A Family Gathering No Barriers Required
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Typical, murmurs Sarah as she gingerly picks up a shard of a once-elegant Wedgwood vase, hesitating to just bin it, so she places it on the windowsill instead. Sorry, Aunt Linda, she whispers to the silent flat.
The air in the flat is rich with a cocktail of shampoo, prosecco, andpeculiarlymandarin oranges, even though shes quite sure nobody actually peeled any last night. Behind the sofa, on the battered old rug, sits a plastic wreath sparkling with glitter, and from the magazine table drawer peeks a silk sash emblazoned: Hen Night of Dreams.
Tucked beneath the radiator, a single forlorn pink rubber glove, complete with a scruffy bow, lies as though it tried to escape last nights chaos, only to get stuck.
Sarah, dressed in a crumpled dressing gown with a tired, droopy tassel, tiptoes round the room, filling a bin bag. Every step is punctuated by the soft, sugary crunch of sweet wrappers underfoot.
On the windowsill stands a wine glass hosting a dried-up ruby-red puddle of last nights merlot. The vase meant for flowers is poked with just three plastic straws topped with star-shaped tinsel, and a paper chain of hearts runs along the wall, one heart with a suspicious bite mark.
But its the kitchen that will need the most love.
On the table, the sad remains of a multi-tier cake lean to one side, its buttercream slumping like a snowman in April, with two wobbly candles3 and 8jammed in, though nobody was celebrating a birthday; it had just been a proper girls night.
Lipstick-stained wine glasses shiver in the sink, flanked by saucers encrusted with dry hummus, and on the chair sits a tarot deck, half the cards face up, half face down, as if the fortunes they told have shaken and scattered.
***
Sarah absently picks up a cardthe king of diamonds, staring back with weary superiority. Last night, the girls built their futures from these cardsweddings, moving abroad, mysterious foreigners. Theyd whisper, and then burst into loud, tipsy giggles, predictions drowned by sparkling wine.
She leans down to pick up a piece of glitter and tugs something soft from under the sofa: an unfamiliar lacy stocking, the elastic snapped, likely a trophy from someone’s impromptu dance on the stool. Shaking her head, she heads to the bedroomfor a bit of quiet at least.
Inside, the bedroom isby comparisonalmost in order. Apart from three pillows scattered on the floor and her duvet, coiled like a sleeping snail. When Sarah straightens her pillow, she finds beneath it a folded sheet of pink paper.
Her heart skips uncomfortably.
Another forgotten note from some James from the pub to one of Lucys friends? But she recognises the handwritingLucys script is always big and rounded, with every o exaggerated into a little bubble.
Youre the best host in the world! Love, Lucy x
Sarah lingers on the exclamation mark, as if its trembling. She quirks a half-smile. The best host… despite the smashed Wedgwood, the glitter shower in the bathroom, where every shower now sparkles.
How many times have I promised myselfnever again she mutters, slumping to the edge of the bed.
***
Something squelches underfoot.
Startled, Sarah moves her slipper and discovers, arranged carefully inside, a whole, shiny, unpeeled clementine, a scrap of paper taped to it with a cocktail stick: For a sweet life.
Apparently, last night, theyd laughed themselves silly over that toast. Now, the clementine seems to mock her.
Her phone buzzes on the bedside table. On screen: Lucy (our whirlwind).
Of course, Sarah says to the empty room, forcing herself to answer and clearing her throat. Hello?
Saraaah! Lucy shouts over a riotous backdrop, as if the party never ended but just moved location. You were amazing! The girls are raving! Were all here, even Hannah the manicurist is still knocking aboutremember when you chased away the wardrobe ghost?
Theres raucous laughter, and someone yells: Tell Sarah Im only having my babies at hers from now on!then more overlapping noise.
Thank you, Sarah, Lucy adds softly. You know its just, you feel like home.
Sarah looks at the clementine in her slipper.
Mm, she replies. Feels like home
Right, not disturbing you! Rest up, queen of buffets! Lucy hangs up, quiet returning abruptly.
***
Sarah slips off her glasses, placing them next to Lucys note. Reflected in the wardrobe mirror is a woman around fifty with tired features, unexpectedly young green eyes, and hair gathering in a hasty bun from which, inevitably, a single sparkly sequin peeks.
