It Started With A Tweet
Anna Bell
For Laura Pearse: Despite the weight of the world on your shoulders, you are one of the kindest and most thoughtful friends anyone could have. Thank you, you’re an inspiration x
Chapter One
Time since last Internet usage: 32 seconds
‘If you could just lift it up a little bit more,’ I say, tugging at the poor man’s shirt. ‘That’s perfect, just so we can see those pecs better.’
I turn back to my best friend Erica who’s holding my phone ready.
I pout my lips ever so slightly and tilt my head up to minimise the risk of double chins, all the while praying that the lighting is dull enough to hide any traces of the fluorescent cocktails we’ve been supping all afternoon.
I do a last-minute adjustment of my top, causing my cleavage almost to go X-rated. I desperately try and wrangle my boobs back under control, which in turn exposes my midriff.
‘Bloody dress code,’ I mutter under my breath. Only Helen could have friends who would think that ‘slutty’ was a good theme for a hen do. It was very her though; when we used to live in a flat share at university she always went out in the skimpiest of outfits, but still, I’m not used to having so much flesh on display.
‘OK, that’s lovely,’ shouts Erica as she snaps away.
I channel my inner model, turning my head multiple ways and pointing my hand at the poor man’s chest, as if I’m advertising him as a prize in a game show.
Content that she must have at least one good photo, Erica hands the phone back to me and I thank the stranger whose chest I’ve been exposing. He skulks back to his friends, unsure of what’s just gone on, but they make as much whooping and hollering as mine do. The poor man’s just been henned.
‘Oh my God!’ says Erica. ‘I do not believe you had the shame to do that.’
‘What? It was only his six-pack, it’s not like I asked him to get naked,’ I say, shrugging and reviewing the footage. ‘Ah, bingo.’
I select the one that shows not only his six-pack, but also my provocative pout, and I send it to the chief bridesmaid. I also post it to Twitter for our friend Amelie to see, and within seconds she’s favourited it.
‘I can’t believe Amelie’s missing out on these shenanigans,’ I say, secretly thinking that she lucked out by being on a business trip in New York this week, so that she gets to witness the humiliation of skimpy outfits and ridiculous challenges from the comfort of her hotel room. She’s definitely not facing the constant dilemma of whether or not she’s going to have an involuntarily nip slip or thong flash whenever she moves.
‘I think I’m the first one to complete that challenge,’ I say, looking around at the other members of the party stalking their prey around the bar. ‘Now perhaps we can work on yours, ladies.’ Erica and Tess groan as they peruse the list of acceptable photos in the game:
Sexy six-pack
Separated at birth (celebrity lookalike)
Mutton dressed as lamb
Escaped from captivity
Most likely to vomit first
‘What about him?’ asks Erica, pointing at a man in the far corner. ‘If you squint, he kind of looks like Ryan Gosling.’
‘What, if Ryan Gosling was six-foot-ten and ginger?’ replies Tess.
Erica tilts her head. ‘OK, so perhaps he’s more a ringer for that long jumper – you know, the Olympic one that was on Strictly.’
I quickly tap that into my phone. ‘Greg Rutherford,’ I say, thanking Google.
‘That’s him. Be right back,’ she says, tottering off to snap a selfie.
I turn my attention back to Tess but she’s off like a rocket in the other direction.
What is it about hen dos that sends you into a frenzy trying to do things you never would in your right mind? As I take a sip of my cocktail I get my answer: it’s only 3 p.m. and I’ve already lost count of how much alcohol I’ve consumed today.
I look around the bar – which, for a Saturday afternoon, is buzzing – full of the hen-and-stag-do crowd, all high spirits and bravado, vying for the prize for most cackling. While the other girls are off humiliating themselves (and others) in the name of the hen, it’s nice to actually sit down for a minute and have a bit of time to myself – it’s been a full-on day of activities. We started off with a life-drawing class this morning (#SeeingLotsOfWilliesAtBreakfast), followed by a pole-dancing class (#ChannellingMyInnerStripper), lunch at the OXO Tower (#NomNomNom), and now we’re having late-afternoon cocktails (#TroubleWrittenAllOverIt) before we head onto a party boat tonight (#BringOnTheVomit).
My phone vibrates in my hand and I look down to see a message from my mum:
Hi, Sweetie, don’t forget it’s Rosie’s birthday today. Speak soon, Mum xx
Oh crap. How did I forget my sister’s birthday?! Surely Facebook should have told me that! She’s obviously one of those inconsiderate people who turn off their birthday notification. I mean, what do they expect us to do? Remember on our own? Last year I was working so hard that I would have forgotten mine, if I hadn’t had notifications of birthday wishes from eager friends when the clock struck midnight.
I rub my temples as if to chide myself for forgetting. Of course it’s her birthday; it was one of the first things I thought when the hen do was announced for today. But in all the military planning that Helen’s chief bridesmaid Zoe has done, I’d been reprogrammed to think that nothing else was going on today.