The rest of the hens were travelling by train, so it was just the four of us travelling in my little BMW one series, nicknamed Betsy. Betsy was well accustomed to long trips, I spent hours driving around the south coast of England sight-seeing, merely to escape the nothingness at home.
We bundled into the car and set off with Heart Radio pumping out Carly Rae Jepson, “Call Me Maybe”. The girls sang along raucously fuelled by the Prosecco. It felt like a long drive.
Eventually, I pulled into the Hilton Hotel car park, abandoned the car wonkily in the first available space, giving women drivers a bad reputation everywhere. But the cocktails took priority over my conscience.
Inside, the hallway was spacious, airy, and light. It smelt like freedom- for the next two nights, at least.
‘Meet in the bar in fifteen minutes?’ Ruth suggested.
‘Sure.’ I was sharing with Heidi, but thankfully, the room had two double beds. My desire to bond didn’t include spooning after a few too many Cosmos.
The hotel bar was impressively understated with huge red leather couches and gleaming glass coffee tables. The bar itself was long; expensive marble, with high leather stools. Windows spanned from floor to ceiling and the streaming sun illuminated everything it touched.
The evening was still warm and bright. Couples scattered around the room, groups of friends called back and forth across the tables.
Clara and Ruth beat us down and were already ordering from the extensive cocktail menu.
I ordered two Cosmopolitans, one for me and one for Heidi, we joined the rest of the hens who were arriving in dribs and drabs.
The hen party consisted of Clara, Ruth, and five of Heidi’s co-workers from Costa Coffee. There was a traffic warden called Emma, a nurse called Catherine, who was Emma’s best friend and the daughter of a local politician. Lastly, there was Ann, a small blonde girl, who was dating one of my brother’s friends.
When everyone had arrived, we strolled the ten-minute walk to Brown’s for dinner, a listed building with high ceilings, fancy chandeliers, and mirrored walls. The modern interior décor contrasted the traditional architecture of the building, yet they complimented each other beautifully.
At the table, the girls integrated seamlessly. I positioned myself between Clara and Ruth and enjoyed the easy company of my closest friends. I pulled my phone out of my cream Mulberry clutch to take some pictures, relieved to see I had no messages or missed calls. Not that I expected any. Rob barely ever texted unless it was to remind me to put out the bins.
After dinner we bar-hopped around Bristol. The city was buzzing with that epic Friday feeling. We found ourselves in a nightclub called Melandras. The bass resonated through the club. Cheap drinks ensured many limbs were loose enough to congregate on the dance floor.
Clara shouted in my ear, but with bodies everywhere, pushing, jostling, I couldn’t hear a thing. The air was stifling. Ruth lost a shoe. Heidi propped up the bar drinking tequila with her work colleagues. Emma lap danced on a table with Catherine egging her on.
By two in the morning my feet were killing me. I signalled Clara towards the exit, and she grabbed Ruth and her one shoe and dragged her reluctantly out with us. I typed a message on the WhatsApp group to the others, telling them we were heading back to the hotel, assuming they’d follow us back in their own time.
Back at the Hilton, we were surprised to see the barman still serving drinks. A group of twenty lads congregated at the opulent bar, their contagious laughter rippled through to the reception area.
‘One for the road?’ Ruth suggested.
‘Abso-freaking-lutely.’ Clara fist pumped the air.
We ordered a bottle of Chardonnay and the three of us spread out on two of the red couches. The hens trekked into the bar in twos and threes.
The lads began to mingle with some of our hens, an unavoidable eventuality at this hour of the night, given the combination of high spirits, low inhibitions, and copious amounts of alcohol. I kicked off my six-inch black lace peep toes, the cold tiles a welcome relief to my burning soles. As I quietly admired my claret-coloured toenails, engrossed in my own thoughts, tiny hairs pricked on the nape of my neck.
A sensation of being watched seeped under my skin and streaked across my spine.
My head snapped to the left. The previously vacant space next to me was now occupied by a man I hadn’t seen coming. Literally.
It happened as innocently and unintentionally as that.
My life changed in that moment forever.
Even as he sat, his height was obvious. His build was slim and athletically toned. Fair skin and red hair set him apart from a crowd. High cheekbones and a chiselled jaw line provided exceptional bone structure.
Curious eyes swept across me; they were the colour of the Caribbean Ocean. A person could drown in them. They exuded an intelligent, knowing depth, as though he could see straight into my soul, and glimpse my every secret.
‘I hope you don’t mine me sitting here.’ His low Irish lull lit up my insides.
I was instantaneously drawn to him, in a way that I’d never been drawn to anyone. ‘No.’
When his lips curled into a grin, I noticed his upper right central incisor slightly overlapped his left. A perfect imperfection.