Her phone thrums againa different tune: video call. Tillyher daughter.
Sarah sighs, running her hand through her hair (the sequin stays put).
Hello, love? She answers, and Tillys tousled fringe and coffee mug appear.
Mum! Tilly squints. Yep, I knew itglitter on the cat again?
On me, Sarah corrects. The cats in hiding after the dancing cards routine. Might be tangled up in the laundry basket again
She fills her in.
Mum, Tilly half-laughs, then sobers, Do you hear yourself? Cats hiding, Wedgwood in bits, clementines in slippers Cant you just tell Lucy no?
Sarah hears both affection and exasperation in her daughters voice.
She you know she has a tough time.
And dont you? Tilly cuts in, gentle but pointed. When did you last have a night just for yourself rather than playing host?
Sarah gazes at the lonely rubber glove, Lucys note, the flat echoing with last nights laughter.
I dont know, she admits. Feels like Ive wriggled under the wardrobe too, with the cat.
Tilly huffs a soft laugh.
Mum, I love you. But, seriously, think about it. Next time, maybe just you and me and a cuppano fortune-telling, no glitter.
A pause of static, then connection restoreda moment of unfinished words floating between them.
Well see, says Sarah.
But for the first time in ages, that well see doesnt mean of course, Lucyits the start of something new.
***
The first time Lucy called round just because was early springpatchy old snow outside, but Sarah already had green shoots stretching for sunlight on her windowsill.
Sarah, open up! Peace offering incomingplus apple pie! Lucy called through the letterbox before even ringing the bell.
Sarah opened up and stepped aside to let Lucy inin floods Lucy, smelling of vanilla scent and London air, wielding a vast pie dish.
Proper homemade, just like my nans, remember? Lucy announced, not bothering to untie her shoes as she made for the kitchen. Honestly, this hallway! Something off a magazine cover!
Sarah offered a bashful grin, tidying her neatly folded scarf on the peg. Her two-bed in a red-brick terrace was her quiet pridecurtains and wallpaper matched, Mums old knitted throw across the sofa. The kitchen was all white fronts and timber worktop, plants warming sunlit sills.
Very cosy, everyone who visited said, and for Sarah it was more than wordsit was effort paid off.
Come in, shoes off, she says, taking the pie. Blimey, its heavy.
Like my life, Lucy waves a hand, grinning. Look, Sarah, I was thinking my flats, welltight. Kitchens a shoebox, upstairs Mr Evans moans, downstairs they thump the ceiling. But here
She spins in the lounge-kitchen, arms wide.
Sarah, theres air herespace! Its criminal for you to sit here alone. Lets have a little do? Just us, plus my two mates. Youll love them, promise!
The word alone pricks Sarah.
She thinks of all those evenings knitting scarves while Tilly was out, TV on in the background, relatives that only called at Christmas.
A get-together? she repeats. Actually why not. Ive got pie after all, she teases.
Lucys eyebrows leap.
You mean it? I brought pie as a bribe, was ready to grovel! Laughing. Rightthis Saturday? No official reason, well call it a hen night rehearsal.
The pie goes in the oven to warm through. Saturday feels distant and abstracta maybe more than a reality.
All right, Sarah nods. Ill cook something.
Sarah, youre a gem! Lucy hugs her hard enough to crack ribs. Were practically sisters, after all.
The practically sounds strange, but Sarah swallows it along with the promised pie.
***
That year, Easter somehow ends up at Sarahs as wellof course, Lucys idea.
Always a feast at Sarahs, Lucy crows to anyone wholl listen. Her simnel cakes are masterpieces, her painted eggs belong in House & Garden, and the cat manages everything like a little butler!
Truthfully, the cata tabby called Mollyresembles an overworked night porter, but manages sounds more impressive.
Lucy brings not just herself but three friends.
Sarah, used to quiet Sunday lunches, is flustered as three women tumble in: a loud redhead in a daffodil raincoat, a tall brunette in a battered leather jacket, and a dainty girl with a firecracker laugh.
This is Jenny, thats Emily, this is Chloe, Lucy gestures. Girls, meet the legendary Sarahcosiest home, best food, hands down.
