Chapter 11
I obviously wasn’t in my right mind when I signed up for Games Night.
I walk into the Drunken Bee, a pub-slash-nightclub in Camden, and I’m immediately struck by the interior.
Shabby-looking couches, poorly replicated Warhol pictures on the walls and a bar covered in royal memorabilia.
It’s the most bizarre-looking decor but, more worryingly, someone signed off on this.
This was a choice. Serving all-day breakfast, happy-hour cocktails and pizza and beer deals, it’s quite obviously a student bar.
It smells like lager and hormones. I have no business being here and if I hadn’t paid for this event upfront, I’d be heading straight back out the front door.
I try to casually fit in, ordering a Jack and Coke instead of asking for a wine list, and follow the signs for the Games Night, held in the function room at the back of the pub.
I’m greeted by a short woman, barely out of her teens, who grins widely as she introduces herself as Steph.
‘Sophie Smalls. I’m here for the, um—’
‘Most fun night of your life!’ Steph giggles and hands me a name badge while I die inside. ‘Here’s your game card and pen.’
I scan it. Six numbers down one side and a space beside each for names. She notices my confusion. ‘Don’t worry, take a seat and I’ll go over the process once everyone is here.’
The age range of the event is thirty to fifty but as I take a seat beside two women, I get the feeling they haven’t sold many tickets and have recruited from a nearby secondary school.
I smile at Bethany and Paige, tempted to ask them what they want to be when they grow up.
By the look on their faces, they’re about to ask me to buy them twenty fags and a bottle of cider.
‘I like your top,’ Bethany says. I smile and thank her, relieved that I wore my red, bell-sleeved top and not one of the twenty-five work tops I have in my wardrobe.
‘And I like your T-shirt,’ I inform Bethany. ‘Brilliant band.’
She nods. ‘Nirvana were the best. Kirk Corbain was a genius.’
I’m tempted to correct her but I bite my tongue. Kurt Cobain would be rolling in his grave. ‘Dave Grohl is too,’ I agree. ‘Amazing drummer.’
I see her exchange a look with Paige. ‘Um, I think you’re thinking of the Foo Fighters . . . and he’s the lead singer, just like Kirk was.’
Having no desire to turn into one of those pompous arseholes who might say, ‘Yeah? Well, I was listening to Nirvana before you were even born. Name four of their albums. Wrong, there were only three,’ I just go back to my drink.
The function room has six wooden tables and a makeshift bar at the back, which looks like it’s lined with bellinis. Maybe screwdrivers? Perhaps just soft drinks for the kids, who knows? If they are cocktails, I make a mental note to have at least twelve during the event.
I breathe a small sigh of relief when I look around the room and spot two women my own age, looking just as awkward as I do.
‘Everyone, welcome to Games Night!’ Steph yells over the music. ‘I hope you singles are all ready to mingle?’
Everyone not completely mortified gives a little whoop.
‘So, for those who haven’t been to one of our events before, I’ll explain how the evening will work.’
Steph pauses to glare at two men who have the audacity to speak at a social occasion. She reminds me of a girl I went to school with who ran the prom committee. Helpful, excitable and a closet sociopath.
‘On the left side of your card you’ll see numbers one to six, in various orders. These will be the order of the tables you’ll sit at to play our quick-fire games, four people to a table. Two boys, two girls to a table.’
Boys and girls? I wonder if there’s a grown-up table where the adults sit.
‘You’ll have ten minutes at each table, with a fifteen-minute break for refreshments. If you feel like you’re vibing with someone, just mark their name or number on your play card.’
I walk over to table three, the first on my card. On the table sits a deck of cards, beside it an envelope. I’m joined by Charles, Derren and Rosie. Derren immediately reaches for the envelope. ‘Snap,’ he announces, with a puzzled expression. ‘We’re playing snap.’
Derren is probably around thirty, maybe thirty-five at a push.
He’s very clean-shaven to the point that if I touched his face, it might squeak.
Charles can’t be much older and is wearing a polo neck in the middle of July.
My internal thermostat could never cope with that.
He is rocking a buzzcut, however, so maybe the heat’s escaping from the top of his head.
‘Isn’t this fun?’ Rosie announces. ‘I haven’t played snap in years. I have three brothers, it was always a fight to the death.’
I like Rosie already. She’s petite, with chocolate-brown hair, wearing the cutest blue floral tea dress. If the men here had to choose between me and Rosie, I wouldn’t stand a chance.
Derren begins to deal the cards, which aren’t normal playing cards. There are at least sixty cards in the deck, and they have cartoon animals instead of suits. Rosie giggles.
Charles looks appalled. ‘Animal snap. How childish. If it had been poker or even rummy, that might have made for a more interesting game.’
‘We only have ten minutes,’ Derren reminds him. ‘That isn’t long enough to play a decent round of poker.’
Charles sniffs and places the first card on the table. A yellow duck.
‘Snap!’ Rosie yells triumphantly, before swiping his card and adding it to her pile. I see his eyes narrow. I can tell that this is now war.
Six games of snap can tell a lot about a person. Derren is a good sport, Charles is a smug winner. ‘Never mind, everyone. I guess I’m just faster.’
And Rosie. Sweet, dainty Rosie with her pretty tea dress is a bad – no, horrendous – loser. If she fought to the death with her brothers, I can’t imagine that any of them are still breathing.
‘I yelled it first!’ she screeches at me during round three. ‘And I snapped. Your big giant man hands got in the way of mine.’
‘You’re clearly cheating,’ she tells Derren. ‘Are you, like, in on it with the organisers? Can you see which cards I’m holding?’
‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘You caught me. I slipped the host fifty quid in return for X-ray vision.’
As the bell rings to switch tables, she throws her cards across the table and leaves. I laugh so hard, I genuinely think I might wet myself.
My big giant man hands and I make our way to the next table.
At the end of the evening, I hand my card in with my matches ticked.
There aren’t many. There are three of us, all women, who definitely grew up in the eighties, listening to cassettes on a Walkman and watching movies on a VCR.
Everyone else is at least fifteen years younger.
I’m not Cher, there’s no way I can pull that off. I’m not sure I’d want to.
I’ve ticked Derren for being funny, Blair from game number four, just for being handsome and Rosie just to annoy the hell out of her.