“Shame you didn’t follow through.” My smile doesn’t reach my eyes.
Emma isn’t really my friend, not properly. I only know her from the disaster of a hen party, where she spent most of the night crying in a kebab shop over an ex named Gavin.
The man with her today, judging by the matching rings on their fingers, is very muchnotthe man she was lamenting about. I might have been drunk, but I distinctly remember Gavin being described as six foot and blonde, and this man is short and ginger.
Mmm.
Out of everyone here, she’s the only vaguely familiar face, which sucks.
I have no idea what I did in a past life to deserve this weekend. Everyone else is paired off, smug with the irritating confidence of people who know they’re not sleeping alone tonight. And then there’s me: the spare part, the one with no plus-one, wedged on a chaise with a woman I barely know, pretending this is exactly where I want to be and not silently planning my escape route.
I close my eyes, dreaming of the moment I can rip off this historical straitjacket, when Emma leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “So, have you met your partner yet?”
I groan. “God, no. Why? What’s wrong with him? Talks about Bitcoin? Still lives with his mum?”
She just smiles, slow and evil.
“Let’s just say… you’re not ready.”
Before I can demand answers, Peacock returns, glaring like I’ve brought dishonour on this estate and King Henry himself is on his way to behead the entire wedding party.
“Ladies, your presence is requested in the Ballroom by His Lordship and Her Ladyship, who wish to greet their esteemed guests.”
Seriously? Still no Prosecco?
We trail behind Peacock Pants into the Ballroom, which, I have to admit, is stunning. High ceilings, chandeliers dripping with crystals and enough flowers to bankrupt a small country.
Looks stunning…feels like a goddamn greenhouse. The air is heavy with roses and sweat, like Yankee Candle’s latest scent:Heatstroke at a Costume Party.
Wait! Bubbles!
Actual Prosecco flutes winking at me from a silver tray hiding in the corner.
Thank God.
Except no one’s serving them yet.
Instead, Lily’s husband-to-be, Ben, steps forward and clears his throat like he’s about to launch a TED talk on this medieval misery.
Jesus Christ. A speech? Before I’ve had so much as a sip?
He clears it again, louder this time, like he’s presenting closing arguments at a murder trial in hell’s botanical garden.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, all self-importance. “Or rather, lords and ladies, as you shall be known this weekend…”
I bite back a groan. Oh God. He’s doing a voice.
“Welcome to Hever Castle. Over the next three days, you will step back in time to an age of feasting and festivities and, if our esteemed wedding coordinator has his way, entirely too many rules about how to hold a goblet.”
I contemplate swan-diving into the moat.
“Throughout the weekend,” Ben continues, “you will remain in character wherever possible. Each of you has been assigned a title, a partner, and a role to play in our immersive wedding celebration. Please interact, mingle, and, above all, embrace the spirit of the era.”
He beams, convinced he’s just invented the concept of fun.
“The most authentic performance wins a prize.”
I blink. A prize? Unless it’s a time machine to the day this invitation arrived, when I could’ve made up an excuse and saved myself, I’m not interested.
