Nope,” they cry in unison, both of them looking smug as anything.
Lucy adds sweetly, “Come on, Pips. What’s the worst thing that can happen?”
“Famous last words,” I mutter.
But Sandra is already rubbing her hands together like an evil mastermind. “Right then. Since I invented the game, I’ll ask the questions first.”
“Why do you get to go first?”
“Because I said so.” She grins at me across the table. “Ready?”
“No.”
“Too bad. Question one: Have you stalked George on Instagram in the last forty-eight hours?”
The second she starts talking, my mouth goes dry. I take a sip of my drink to wet it. That is a big mistake. When she finishes the question, I nearly choke on my drink.
“That’s unfair,” I shriek.
“That’s not an answer.”
Lucy raises her referee hand. “Tick tock, Pippa.”
I scowl. “Fine. Yes, of course, I have.”
Sandra cackles with delight. “You hesitated, though. That’s one point lost already.”
Before I can protest, she holds her palm up to me and raises one eyebrow warningly. I sit up a bit straighter, determined not to lose the next question.
“Question two. Did you or did you not send George a text last weekend that said, and I quote, I miss your stupid face?”
Lucy gasps. “Fucking hell, Pippa, you didn’t.”
My face burns. “Maybe.”
“That’s another point lost for avoiding the question,” Sandra declares triumphantly.
And on it continues with Sandra throwing out increasingly ridiculous questions like would you lick a stranger’s shoe for five hundred pounds, and have you ever fantasized about your postman (for the record, my answers were fast and true – no and no. But all the while, Lucy delights in blowing an imaginary whistle every time she thinks I’ve hesitated.
By the time it’s my turn, I’m massively losing, and I am going to have to go way below the belt if I want to win.
“All right, Sandra,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “My turn. Question one. Have you ever kissed Peter May?”
Sandra’s mouth drops open. “What? No. Absolutely not. He’s my boss, for goodness’ sake.”
