My stomach swooped unpleasantly. I’d decided to tell my friends the truth after we’d dropped Sarah and Beth off for my version of the treasure hunt, and I was already sweating at the thought. Beth had never seen the original itinerary, but it seemed unlikely that Sarah hadn’t told her about Shrewksbury being a possibility—after all, why would her best friends let her down?
I’d worry about Beth’s reaction later.
Beep-beep.
“Don’t keep Big Bertha waiting!” Jeremy called through the car window, patting his steering wheel lovingly. “Seat belts on?” he asked, once we were all in. “Then next stop: my own personal hell.”
“Is he serious?” Beth asked from the back.
“You get used to him,” said Sarah.
“I’ll sort directions.” I grabbed the GPS from the dash. Jeremy glanced at me—I was normally the last person to volunteer to navigate. The trouble was, I was the only one of us who knew where we were going.
* * *
“Is someone going to explain why we’ve just dropped Sarah and Linda off in a field? Not that I didn’t enjoy the look on their faces, but the treasure hunt was supposed to be in the manor gardens, no?”
I’d taken charge when we’d arrived at the maize maze—giving Beth the champagne for her and Sarah to drink on reaching the center, along with a map with walking directions to the artist’s studios where we’d meet them in an hour. Beth had looked unsure, but on the surface, this was the exact same plan we’d had from the beginning: she was to accompany Sarah while we decorated the suite. Except there was no suite.
“Evie,” prompted Maria from the back.
“Okay,” I said, taking a big breath to prepare myself. “Don’t be mad . . .”
“I’m not mad. Are you mad, Maria?” Jeremy was the first to speak once I’d finished explaining. “I’m really happy I spent a month of my life arranging a weekend that seemed designed to torture me, only to find out my friend has replaced it with something even less appealing.”
“I’m so sorry. It was a stupid mistake, and I couldn’t feel worse about it. We did our best to make sure the weekend still matched up to the one Sarah asked for. Maria?” I twisted in my seat to look back at her.
“I’m not mad,” she assured me, though her voice was strained.
“‘We’?” Jeremy picked up.
“That man I met, the one with the daughter. Ben.”
“Hot Widower,” Jeremy said.
“Yes. No. You can’t call him that.”
“I thought you didn’t like him,” Maria said.
“Well, I do. I think. I don’t know. He’s the reason I was able to pull all this together so quickly. Not that it isn’t all well thought through, of course,” I added hastily. “I’ve just emailed you both the new itinerary now so you can see for yourself.”
Maria checked her phone. “It’s all there,” she confirmed for Jeremy. “We’re still doing all the same activities.”
“That’s something, at least,” he said. Then he shook his head. “What am I saying?”
“It’s everything Sarah asked us for, I promise,” I said eagerly. “Just about two hours west of where she’s expecting it to be.”
In the rearview mirror, Maria’s gray eyes relaxed a little. “You’ve done your best. She has to understand that.” I wasn’t sure who Maria was trying to convince. “Where’s the link to the accommodation?”
“It’s really beautiful, just wait until you see it,” I said, sending it over. It was a relief to have everything out in the open. More or less.
After a few seconds of silence, I asked, “Did you get it?”
“Evie.” Maria’s voice was eerily calm. “Tell me you didn’t.”
Jeremy kept his hands at ten and two on the wheel as he gave me a questioning glance.
“Didn’t what?” I asked. What have I missed?
“The cottage, Evie. It looks just like the one in The Holiday. Don’t tell me that you’ve made Sarah’s hen do into one of your meet-cutes.”
Whoops. Was it really that obvious? It made me wonder how much I’d been obsessing over the meet-cutes lately for this to be Maria’s immediate conclusion. Stellar self-awareness, Evie.
“Trust me,” I pleaded, stomach roiling with guilt. “I wouldn’t have chosen it if it wasn’t perfect for Sarah.”
“Evie,” said Jeremy. “You’ve hijacked Sarah’s hen do to snare Jude Law. If every single part of the next two days isn’t absolute perfection, it was nice knowing you, goodbye.”
