Chapter Twenty-Seven
As I reached the private tasting room, the noise spilling into the hallway was quite concerning.
High-pitched, champagne-fuelled, and unmistakably the sound of wealthy women letting loose.
There was also music, loud, unapologetic, aggressively cheesy hens-night classics.
The kind of songs that involved clapping in unison, yelling the words, and at least one spontaneous scream every chorus.
I’m pretty sure I heard “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” followed by something with an alarming number of “WOO!”s, and then the unmistakable beat of a remix no one over the age of thirty would willingly admit to liking.
I stepped inside and nearly got blinded by rose-gold sparkle.
The entire room glittered.
The ‘MRS QUINN’ neon sign glowed on the back wall. The Veuve Clicquot tower Cleo and I had assembled with the precision of NASA technicians was somehow still upright. And every surface shimmered with glitter.
Caroline, glowing in her monogrammed white silk robe with a glittering tiara balanced on her head, spotted me instantly and practically beamed.
It was such a dramatic transformation from earlier, when she’d been pale, mascara-smudged, emotionally wrung-out and mysteriously missing, that it took me a moment to process she was the same person.
Now her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, her smile big enough to power the estate.
“Holly!” she squealed, lifting her glass at me. “Look at this! Isn’t it amazing?”
She spun around, robe floating behind her like a couture cloud. Glitter clung to her collarbones, her hair had regained its effortless wave, and she radiated a level of I’m fine now energy that only quality champagne and supportive girlfriends can deliver.
Behind her, on the table, sat a selection of penis-shaped… things.
An impressive collection, really.
Tiny pink penis straws poked out of cocktails like happy little periscopes.
Penis-shaped chocolates lay arranged on a slate board like some avant-garde charcuterie board.
A large inflatable penis had made its way into the corner, wearing a glittery top hat.
Caroline gestured to all of it with genuine delight. “Emma said the theme was ‘fun and flirty,’ so naturally she bought everything shaped like a penis she could find.”
Emma, unbothered and glamorous as always, lifted her Cosmo. “You’re welcome!”
It would have been an elegant moment, the expensive lighting catching her cheekbones, the exquisitely tailored silk robe draped over her shoulders, the subtle waft of Calvin Klein perfume…
If she hadn’t been wearing a bright pink headband with two bouncing, glitter-coated penises bobbing enthusiastically above her head.
The contrast was almost artistic.
A cluster of Caroline’s London friends had taken over the champagne tower, already halfway through their second round and completely out of sync with the barefoot ease of Margaret River.
One of them had attached a feather boa to the Veuve bottle like it was a styling decision. Another was filming everything for Instagram, narrating like a wildlife documentary.
I blinked, taking it all in.
Caroline leaned closer to me, whispering conspiratorially, “I’m having the best night already. And I’m not even wearing shoes.”
She lifted one foot to prove her point, no shoes, perfect pedicure, toe rings that definitely cost more than my couch.
Behind them, Sophie hovered near the corner of the cheese table talking with Izzy, but looking… off.
She kept checking her phone every thirty seconds, frowning at the screen. She’d pick up a cube of cheese, stare at it like it contained the secrets of the universe, then absentmindedly set it back down beside the penis-shaped chocolates like the world’s saddest still-life arrangement.
Cleo clocked her, narrowed her eyes smiling, and said loudly, “Sophie is giving us ‘mysterious woman with a secret’ energy tonight.”
Sophie flinched, stuffed her phone into her robe pocket, and grabbed another cheese cube like she’d been caught doing something illegal.
“Oh, I’m fine,” she said, way too brightly. “Just… enjoying the brie.”
No one enjoys brie with that level of tension.
The corner of the room belonged entirely to the matriarchs, not because we’d designated it, but because they’d collectively decided that was Their Space.
It looked like they had been attacked with LED tiaras.
That was honestly the only way to explain it.
Elaine Quinn sat gracefully on a velvet chair, her tiara blinking gently like a polite little lighthouse. She seemed completely unfazed, even amused, and was happy to be part of the fun.
Margaret Harrington, however, wore a totally different expression. Every time her hand brushed the tiara, it lit up brighter, as if responding to her irritation.
“I cannot get this ridiculous thing to stop flashing,” she informed the room.
And then there was Lady Beaumont.
Regal. Stiff. Dignified. Wearing a violently pink blinking tiara like it was a personal punishment assigned by the universe itself.
