Brighton in late summer on a sunny Saturday afternoon was still busy. The high season was over, but the town was still packed with tourists. Or, at least, Jamie assumed they were mostly tourists. Perhaps the town was always this busy? He considered wandering down the hill to the promenade to look at the sea, but he was more interested in exploring the Lanes, Brighton's famous old quarter: a quarter of a square mile of eighteenth century streets laid out as if someone had taken a pile of leftover scraps of ribbon, scrunched them up and dropped them on the floor, and then built a town based on where they'd fallen. Besides their quaint twists and turns, their frontages were also very much still in the historical style, and they were mostly franchise-free, being packed with unusual and idiosyncratic stores. It wasn't long before he was strolling aimlessly among the Lanes, his sense of direction completely lost. He considered getting another coffee, glanced at the blue skies above, and treated himself to an ice cream cone instead.
He was still dressed as he had been for the train ride down from Glasgow, in polo shirt, kilt and boots; Amy had insisted that he keep the kilt on while she was occupied elsewhere in town with Nuala's hen-night activities, and to let her know if anything "interesting" happened. Jamie attracted some interest, but nothing over the top:
- Some lads sitting outside a pub with pints called out to him. "Way-hay, Scot
laaaaand
!" and "Och aye Jimmy."
- An ageing punk, with green mohawk, tattoos, weathered walnut skin and a pierced face like someone had hammered chainmail into a tree stump, came over to give him a fist-bump.
- An overweight black guy, in shades, backwards baseball cap and Red Sox shirt, insisted on a selfie. "Yo, ma
man!
You are, like, the baddest mo'fucker on the
planet
, dude!"
He was standing, appropriately enough, outside a boutique scented candle shop when two elderly queens, in pinstripe suits and silk cravats, approved of his tartan while bemoaning the general lack of style.
"That's for later," he assured them. "This is just casual daywear."
"Then we shall be on the lookout for you later, dear boy," one of them purred.
"Oh good," Jamie thought to himself. "Foreshadowing
."
He drifted in and out of the tat shops and "bespoke silverware" sellers, hoping to find a simple gift for Amy. He was looking in one of the shop windows with more ice cream, considering a pair of earrings in the shape of red squirrels, when his phone rang.
***
For Nuala's hen party, the first event of the day was a cocktail-making class, in a swanky venue that operated as a restaurant throughout the day, then converted into a glitzy bar to catch the post-work evening crowd as the sun went down, before finally ripping off its rubber face-mask at midnight like the villain in
Scoobie Doo
to reveal the nightclub it had been all along. After making enquiries of the restaurant staff, Amy was directed through some closed doors to a separate bar area that wouldn't otherwise be open for several hours yet. Nuala's party had it to themselves for the next hour.
"Amy!" Nuala said, rushing towards her with open arms as Amy was ushered into the room. "Yeh made it!" Amy returned the crushing embrace enthusiastically.
"Like there was any chance I'd miss this!" She held her friend at arms' length, admiring her. "Look at you! You're positively
glowing
."
"I know! Disgusting, innit? Come and meet everyone!"
Amy was the last to arrive. The rest of the party were all gathered around a couple of tables in the bar that they'd pulled together.
"This is me big sister, Maeve," Nuala said, indicating a competent-looking woman in her mid-twenties. Her hair style spoke of professionalism. "She's the Responsible One," Nuala added, "by which I mean she's the only one of us reprobates who can find her arse with two hands after we've been on the piss for a while."
"Hence
Matron of Honour
," Amy acknowledged, shaking hands with Maeve.
"Oh, god, please no," Maeve replied. "
Head Bridesmaid
, maybe. Or perhaps
She Who Must Be Obeyed If Yer Feckin' Know What's Good For Yeh
, perhaps. But
Matron
? I'm only twenty-five, for god's sake."
"Ah, that's practically over the hill, so it is," one of the other girls said, as she leaned in to embrace and air-kiss Amy.
"That's true," said another of the sisters coolly. "If this were a Jane Austin novel, Maeve, yeh'd be considered left on the shelf by now, if yeh weren't already married." She too embraced Amy.
Amy blinked as she realised the two girls were identical twins — though the one who'd spoken first was noticeably more busty than her slimmer sister. The two girls were a bit younger than Nuala.
"An' these two sarcastic wee feckers are the twins, Siobhan and Saoirse," Nuala informed Amy.
All the sisters had Nuala's classic Irish colouring: pale skin, green eyes, red hair. As did Mary, Nuala's mother, though her red was now streaked with white. Amy wasn't surprised, after raising not just four daughters, but four
Irish
daughters.
"Amy," Mary said warmly, taking Amy into her arms. "Lovely to see you again." They'd met when Nuala's parents had travelled to Glasgow to help their daughter move in at the start of university.
There were three more women in the party. Niamh was the baby of the bunch at just eighteen. She was husband-to-be Eoin's sister, with a beautiful face and a head of golden curls. Despite her age, she introduced herself with confident calm, projecting effortless charisma. At the other end of the scale, Charlie was almost Mary's age. but still looked amazing despite that. Her hair was ash-blonde, big and straight, screaming hair-metal at Amy. The biker-style jewellery and tattoos didn't do anything to dispel that impression. Charlie, it turned out, was Nuala's landlady in Coventry, and the two of them had really hit it off and bonded. Finally, there was Simone, a statuesque young woman with dark hair, who Nuala had known since her school days.