Sarah hurries them for slippers, finds hooks for all the coats, mentally checking: enough chairs, two simnel cakes, eleven eggs. Plus salads, and mums recipe for serious gravitas.
But it isnt enough. Within an hour, Lucy brandishes her phone in the middle of a debate about real icing.
Ooh, I forgotCat and Jess are round the corner. Ill invite them. You dont mind, Sarah? Theyll bring their own eggs!
Sarah is opening her mouth to protest when the oven pings by the time shes back, Lucys phone is on the side and the die is cast: Theyll be half an hour.
***
The party becomes a raucous market.
The girls bicker about whose sponge proves best, whose grans oven was legit old-school. Proving her point, Jenny flourishes a spoonful of chocolate icing, flicks it, andsplatlanding right on Sarahs wedding-white tablecloth.
Oh! Jenny freezes, sheepish. Is that good luck?
Lucy howls with laughter, and the rest join in. Sarah grabs a napkin, but the stains already set.
Never mind, she says. Itll wash.
She catches Lucys gazea warmth and gratitude that says shes saving more than just linen.
By evening, the windowsills crammed with rainbow eggs, the wall sports a tissue wreath (crafted by committee), someones sandals abandoned under the table. With a sweep of her glass, Lucy declares:
Ladies! Officially, Sarahs place is always a proper celebration.
They all cheer and clap. Sarah blushesthe words proper celebration echoing in her chest. Her comfy sofa and neat kitchen suddenly feel like a stage for something much bigger.
***
In childhood though, things were the other way round. Proper parties were always at Lucys.
Lucy was the ringleaderbubbly, uninhibited, endlessly magnetic.
Everyone in the estates communal gardens gathered or played by her block. Shed stage fashion shows in her mums robe, organize top-secret clubs behind the bins. Even the old ladies called her our little star.
Sarah was quietly diligent. Home by tea, returned borrowed books with not a page dogeared, polished shoes to a shine.
Sarah, youre the teachers petwatch Lucy for me, teach her some of your good habits, Aunt Linda, Lucys mum, would say.
In their teens paths divergedLucy threw herself into wild parties, Sarah went off to college, part-time at the tax office, steady as clockwork. The cousins rarely saw each otherexcept maybe at big family dos.
Then Aunt Linda passed away. The funeral. The wake. Tired faces. Old wounds bubbling up. That was when Sarah and Lucy ended up in the kitchen drinking sugary tea at 3 a.m., seeking comfort in each others company.
Feels like Mum took our family with her, Lucy said to her mug.
Sarah, four years orphaned already, offered gently, Its just different, not worse. You settle in. Eventually, you learn new ways.
After that, they called more often. Sorting out paperwork. Then, just checking in. Lucys life pulled Sarah in like a whirlpool.
Were family, not strangers! Ill pop round yours, youll come to mine, Lucy insisted.
But Sarah seldom went to Lucys. Always some reasonwork, Tilly, or just fatigue. Lucy was the one who came more and more.
***
Eventually, at Sarahs became the default.
Naturally at Sarahs! Lucy breezed over the phone, flicking through her diary. Why bother at mine? My kitchens a shoebox, yours is a dream!
Where for New Year?
Sarahs. Fairy lights everywhere and her layered salads like a showstopper cake.
Easter? Sarahs.
Chloes birthday? At Sarahs. Shell lay out the perfect cake.
Just-because wine night? Sarahsyou know shell feed us something lush.
At first, Sarah liked it.
Her house was the heart of someones life, the anchor everyone wanted. She enjoyed buying napkins, trying out new canapés, inventing recipes from the internet. She didnt mind Lucys friends cooing over her white crockery. The compliments: Its like a magazine in here!she savoured them.
But gradually, it became overbearing. Not just Lucys invitations now.
Hi, Sarah? Its Jennywe were at yours with Lucy last week, remember? Emilys got news, so do you mind if we pop in? Lucys busy, but said you dont mind!
One Wednesday, for the third time that week, the doorbell. Sarah opened up and theres a familiar face.
Naomi. An old friend of Lucys, one with whom Sarah once had an unhappy falling outNaomi had shouted at her over some nonsense and made a public scene. Since then, theyd avoided each other.