“I feel like a malfunctioning Christmas ornament,” she declared.
Elaine smiled kindly towards her. “It suits you!”
Caroline fluttered over and beamed at her grandmother. “Grandmother, you look adorable!”
Lady Beaumont sniffed, tiara still flashing. “Adorable is a word best reserved for puppies, Caroline.”
Elaine’s smile was kind. “It’s a lovely party, dear.”
Margaret sniffed. “It’s loud.”
Lady Beaumont’s eyes landed on Cleo, who was now wearing a penis headband and trying to synchronise dance moves with Emma.
“Good heavens,” Lady Beaumont murmured. “They’re breeding.”
I choked on my own laugh.
Caroline leant down to her. “Gran, don’t ruin the fun!”
Clearly the games had already started.
Izzy had convinced the older ladies to participate in a champagne tasting.
Margaret was holding a flute at arm’s length like it might bite. “This one tastes… different.”
“That’s because it’s Prosecco,” Izzy chuckled.
At another table, Cleo and Emma were trying to coax everyone into a conga line.
The London contingent committed fully, linking arms, shrieking lyrics, and somehow turning the conga line into a coordinated performance.
The laughter, glitter, and girl energy continued to build until even the most patient mother had reached her threshold.
Elaine touched Caroline’s arm gently. “We’re going to leave you young ones to enjoy yourselves.”
Lady Beaumont rose gracefully from the sofa, setting down her champagne flute with the calm dignity of a woman refusing to acknowledge the giant glitter-covered penis cookie currently sitting beside the cheese platter.
“Come along, Margaret,” she said smoothly. “I believe we’ve reached the stage of the evening where our presence becomes both unnecessary and potentially traumatic.”
Margaret stood immediately. “Thank God.”
Lady Beaumont made her exit with all the elegance she could muster before peeling away from the room like a cat escaping bathwater, Margaret hurrying after her with visible relief.
Once they disappeared down the hallway, tiaras pulsing in unison, the room erupted.
Emma clapped. “Now this is a hen’s night!”
Caroline climbed onto a velvet ottoman, held her glass high, and declared, “LET’S GO FIND THE GUYS!”
The room went feral.
Cleo shrieked. Emma cheered. Izzy muttered something about insurance liability. And I stood there, feeling the party escalate like a shift in atmospheric pressure.
This was going to be iconic.
The hens spilled out into the courtyard like a glitter bomb going off in slow motion.
Feather boas flapped in the night breeze, silk robes shimmered under the festoon lights, and someone (okay, Cleo) loudly announced, “WE’VE ARRIVED!” as if we were storming a castle.
The London girls fanned out instantly, assessing the scene, the whiskey, the men, like a highly organised glittery task force.
The bucks, James, Noah, Lucas, and even a few staff members who’d clearly been coerced into the festivities, stared at us like we were some kind of sparkly mirage.
It was obvious they’d been having their own brand of expensive revelry.
The courtyard in front of the barn was scattered with empty whiskey tumblers and a half-finished flight of single malt tastings.
A mix of James’s old mates and suited-up colleagues lingered around the barrel table, the kind of men who appeared like they closed deals by day and made questionable decisions by night.
Someone had dragged out a premium leather armchair from inside, abandoning it beside a crate of imported craft beer like a throne lost in battle.
Lady Beaumont’s driver stood frozen mid-sip, clutching a glass of what looked suspiciously like top-shelf bourbon he definitely wasn’t supposed to have access to.
The security guards blinked like they were witnessing a rare celestial event.
Noah, meanwhile, stood near the barrel table, hands in his pockets, watching it all with an amused expression.
I’d never really seen him dressed up before. It suited him. More than I was prepared for.
And then there was Lucas, arms wide, shirt untucked, whiskey in hand, a walking embodiment of expensive recklessness. He looked like a man who had consumed just enough $300-a-bottle scotch to believe he was immortal.
James was bright-cheeked, grinning, the happiest man in the southern hemisphere.
And all of them stared at us, glittering, shouting, unhinged hens, like we’d burst through the night air on a confetti-covered chariot.
Noah’s eyes found mine almost immediately, like he’d been looking for me.
He gave me this small, shy smile, surprised, a little crooked, and I felt it fizz somewhere low in my stomach. I smiled back before I could stop myself.
James, meanwhile, let out a delighted shout when he spotted Caroline. He scooped her straight off her feet, spinning her in a circle like they were starring in the world’s drunkest romance movie trailer.
