Page 11 of Under Your Spell

That seems in rather poor taste seeing as he fathered children with two of the other women standing there, and he’s probably being circled by no less than seven ex-girlfriends, but Petty and Ava are used to his theatrics and no one reacts. I always think it’s strange in these situations, how everyone else seems content to let Ripp be Ripp, while I want to fling a drink in his smug face.

‘As I recall, you got over me by getting under a vast number of women,’ Mum says. ‘They just had the good sense not to marry you.’

Ripp’s smile only widens.

‘Let’s go and get out of our coats and have a real drink,’ Serena says, putting her hand on my arm.

‘Good idea,’ I reply, happy to let myself be dragged back towards the wide stone entrance hall where a bar has been set up, complete with bartender.

I unbutton my coat and hand it to Serena. Her mouth drops open.

‘Fuck, Clemmie! Good for you,’ she says, taking in my outfit.

‘Woah!’ Lil agrees. ‘Len who?’

I tug at my dress. ‘Don’t even start,’ I say. ‘It’s my only black dress and I have obviously put on some weight since I last wore it.’

‘Yeah, in the boob area,’ Lil says gesturing to the low cut of my dress where there is, I have to admit, a good bit of cleavage on display. ‘Oh my God, do you think we, like, reawakened all our old spells the other night?’

I laugh. ‘What, you mean my boobs are just going to keep growing exponentially because of the magic wish I made when we were twelve?’

‘Smothered to death by her own boobs.’ Serena shakes her head. ‘What a way to go.’

‘I think all of me has just got a bit bigger, and the boobs are part of that.’

‘Well, you look super-hot and it suits you,’ Lil replies, her eyes taking in the otherwise quite demure black dress. It’s simple, short-sleeved, scoop-necked with a flared skirt that hits somewhere below my knee.

I would agree with that. I’m probably somewhere between a size 16 and 18, and while I obsessed over my weight as a teen, these days I’m quite happy with the soft, dimpled body I see in the mirror. I guess that’s one of the gifts of good therapy.

‘Now where are those drinks?’ I say as Serena stuffs all of our coats inside the cupboard that still houses things like our childhood wellies and several broken tennis rackets (Lil is a surprisingly sore loser with a real John McEnroe streak).

We make our way to the bar and the bartender flashes us a smile. He’s extremely good-looking – floppy blonde hair, soulful blue eyes, maybe late twenties. ‘What’ll it be?’ he asks.

‘Got any tequila?’ Serena lifts a brow.

The man shakes his head regretfully. ‘Sorry, ladies, I’ve got champagne, wine, beer, gin, vodka or whiskey.’

‘I don’t suppose the mums were expecting people to do shots at a funeral,’ I say.

‘That was their mistake.’ Serena grabs the bottle of Patrón from her bag and hands it to the bartender like it’s a precious newborn. ‘Hide that in the fridge back there for me, will you? But give us three glasses with some ice first, please.’

He’s more than happy to do so, especially because passing Lil her glass means their fingers can brush lingeringly. Lil’s cheeks pink, and so do his.

‘I’m Henry,’ he chokes out.

‘Lil,’ my sister manages, and they look at each other as though there should be a halo of tiny blue cartoon birds circling both their heads.

‘And I’m Serena and this is Clemmie,’ Serena cuts in, oblivious to all the delicate romantic vibes buzzing in the air. ‘You guard that tequila with your life, Henry. If these old soaks get wind of it, it’ll be a massacre.’

‘You can count on me,’ Henry says gamely, pouring three extremely large shots of tequila into our glasses before hiding the bottle at the back of the small fridge behind him.

‘Right.’ Serena takes a fortifying sip. ‘Should we go and see what the parents are up to?’

‘Do we have to?’ I whine.

‘Would you rather make small talk with a load of people in the music business?’ she asks slyly.

I remain mutinously silent.