* * *
Huddled beneath Jeremy’s umbrella, we all stared at what should have been my picture-perfect romantic-holiday-slash-fairy-tale cottage.
“Evie, darling,” said Jeremy. “How old were those photographs you showed us?”
The paint on the splintered wooden frames and the front door was cracked and peeling, more corpse gray than duck-egg blue. The thatched roof drooped. One of the upstairs windows was boarded up and the other was broken, the torn edge of a lace curtain fluttering through the crack. Even the roses that had once climbed up the side of the house were now a cobweb of brittle sticks.
“Maybe it’s better on the inside?” I said. A whole roost of something dark and quick emerged from a gaping hole in the thatch and took to the sky.
“Bats,” said Maria faintly. “The inside is full of bats.”
“Not anymore,” Jeremy deadpanned. “How did you find this?”
“My mum,” I said faintly.
“Have you two recently fallen out?”
EVIE: Mum, how long ago did you stay in Honeysuckle Cottage?
MUM: Ooh, about twenty years! Why?
Oh, Mum. I took a picture of the cottage so I could try to get our money back later. “Come on. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
I hurried down the overgrown path to the door, letting us inside with the key the owner had left under the mat. The cottage was bitterly cold. I reached for the light, feeling chipped laminate under my fingertips before flipping the switch. The lightbulb in the fringed shade flickered but held, casting fingers of shadow over the living room.
We were staying in a time capsule from the 1970s. The furniture was covered in at least two years’ worth of thick gray dust, and the two floral sofas and dark green wing chair looked spongy with damp.
“Kitchen,” said Maria. We all moved as one through the low doorway into the second room. Inside was a round pine table and four chairs—one of which was propped against the wall with a leg missing. The gas stove and the oven were both clearly broken. A collection of teapots shaped like faces watched us from the tops of the cupboards.
“Did you hear that?” Jeremy asked, cocking his head.
Maria and I froze, thinking about the bats. It was just the rain hitting a drain outside.
“Let’s check out the fridge,” I said. As long as that was working, we’d at least be able to keep the wine chilled. If not . . . It didn’t bear thinking about. “Well?” No one moved.
“Jeremy,” urged Maria.
He hunched up his shoulders a few times, preparing himself. Darting forward, he yanked open the door and jumped back.
The smell that drifted out was like nothing I’d ever encountered. “Shut the door, shut it!” Maria and I cried together, leaving Jeremy to slam it closed.
“Tell me that was cheese,” Maria asked.
“Have I said how sorry I am?” I said.
“That’s okay,” said Jeremy generously, patting my head. “It’s Sarah you should really be worried about.”
“It is okay.” Maria’s voice was determinedly bright. “We’re here now. I’ll tell Sarah we’ll meet her and Beth a little later after they’ve had their art class. Not at all ideal, but it can’t be helped. We’ll put the wine outside, it’s cold enough. Jeremy, you check the bed situation. I’ll clean. Evie can get the deco
rations up. Sarah will never even know it looked like this. Everything is going to be just fine.”
Just over an hour later, we’d got the old boiler going. The surfaces were mostly free of dust. Jeremy had found musty but clean bedding in the airing cupboard and confirmed that the bats living in the attic couldn’t get into the rest of the house.
I stepped back from hanging the sheet up in front of the projector. Ben had loaned me the equipment for the slideshow he’d made from all my photos. He told me he’d made slideshows before and that it would take “no time at all” to assemble mine. Given the amount of dust on the projector, I had a feeling it was the first time he’d done something like this in a while. And yet, he’d done it for me.
My friends gathered in the room behind me. We surveyed our work. With the candles now dotted around, the place looked almost . . .
“Well,” said Jeremy. “You can’t polish a turd.”
“But you can cover it in glitter.” I switched the light off. The flickering candles made it feel almost . . . Nope, still terrible. “Right. There’s just one last thing we have to do before we go.” This was met with groans. “Drink,” I said. They cheered and followed me into the kitchen. “Jem, can you check the cupboards for glasses?”