Lucas, of course, saw our entrance as his cue to perform.
He vaulted onto a hay bale like it was a stage and threw his arms wide. “THIS PARTY HAS OFFICIALLY LEVELLED UP!”
A couple of the guys cheered him on immediately, clearly delighted to outsource the responsibility of being the loud one.
On his way back down, he clapped Lady Beaumont’s driver on the back with the unrestrained enthusiasm of someone who assumed everyone enjoyed being manhandled.
“Come on, Cooper, lighten up!” Lucas boomed.
Cooper stiffened a tiny bit before giving a polite, pained nod. The kind of expression that said he was accustomed to this level of rich-people chaos but was mentally elsewhere.
Cleo was instantly inspired.
She marched towards the equipment laden DJ table by the courtyard wall, climbed onto an overturned wine crate, and yelled, “Group karaoke in ten seconds!”
One of the bartenders whispered, “Dear God, not again.”
Caroline clapped her hands like a gleeful toddler. Emma shrieked in delight. Caroline’s London friends burst into cheers, one of them already demanding the Spice Girls while another declared herself “obviously Baby.”
Amid the activity and shouting, I spotted Sophie.
For a moment, she smiled, a soft, hopeful curve of her lips, like maybe the night air would lift her spirits.
But then, across the courtyard Lucas leaned in towards a bartender, all theatrics and flirtation, laughing loudly.
I saw Sophie freeze, just a fraction, but enough for me to feel it like a ripple in the air. Her fingers curled around the edge of her robe.
Hurt flashed across her face, bright and quick, before she turned to look away.
I stepped towards her, ready to intervene, but she beat me to it.
She turned sharply and walked away, the silk of her robe fluttering behind her like she was trying to outrun her own emotions. Her steps were quick and uneven.
“Sophie?” I called out.
She didn’t answer.
Instinct took over.
Without another word, I followed her into the shadows behind the barn, leaving the chaos, glitter, and karaoke countdown behind us.
The night air cooled as I slipped behind the barn, the sounds of karaoke chaos fading into a distant, glitter-covered echo. Fairy lights strung between the beams cast an amber glow, swaying gently in the breeze.
I rounded the corner and stopped.
Sophie was there, alone, half-hidden in the glow of the lights. Her shoulders shook as she wiped at her eyes, trying and failing to hold herself together. The silk of her robe fluttered around her like it didn’t know whether to comfort her or expose her.
Before I could decide whether to move closer or give her space, footsteps pounded behind me.
Lucas.
He stumbled into view with panic written across his face, real panic, not his usual dramatic swagger. He looked around wildly until his eyes locked onto Sophie.
“Soph, wait, please,” he said, breathless.
I froze.
Instinct told me to stay hidden.
The wedding planner in me said, this is none of my business.
Sophie spun to face him, eyes red, voice trembling.
“I can’t watch you flirt with every girl at that party,” she choked out. “I can’t do it anymore, Lucas. I can’t.”
His whole bravado collapsed in an instant, like someone had kicked out the supporting beams holding him upright.
“I wasn’t flirting!” he insisted. Then winced. “Okay, I was. But only because I’m trying to hide us!”
Sophie’s expression was small, pained.
“Hide what, Lucas? Hide me?”
He took a step towards her, hands half raised like he didn’t know whether he was allowed to touch her.
“No,” he said, voice desperate. “Hide us. Our engagement.”
I felt my eyes widen so fast it almost hurt.
Engagement?
ENGAGEMENT?
My heart slammed against my ribs. Sophie? And Lucas? Secretly engaged?
I froze.
Lucas continued, voice cracking at the edges.
“If your grandmother finds out, she’ll split us apart. She already hates me.”
Sophie shook her head, tears tracking down her cheeks. “She doesn’t hate you.”
“She does,” Lucas insisted. “And she’ll never approve. You know that.”
Sophie’s voice wavered, pulling the night tight around us.
“I’m tired of pretending I’m nothing to you. I’m tired of acting like we’re strangers.”
Lucas reached for her hands, gently, reverently, like they were something precious.
“You’re not nothing,” he whispered. “You’re everything to me. You’re the woman I’m going to marry.”
Sophie let out a trembling breath, her forehead resting against his for a moment that felt too intimate for anyone to witness.
I stepped back.
My heart thudding in my chest because this was huge. Life-changing. Messy. Complicated.
And absolutely none of it was meant for me to know.