"God, Amy, yeh look smashing," Nuala said, admiring her.
"Er, I think you mean we
all
do," Amy said in response. Amy, like the rest of the party, was dressed in a white blouse tied under the bust and a mini-kilt. Less like an American high-school uniform, and more in the Scottish style, unsurprisingly. The kilts varied in choice of tartan, but each woman had chosen tights to coordinate. They'd finished off the outfit with heels — either pumps or boots. Mary, a little more restrained, had a longer kilt on — though it still stopped above the knee. The mini-kilts had been Nuala's idea: if she couldn't convince her fiancé to wear one on their wedding day, kilts were going to be involved
somewhere
. Amy heartily approved. "The outfit made quite the impression on Jamie," Amy said, quietly just to Nuala. She smirked. "Good job I made sure to shag him before getting changed, or he'd have torn it straight off again." She leaned into Nuala conspiratorially. "He has a thing for a pretty girl in a mini-kilt."
"Speaking of," Nuala said to Amy in a lower tone, pulling her to the side a little, "Where's yer man, right now?"
Amy waved a hand carelessly. "Oh, around and about. Wandering, I think."
"But yeh brought him, right? An' his kilt?"
"Oh yes," Amy said, with feeling. "And I have
got
to tell you about the train journey when we get a chance." Amy had managed to arrange
shenanigans
on the journey from Glasgow down to London, meaning Jamie had had quite a few young women investigating whether Jamie was a "true Scotsman" — in a rewardingly
tactile
fashion.
"Ah, Jaysis, girl!" Nuala said, admiringly. "But listen — the other girls don't know, yet."
Amy was gobsmacked. "You haven't told them? Not even Maeve?"
"Ah, I love Maeve to death, but she wouldn't keep it a secret. She'd stick it on the feckin' itinerary, or something."
Amy's eyes narrowed. "
Why
haven't you told them?"
Nuala shrugged. "I'm not entirely sure. I just kinda get the impression yeh'd rather see what kind of reception he gets if the girls don't know that his wife is standing there watching him."
Amy blinked. She hadn't considered that. "You make a good point," she said thoughtfully.
"Don't I always?" Nuala said. "So, just keep it quiet for now, yeah?"
At that point, the doors opened and their bartender arrived to start the class, so Amy and Nuala rejoined the group. The bartender introduced himself as Mike. He was late twenties, with a bald head and a well-trimmed beard. His black t-shirt was tight across his chest showing a well-developed, muscular physique, and his tattooed biceps bulged. As he moved behind the bar, they could see that his tight black jeans showed off a taut posterior, too.
"Ooh, yummy!" Siobhan said in appreciation.
"Try not to drool on the furniture too much," her twin sister told her.
The class was fun. They got to make (and drink) four separate cocktails: a Margarita, a Mojito, a Bellini and a Porn Star Martini. There was much giggling, ogling of Mike, and stage-whispers between the girls; he seemed to enjoy their lustful talk behind his back, and leaned into it, flirting outrageously with all of them. All the drinks were made from shots already measured out for them, and they each received a paper "booklet" with the recipes in it.
"They do this for stag nights too," Maeve said to Amy in an aside while Siobhan pretended to be confused and Mike stood close behind her, guiding her hands with his in an intimate fashion as they assembled a cocktail shaker. "I bet they have a hot girl running that one."
"I wonder whether the drinks would be the same?" Amy mused. "I can't see guys getting into pink fizz with a slice of strawberry."
Maeve acknowledged the point. "They'll probably go for things like Screwdriver and Rusty Nail. Mind you," she said with a tilt of her head, "I don't think that's what's driving the choice here. They're going for the ones that have fewer shots of alcohol, and more mixer. Keeps the costs down, and the clientele less rowdy."
"I'm just glad they've gone for simple ones," Mary said. "Who's got time for all that faff?"
"You're not wrong, Mam," Maeve said. "They want something the punters can make at home, too."
It was educational, too. Niamh asked about Vespers, from
Casino Royale
. Mike told the group that those were originally made with a mixer that was no longer manufactured. "But apparently it tasted bloody awful anyway, so that's no bad thing," he said. "I hear that Ian Fleming just made it up without actually tasting it."
"What about Vodka Martini, then?" Charlie wondered. "Shaken, not stirred, and all that?" Which got Mike onto the subject of "bruising", "perfect" and "dirty" martinis, and so on.
"You know the easiest Martini to make?" he asked them at one point, standing behind the bar. As one, they all shook their heads. "Churchill Martini." He paused, then plonked a bottle of London Dry Gin on the counter. "Done," he said. "Winston Churchill wasn't one to waste time with mixers."
At the end of their hour, the entire group was comfortably lubricated; Amy herself had a nice buzz going. They all took the opportunity to hug Mike before they left; Siobhan grabbed a double-handful of arse in the process. There was much hilarity as they emerged onto the street, blinking in the afternoon.
"God, I love a liquid lunch," Mary said as they toddled along the street, following Maeve. "But I'll be asleep by four if we keep this up."
