“Very funny. I just think it’s a little less crass than money and still means I’m taking something from you.”
“What do I get if I win?”
“An earned sense of satisfaction.”
“Nice try.” He leans back in his chair and thinks for a moment. “If I win, you have to come to the brewery, pay for a pint, and admit that Dancing Bear is much better than anything you have on your books.”
“I won’t be admitting any such thing. Where’s the brewery?”
He hesitates, reluctant to answer.
“Is it by any chance in East London?” I ask innocently.
“Dalston,” he grumbles.
I gleefully savor the moment of my judgment yesterday being snappy but ultimately correct. “Fine. You have yourself a deal.”
As Ryan’s best man taps the microphone and stands up, announcing that it is time for speeches, I hold out my hand to Jamie. He looks at it, smiles, and shakes it.
“You’re wrong,” I say confidently, tapping the side of the glass. “That’s an Irish whiskey. At a guess, I’d say it was Tullamore Dew.”
Jamie balks at the suggestion, crossing his arms. “That is another delicious scotch. I’m going to say Monkey Shoulder.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“What’s that face you’re making?” he asks, laughing at my expression.
“It’s an are-you-mad face. That is not Monkey Shoulder.”
“I guess this is the deciding point then. So far we’ve both got one out of two; it’s best of three.”
He swivels on his stool to face the hotel barman, who has been thrilled to partake in our wager, pouring us three different whiskeys without showing the label of the bottles. We waited until after the first dance and then, on finding the wedding bar quite crowded, snuck away to the main hotel bar to play out our whiskey mission.
“Come on then, Neil, put us out of our misery.”
With great dramatic effect, Neil pauses, letting the suspense build nicely, until he slides the bottle across the bar to us. It’s Tullamore Dew.
“Yes!” I cry, cheering in victory.
“Noooooo!” Jamie buries his head in his hands. “How is that possible?”
“Thank you, Neil, those were some fine choices,” I tell him, bowing my head in respect. “Jamie, I believe you owe me a pair of cuff links.”
“Ugh.” He undoes them from his sleeves and drops them into my outstretched palm. “Fine. Take them. Along with my pride.”
“Aw, don’t be so hard on yourself.” I pop the cuff links safely into my clutch. “You got one out of three correct. Not bad for an amateur.”
“You are going to be unbearable about this, aren’t you?”
“If it was the other way round, would you be unbearable about this?”
“Yes,” he admits gloomily.
“Then I think—”
I stop abruptly. I had just pulled my phone out from myclutch as I put the cuff links in, and glanced at the screen. I have a message from Matthew.
Jamie glances down at the phone in my hands and frowns. “What’s wrong?”
