‘I love this! Thank you. Best birthday ever!’ She leans into the hug, wobbling slightly. I’m so drunk. She’s so drunk. I can see Harri, weaving between tables as she comes back from the loo. Is anyone in charge?

Chapter Twenty-Six

Thirtynothing

Harri

Harri’s evening is not going to plan. She knows that when you’re the boss, there’s a strict protocol to be observed on work nights out. You stay for two drinks and pay for all rounds. You drink plenty of water, hoping to encourage your staff to follow your example and stay hydrated. You make sure that no one gets wasted on your watch, and that when your duty of care ends, no later than 9 p.m., everyone is conscious and upright. You leave, you say ‘Have fun!’ and you bite your lip hard to ensure that it’s not followed by ‘Don’t stay out too late’ or ‘Busy day tomorrow!’

Trays of drinks have been appearing on the table, heavy tumblers filled with something amber and fizzy, shot glass wells of sticky spirits balanced in this centre. It tastes wintry and warming, slightly herbal, quite delicious! Harri remembers this drink from long ago. Did she have it on holiday? Is it a Christmassy drink?

‘Tabitha!’ she leans over and prods her sulkiest employee. ‘Tabitha! What’s the name of this cocktail? It’s very good.’

Tabitha looks startled. ‘Seriously? Are you kidding? It’s a Jägerbomb.’

Oh! Of course it is. ‘Sorry, yes, it’s been a little while.’ Harri giggles and is surprised to discover that she can’t stop. ‘I’m an old lady, you’ll have to excuse me,’ she tells the table.

Louise looks panicked. Too late, Harri remembers that you should never describe yourself as ‘old’ to anyone under thirty. It frightens them. ‘No no no no no, you’re not old! You’re mature. You’re experienced!’ Experienced is a new one. It makes Harri think of being at school and talking about fingering, which isn’t very mature of her at all. She laughs again. Poor Louise. As though ageing is the worst thing that could happen to a person. As though it isn’t a privilege. If you get to get old, you’re still here.

Harri laughs again, recklessly. ‘I am old, young lady! I’m forty-eight! You’re, what, I don’t know. Twenty-six?’

‘Twenty-nine,’ replies Louise, her flushed face turning ashen. What’s wrong with her?

‘And I’m twenty-seven today! Happy birthday to me! Lou, what’s up?’ says Imogen, who has come back to the bar holding a bottle of prosecco, with a cocktail umbrella tucked behind her ear.

Ah. Louise is a Weeper. Every single office Harri has ever worked in has had one. You blink, and in less than a second they go from zero to sobbing into a paper napkin.