Page 117 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘You don’t know what you’re missing!’

‘I do and it’s not Sounds of the Eighties.’ Taking a swig of water she looked around her. ‘It’s Theo C. Stratin. He’s here, I just know it. We’ve just got to get to the VIP section.’

‘Do we need to go back into the crowds?’ Maggie’s chest tightened. She’d never been good in crowds and this was intense.

‘Come on, it won’t be so bad,’ encouraged Flick, looping her arm through hers. ‘Let’s go.’

And turning away from the bar, they both plunged back towards the dance floor.

Actually, it wasn’t bad. It was much, much worse. Strobe lights. A sea of sweaty bodies. Pulsating electronic beats and loud drumming techno. A DJ who whipped the crowd into a frenzy. And poor Maggie caught up in the middle of it.

‘This is my worst nightmare, I get claustrophobic.’

‘It’s going to be fine, just keep your eyes peeled.’

‘I feel so old.’

‘Rubbish, you’re only as old as you feel!’

‘But that’s just it, I feel about a hundred.’

The painkillers had worn off and her eye was throbbing again and her headache was making a comeback. All she wanted to be doing right now was lying horizontal, in a quiet, darkened room. What she wouldn’t give for a pair of earplugs right now.

‘There’s lots of ravers your age here.’

‘I think they’re called gravers, not ravers.’ Maggie attempted a joke, but Flick was distracted as she’d just bumped into Flea and the rest of the Beatrix Potter gang.

‘Hey, look who it is!’

All in their party gear, there was lots of hugging and high-fives.

‘We got your message so we thought we’d come down.’

‘Did you have to queue?’

‘No, Cousin Haz went to school with someone who was a friend of someone who got us on the guest list.’

That was the thing about public school, thought Flick, everyone always knew someone. It wasn’t about the private education, it was about the connections. Whereas she permanently felt as if she was in a world of missed connections.

Cousin Haz appeared, minus the red trousers and copy of the FT, with the rallying cry of, ‘What’s everyone drinking? Let’s get the vodkas in!’

‘Has he seen the prices of the drinks?’ Maggie looked concerned.

‘Don’t worry about Haz, that’s what his trust fund’s for,’ laughed Topsy. Or was it Toots?

‘Oh, I love this one!’ whooped Flick, as a thumping bassline started playing.

‘Me too!’ whooped Flea.

‘Why don’t you stay with your friends, while I nip to the loo?’ said Maggie, who could see Flick was dying to be with her friends and dance.

‘OK, I’ll just be a few minutes, it’s just this one song.’

Maggie felt a wave of nostalgia. Oh, to be young. It was all right everyone going on about how fifty was the new forty, but the reality was you were fifty. And it didn’t matter how good you looked or how great this stage of life was, or whether it brought you reinvention or a new set of abs, you were still well over halfway. The best might be yet to come, but your youth was gone.

And the truth was that mostly Maggie was fine with it. Youth, in many ways, was seriously overrated. All those insecurities and frustrations had meant her twenties had been an emotional rollercoaster of highs and lows, compounded further by the loss of her brother. Yet, there was something about those years. That intoxicating newness. That intensity of joy. That feeling of going out with your friends and wondering what the evening held, that delicious anticipation of What Might Happen? Whereas now, for the most part, she knew what might happen, and it mostly involved an early night.

She remembered how it felt to be Flick’s age, being with your friends, the nights out getting drunk and smoking cigarettes and staying up late. Flick had just broken up with Rory. She needed to let her hair down, enjoy herself with people her own age.