Maria had the itinerary out. “Okay, so they should be leaving the drawing class and heading for cocktail-making.”
“Did either of you hear from them?”
“Nothing.”
“Me neither.” I allowed myself to relax a little. That seemed like a good sign.
“That sound is back,” Jeremy said. He sniffed a half-eaten packet of digestives from the first set of cupboards. “Do you think Kate Winslet was this much of a slob?”
“Wine,” I reminded him. The last thing I needed was to think about rom-coms.
“Nothing,” Jeremy said, opening and closing the next set of cupboards. “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.” He went to the last two cupboards. “Pray with me,” he said, as he flung them open.
A rat the size of a Yorkshire terrier leaped out at his face.
Chapter 22
Mathers Meltdown™
INT: THE HANGMAN’S DAUGHTER—SATURDAY, JANUARY 12, 4:32 P.M.
The pub can be described only as a “local.” There are hundreds of horseshoes nailed to one wall; the other walls are covered in a vast collection of metal signs bearing jokes and slogans that range from cutesy to questionable. BETH and SARAH are sitting around a stained table. SARAH is wearing a silver “Bride” sash. Her expression is closed as she takes in the dark pub, its crackling fire, and the mostly male locals staring at the two blondes in matching pink tracksuits. The small entrance door opens and JEREMY, MARIA, and EVIE enter, looking nervous.
Jeremy took one look at the locals lining the tables along the walls. “I’ll be at the bar,” he announced, shaking out his umbrella. He still hadn’t quite recovered from the rat.
“Ask about the cocktail class,” I called after him.
The place was almost empty. Three men sat at separate tables along the far wall, each bearing the ruddy nose of the well-seasoned drinker. Two women eyed us distrustfully, their hair appearing to have been done by the same hairdresser, whose style book, like our cottage, dated from the 1970s: bouffant perms with stark blond streaks.
It was very clearly a pub, not a restaurant. Where had I brought us to?
“Evie,” Maria said urgently, holding me back. She smiled for Sarah’s sake, and showed me her phone. YOU HAVE 21 MISSED CALLS FROM SARAH MATHERS.
I quickly checked my own. I had fifteen, all spread out over the last few hours. There mustn’t have been any reception at the cottage. And she wasn’t the only person who’d tried to get in touch.
BEN: good luck with the hen do! Let me know how it goes.
NOB: Can’t wait to hear about my meet-cute, Red
I sent NOB the picture of the cottage.
RED: I’m holding you responsible for this. I hope you’re pleased. My friend’s hen do is ruined
“Come on,” Maria said, taking a breath. “Time to face the music.”
Sarah and Beth had draped their soaking-wet pink jackets over the spare stools, leaving me and Maria no choice but to stand. Beth’s arms were tightly folded. Her hair, which had been beautifully styled at the start of the day, was now expanding as it dried, like she’d been backcombed for a power ballad. There was a twig tangled in the thick strands. Sarah had tried to wrangle hers into a side pony, but most of it was refusing to stay in the hair elastic. She didn’t look up straight away. Instead, she stirred her gin and tonic with a plastic spoon.
I swallowed tightly. “How was your day?”
“Sorry we couldn’t join you sooner,” Maria added.
Sarah tried to smooth her fringe down, but it sprang back up again. “Do you know,” she said, “what an out-of-season maize maze is?” Beth huffed. “It’s a field.”
“Oh, Sarah,” I said, feeling awful. “How was the art class, at least?”
Beth reached out a sympathetic hand toward Sarah. “It’s okay, hon. I didn’t want to say, because you were so sure they were booking her, but I did warn you. Martine doesn’t just give classes to everyone. Even Kim had to pull strings.”
“Just show them, Beth,” Sarah snapped.
Beth pulled a roll of paper from the back of the seat and started to unravel it.
“Now, I’m not unreasonable,” Sarah said. I tried very hard not to react. “But you do remember what I specifically said I didn’t want for my hen do.”
