on my second beer. Not only did I cave and reach for my drink before any of them even glanced at their prosecco, but I’m currently entering the stage of the evening where my verbal filter clocks out.
And unfiltered Drew is not for the faint of heart.
“So, games for the hen’s night. We’re thinking something fun, like a quiz on how well we know Presley.” Pauline taps a Montblanc pen against her chin. “Maybe some wedding-related trivia.”
“And pass the parcel.” Annaleigh claps her hands together. “We could include fun wedding things, like a garter and a pen for signing the guest book.”
“Or condoms.” The comment slips out before I can check in with my brain. See? Unfiltered. “You know, for the...wedding night.”
Sherilee laughs awkwardly and moves her pen as if she’s writing it down, but I can see that no ink is being wasted on my suggestion.
“I saw this cute take on pin the tail on the donkey,” Pauline says. “But you had to pin the kiss marks on a picture of Ryan Gosling. Fun, right?”
This suggestion is met with a round of appreciative oohs. I went to a hen party once where we had to pin something on a poster of a hot, half-naked guy...and it wasn’t a kiss. But I get the impression that games involving photorealistic male appendages also wouldn’t make the cut for Presley’s capital P Perfect hen’s night.
Stop snarking. Now.
“What about a goodbye singleton treasure hunt?” I suggest. “A friend of mine did that last year and it was really fun.”
“Sounds interesting.” Annaleigh drums her nails against the tabletop. “How does it work?”
“It’s kind of like The Amazing Race but for all the things you would do when you were single. You get a point for each item—get a guy’s phone number, dance on a table, do a shot with a dirty name.”
“Actually, that sounds super fun.” Annaleigh looks at me, surprised.
Phew. Maybe I won’t disappoint Presley after all.
“We could have a scaling point system. The more difficult the item, the higher the point value. And we could have tie-breaker activities in case two people have the same amount of points.” Sherilee’s eyes widen. “I’ll make a spreadsheet.”
I decide it’s a good idea to end on a high note. I’ve provided one useful suggestion—which did get written down, thank you very much—so that means I can now make a graceful-ish exit. Well, as graceful as is possible after a couple of beers while wearing platforms.
“Ladies, as much as I am thoroughly enjoying myself right now, I’ve got an early start tomorrow,” I announce. “Can we wrap this up?”
“Sure.” Annaleigh looks as relieved as I feel. “Sherilee is our resident note taker, so she’ll send the minutes out. If you could review them and respond within twenty-four hours, that would be great.”
I nod, swallowing my growing desire to murder my sister. “Absolutely. I will definitely read every single word. Even the footnotes.”
At this, Sherilee perks up. “Usually nobody reads my footnotes.”
Sarcasm is a foreign language, I see. Lord help me. I down the remainder of my beer and rest the empty pint glass on the bar with a thunk. “Happy to be the first.”
“And the best man will email you tomorrow,” Annaleigh reminds me. “If you don’t hear from him, let me know.”
I climb down from my bar stool and bid them a good night. The bar’s clientele mirrors my sister’s friends—suits and pencil skirts, perfectly highlighted hair. Pearls, diamonds, Louboutins. Presley would fit right in. I decide to text her as I walk.
DREW: I love you more than anyone else on earth.
PRES: Wow. That bad, huh?
DREW: Where do you find these people?
PRES: They’re my friends, D. Be nice. I know they’re a little intense.
DREW: Ya think?
PRES: They mean well.
Debatable. I got some hella strong Regina George vibes tonight, but I vowed I would not let my personal shit interfere with my sister’s big day. That means no snarking at her friends.
DREW: How long til this is all over? ;)
PRES: Three weeks. And trust me, I want this done as much as you do.
Unlikely, but I’ll let her have it. I might look like the lovechild of Debbie Harry and Wednesday Addams, but inside I’m a big ball of mush when it comes to my sister. Nothing will get between us. Not even email minutes with footnotes.
PRES: And don’t do that thing where you shut everyone out before they have a chance to get to know you. You might make a friend!
Three hearts punctuate my sister’s text. If ever there was physical evidence of the difference between us, this is it. Shaking my head, I continue down Clarendon Street toward my temporary residence in South Melbourne. 21 Love Street is the most ridiculous name for an apartment building, even one as swanky as this. But I’m grateful to have the cushy place to stay until the wedding is over.
And truthfully, the people here do seem nice. It’s been so long since I lived in Melbourne that I don’t have many contacts in this city—and the one friend I do have is away and letting me crash in her apartment. My friends are scattered all over the world, a product of working as a flight attendant all my adult life. Do a stint in Dubai and another in Singapore and one more in London and you’ll end up with a globally fragmented social circle.
But that suits me fine. I make do wherever I go, and my colleagues are always up for some fun when they’re in town.
I enter the building, marvelling as I usually do at the foyer’s softly glowing chandelier that manages to somehow not be tacky. A couple of velvet chairs are dotted around and some pretty art hangs on the main wall.
Capital P Perfect!
I stifle a laugh and head to the elevators. The concierge desk is empty, with a sign stating they’re currently “on patrol.” That’s been happening a lot ever since they found out a crime ring was operating out of this building last week. Yeah, that happened. Doesn’t bother me, though. I enjoy a little excitement in my life.
I tap my foot, waiting while the elevator does its thing. But it’s taking forever. Five minutes pass. Then ten. The concierge still hasn’t returned to his post. Grumbling, I head toward the service stairwell and start making my way up.
Flynn
“FLYNN ANDREW LEWIS, what are you still doing here?”
I drag my eyes up from my screen to look at my assistant, Francis, standing in the doorway to my office—arms folded, lips pursed. She’s the only person who can get away with using my full name because she’s also the only assistant who’s lasted more than five minutes working for me.
Still, I won’t let her get too big for her boots.
“How do you do that?” I wave my pen in her direction.
“What?”
“Channel my mother so effectively.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you calling me old?”
The ironic thing is that if my mother were still alive, she would actually be younger than Francis by a good decade. And while I might be known as “that jerk in the navy suit” to most people who work in this industry, even I know