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Emmy caps the eyeliner and goes burrowing into the bottom of my wardrobe, making herself entirely at home. She surfaces with my barely worn low-heeled tan boots.

“Put these on,” she instructs. “Oh, and your birthday jewellery too.”

“Yes, boss.”

A few minutes later, I’m standing in front of the mirror, and—oh.

It all works. The liner really does make my eyes bluer, and with the boots, the whole thing is less milkmaid, more music festival. The emerald studs Mum and Dad gave me pick up the green in the dress, while the whisper-thin silver necklace from Innes catches the light every time I turn my head. And now that I’m having a second look, the ruched bust is doing something clever too—my boobs look positively pert, if I do say so myself.

“Right, bonny Briony. Let’s go and celebrate your quarter-century.” She gives my bottom a slap for good measure.

We shrug on our denim jackets, the only part of our outfits that matches. I sling my wee tan cross-body bag over my shoulder, and we head out.

Fifteen minutes later, we reach Ashton Lane, a narrow cobbled lane lined with bars and restaurants. Strings of fairy lights glow overhead. Behind the windows, couples linger over cocktails and late dinners, while groups move between venues, the women in short dresses, the men in shirts and good jeans.

It’s busy, but not chaotic. It’s the sort of place I used to come to without thinking twice. Tonight, I’m conscious of every inch of bare leg.

Emmy loops her arm through mine. “You’ll relax after a drink,” she assures me.

The Grove sits halfway along the lane, and there’s a small queue at the door. When we reach the front, one of the door staff checks our IDs. I’ve been legal for seven years now, but there’s still something flattering about being asked.

Inside, it’s busy and warm, with low amber lighting and leather booths along the walls. A staircase at the back leads to a mezzanine overlooking the main floor. At the far end, a band is playing, loud enough that people have to lean across their tables to talk. Everywhere I look, someone is laughing, flirting, or trying to get served. For someone used to spending her Saturday nights at home in her pyjamas, it’s a lot.

Emmy spots a group at a corner booth pulling on their coats, and she makes straight for it. As soon as the last of them steps away, she slides into the booth, looking pleased as punch. I shrug off my jacket and sit opposite her.

“You promised me somewhere we could have a conversation,” I say, raising my voice over the band.

“What?”

“You promised⁠—”

“I’m kidding!” Grinning, she slips out of her seat and comes round to squeeze in beside me instead. “There. Better?”

“Better,” I concede.

“Good, but now I’m off again because the first round is on me. What do you fancy? They do cocktails.” She pushes the drinks menu towards me. I scan it, then point at one.

She heads for the bar while I mind the booth. The music shifts into something slower with a catchy beat.

A few minutes later, Emmy returns, carefully carrying a drink in each hand. She sets a pale pink cocktail in front of me, a few sugared rose petals floating on top, then slides back in beside me. “Trust you to pick the one with flowers in it.”

“I’m very on-brand.”

She smiles and lifts her glass. “Happy birthday, Briony.”

“Cheers.”

We clink glasses and drink. The cocktail is cold and sweet and sharper than I’m expecting. Rose and citrus bloom across my tongue. Technically, it’s my second alcoholic drink of the evening. There was prosecco at Bertoni’s earlier, though that was a wee while ago now.

Emmy and I talk about the shop first—mostly the Moss & Ember shoot, because Mara’s mood board has arrived and it’s gorgeous—then the romantasy series we’re both reading. Elves, fae, a morally grey prince with wings. What’s not to like? Emmy is a book ahead and keeps almost spoiling it for me.

I’ll admit some of the scenes are rather…eye-opening. Emmy got me onto the series and somehow neglected to mention quite how much on-the-page intimacy would be involved. That’s not normally my thing, but it’s a very good story, so I nobly put up with it.

By the time our glasses are empty, the cocktail has settled pleasantly under my skin. I’m not tipsy exactly. Just warmer. Looser.

Emmy suggests a second round, and I’m already reaching for my bag when she says, “Don’t be silly. I’ll get it.”

“But you got the last round.”