The picture gradually came into view as Beth tugged on the paper. It was like watching an image loading on the old dial-up Internet.
“What is . . .”
“Oh.”
Beth was still unrolling.
“Just how big is that thing?” Maria asked weakly.
“The artist gave us a life drawing class,” Sarah said.
I couldn’t look at her. “They can be very tasteful.”
“He was the model.”
“I come bearing drinks!” Jeremy called. “Holy shit, Linda, that’s a big dick.”
The other patrons bridged the gaps between their tables with shared glances. They did not look happy.
“What?” asked Jeremy. “She drew it.”
“Put it away, Beth,” Sarah told her. Beth started to wrestle it back into a roll. “Can we just go and check into the manor?” Sarah asked tiredly, rotating her shoulders. “I need a sauna and a swim to feel human again.”
Beth had a self-satisfied smirk on her face as she looked at us, her brows slightly raised in a challenge. Sarah hadn’t realized we weren’t in Shrewksbury, and Beth hadn’t corrected her.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah said warily.
“I think she’s talking to you, Evie.” Jeremy perched on top of Beth’s jacket. She yanked it out from under him.
“What on earth is that?” Sarah demanded. He’d placed a silver dinner tray on the table containing bottles of vodka, gin, and tequila; a carton of orange juice; and five glasses. One of them had a squashed paper umbrella in it.
“Oh, this? It’s our bespoke cocktail-making class.” Jeremy tilted his head at me. “It’s DIY. They don’t cater for hen dos, apparently.”
My stomach plummeted as we all looked to the bar. Behind it stood a woman somewhere in her forties with wiry gray hair pulled back in a loose bun. Her mouth was set in a thin line, eyes full of blanket disapproval.
“Exactly what,” said Sarah evenly, “is going on here?”
“I can explain . . .” I began.
“We all can,” Maria said. She nudged Jeremy.
He poured some vodka into one of the water-stained glasses. “Sure, why not. The rat clearly wasn’t punishment enough.”
“No,” I said, before Sarah could pick up on his comment. “This is entirely on me.”
“E
vie, it’s okay,” Maria said, but she couldn’t hide her relief.
“For goodness’ sake, one of you tell me,” Sarah said.
I readied myself. “The thing is, Sarah—”
“This isn’t Shrewksbury,” Beth said triumphantly. “They’ve buggered up your hen do.”
* * *
The thing about Mathers Meltdowns™ was that they never happened exactly when you expected them. Once the countdown was triggered, it was anybody’s guess.
And from the look on Sarah’s pinched white face as she sipped her gin, it had definitely been triggered. Soon she would turn a violent shade of puce, after that there’d be clenched fists, streams of angry tears, and, finally, a full-blown, eardrum-splitting tantrum of unpredictable length and reason.
“You lost,” said Sarah slowly, “the manor booking?”
“I’ll get us more mixers.” Jeremy stood.
“You will stay right there,” Sarah said.
Beth’s eyes widened. “I have exactly what this hen do needs.” She started fishing around in her handbag.
“So help me, Beth, if that’s what I think it is . . .”
Beth’s expression turned sulky. I thought I saw her put something in her pocket as she stood, tottering a little on her heels. The only mixer in her gin had been the cocktail umbrella. “I’m just going to go and ask about their vegetarian options for dinner.”
“We’re eating here? You’ve replaced Jorden’s, a Michelin-starred restaurant, with a pub that only serves pies?” Sarah pointed to a sign that said: ASK US ABOUT OUR AWARD-WINNING PIES!
“They are award-winning,” Jeremy said. In the silence that followed, he opened the tequila and began to fill each of our glasses.
“Is my hen do a joke to you?” Sarah asked quietly.
Maria and I immediately started to protest. Sarah held up her hand. This is it, I thought. The three of us braced ourselves.
But Sarah remained unnervingly calm. “I couldn’t have been any clearer about what I wanted. Did you think it was funny to take everything I’d asked for and cobble together a sham version? You three are always running off together. I guess I just never expected you to leave me out of my own hen do!”
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