“I always thought it was me and him then he disappeared and left me alone” I continue, voice wobbling despite the alcohol bravery, “And now he’s back and trying to kiss me and telling me he loved me and looking all perfect with his chiselled jaw and muscley arms.”
“He is a very pretty man.” Clara says, oblivious to my mental breakdown.
“He didn’t even try to fight for you? Didn’t try for something between you? Something more than sexual tension and an ‘almost’ kiss?” Emma asks, already outraged on my behalf.
I shake my head, blinking fast. “And then the other week he’s all caveman with Scott like ‘you deserve better’… well where was that energy fifteen years ago, Rory??”
“RORY,” Abigail echoes, scandalised. “As in Rory Bennett. Ravens Fullback Rory Bennett?”
“Yes Rory Bennett!” I snap.
Lou rubs my arm. “Babe, that’s devastating behaviour from him.”
“I’m just so angry,” I say, words tumbling now. “At him for leaving. At myself for still loving him. At that stupid city and stupid Sienna and stupid Instagram engagement posts.” My voice cracks. “I built my whole life without him. I had to. And now he just comes back looking all… sexy and sorry and emotionally confusing.”
Hannah grips my shoulders. “Okay. Listen to me very carefully.”
I squint at her.
“You are too hot to be crying over a man in a pub that sells Jägerbombs in plastic cups.”
Emma nods firmly. “Correct. Illegal, frankly.”
Clara points toward the stage where someone is absolutely murdering an Ed Sheeran song. “What you need is therapeutic rage singing.”
Eleanor gasps. “Kelly Clarkson.”
Abigail slams her hand on the table. “Since U Been Gone.”
Hannah is already half out of the booth. “UP. You’re going up there.”
“I can’t sing.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I’m emotional.”
“Perfect.”
“I might cry.”
“ICONIC.”
Before I know it, they’re dragging me toward the stage while Rowan cues up the track with the grin of a man who has seen many breakdowns set to early 2000s pop.
The opening guitar riff starts. The girls scream like I’m headlining Glastonbury. And somewhere between the second chorus and Clara attempting a high kick that nearly ends in a floor face-plant, I realise they’re right. I might be heartbroken. But I’m not crying over a man in The Old Oak. Not now, not ever.
The sadness is gone. Burned off by tequila, belted out through Kelly Clarkson, shaken loose in the way my voice cracked on the high note and the entire pub cheered like I’d just won The X Factor.
I don’t sit when I get back to the booth. I can’t. There’s a fizz under my skin now, wild, reckless, alive.
“I need to dance,” I announce, already moving.
Clara doesn’t even hesitate. She slides out after me, grabbing my hand, and the two of us claim the bit of floor right in front of our booth just as Spice Girls blasts through the speakers.
“STOP RIGHT NOW, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.”
We scream it at each other, hands in the air, hips moving, laughing so hard I can barely breathe. My hair’s loose down my back, swishing as I spin, the hem of my dress riding up my thighs as I move. For the first time all day, I don’t feel heartbroken. I feel hot. Free. Wanted. And judging by the way half the pub is watching? Message received. I catch men looking, not subtle glances, but full-on staring. Smiling into their drinks. Nodding appreciatively. One nearly walks into a table. I lean into Clara, breathless. “Mama’s still got it.”
