As I sit down, I can see Mia’s stack of research. I read her key points. Just out of interest.

CHAPTER 33

Having initially been very proud of the fact I did nothing towards organizing the hen party, I’m now starting to fear that nobody has done anything towards organizing the hen party. Everyone has already spent a fortune without actually doing anything. So far all we’ve done is wander around outside, getting wetter and colder. We are all looking tired and deflated. Our group chat explodes with a series of suggested locations and maps. I pretend to look, but as everyone else decides where to go, I’m actually answering emails and arranging bumper card deliveries ahead of Christmas. Apparently people love a festive boast.

Finally, we end up in a very poorly lit bar that appears to have cornered the market in memorabilia featuring palm trees and bright pink flamingos with sunglasses. It’s perfect, and the slightly sticky floors add to the overall ambience. There is only one downside: two bar staff, and more than twenty people to serve all at once. As I wait at the bar, I’m reminded of Mia’s birthday. And Peter saving me from an hour-long wait.

It’s as if my brain can’t escape him, no matter how hard I try not to fancy him.

It takes about thirty minutes for us all to sit down with prosecco, but we’ve finally managed it and have commandeered the seating area at the back. Our gentle and sometimes stilted chatter comes to an abrupt end when one of the bridesmaids, I think her name is Nicole, stands up.

‘Hello, ladies! I’m Nicole,’ (yes), ‘and I’m this gorgeous gal’s maid of honour!’ For some reason, maybe relief at being inside, or possibly because we now have a face to blame for our cold feet, we all whoop at this. ‘And tonight, we are going to have some fun! Drink up because we’ve organized some activities –’ you could have fooled me – ‘and we need to leave here in about fifteen minutes!’

The mood shifts. Everyone has just got comfortable and now we’re going to have to drink our overpriced prosecco too quickly to enjoy it, probably get a bit burpy, and then head back out into the cloud of rain.

Throughout my many years, I have learnt that at moments like this, you have two options. Option one: you accept that you’re going to be miserable and hope to slip away early. Option two: you dive right in and hope that your enthusiasm can lift everyone’s spirits.

Option one is definitely more Bea. But in an unusual turn of events, I go for option two. I’m already wearing eighties dance gear and Tilly deserves a fun hen party.

In hindsight, the shots I ordered were a good and a bad idea. They really separated the group, but luckily for this version of me who was eager to have a good time, I had more takers than leavers, and when our fifteen minutes were up, I’d made at least three new friends. We marked each other out by putting our compulsory temporary hen party tattoos on our foreheads.