Oh. Hi, Naomi said, fiddling with her hair. Lucy said the partys at yours? Thought I could help set up
Sarah hesitated on the threshold, hot old shame rising in her chest. She wanted to say, Lucy was mistakenbut instead she stepped aside.
Come in, she said. Tea?
The dishcloth in Sarahs hand twisted tight as a rope.
***
Her first act of rebellion was almost childish.
Want to ruin the party for everyone? Buy rubbish biscuits, she told herself.
Usually, Sarah bought brilliant shortbread from the little bakery round the cornercrisp, buttery, ever so moreish. This time, on principle, she went to the supermarket, grabbed the cheapest own-brand that always disintegrated pre-tea.
Let them see, she thought, pouring them into a bowl.
The party was a hit regardless. Lucys mates laughed and dunked bad biscuits into good gossip. Someone brought cheese, someone olives, and Lucy whipped out her signature tomatoes-in-disguise.
At some point, Chloe, pealing with laughter, draped her lurid plastic necklace over Sarahs immaculate door handle and left it there. Next morning, Sarah eyed the necklaceshould she just bin it? As she reached for it, the bell rang again.
Lucy, bursting in: Sarah! Oh! Lookyour doors got its own necklace!
Sarah wanted to objectits not a celebration, its a mess. But Lucys delight was so clear, she just sighed:
Another celebration.
It wasnt going anywhere soon
***
The hen night Lucy promoted as a fortune-telling evening took things to a fresh level.
Thats it, girlswere reading our futures tonight! she declared in the group chat, tagging Sarah. Sarah, youre our oracle. Even your kettle whispers secrets.
Sarah looked at her ancient limescale-caked kettle, baffled.
Jenny arrived with a bagTarot cards, a fat church candle, and a tiny ornamental mirror.
This isnt just a chinwag, she announced. Its a séance. Spirits and all.
Sarah tittered.
What spirits, Jenny? Youll only find the spirit of stew at mine.
Not stew! Lucy scoffed. Relax, its a game.
The lights went off. The candle flickered golden darkness. Molly crept onto the sill, tail bristling, suspicious.
Jenny laid out cards, poised the mirror to catch the flickering faces.
We shall ask the universe, she intoned.
Sarah sat on the edge of her own sofa, feeling like an outsider at her own party. All their questionslove, money, adventuresailed past her.
Just as if to set the mood, the lights began to flickerthen, snap: out.
A shriek. Gasps.
Its a sign! Jenny whispered, and the girls squealed.
Sarah groped for her phone torch. At that instant, something furry raced underfootMolly, unable to take the commotion or flashes, shot across the room, launched herself into the wardrobe, and slammed the door behind her.
Its certainly a sign, Sarah croaked. That spirits dont fit here!
Power returned within minutesa neighbour was welding and tripped the fuses. Molly, however, stayed lodged in the wardrobe for a whole 24 hoursSarah would just hear faint scratching and the odd beseeching mrrr from deep within the clothes.
Eventually, the cat emerged, fuming and dusty. Petting her, Sarah whispered,
Well, Molly, guess well both hide here from now on, eh?
Molly huffed and slunk off to the kitchen floor, where more forgotten glitter glimmered.
***
It took Sarah a while to make up her mind.
She sat at the kitchen table, staring at the new message screencursor blinking like a nervous tic.
She half-typed: Lucy, next time please celebrate at yours. Immediately deleted.
She tried all sorts:
Lucy, I cant do this anymore
Lucy, could we have a break from parties at mine for a bit?
Lucy, seriously, Im exhausted by all the guests.
Every version felt too wishy-washy or too harsh. Her mind played back Lucys old Sarah, you understand, Youre so kind, Its no trouble for you.
She sucked in a breath, put down the phone, and stood before the mirrorceiling bulb casting sharp shadows. She lifted the hairbrush, then instead faced herself square.
Lucy, next time, celebrate at yours.
Her voice quivered, taut as a drawn bow.
No excuses, Tillys voice echoed in her mind. Youre allowed.
Sarah straightened up.
Lucy, she said, meeting her own gaze. I love our get-togethers. But Im tired of always hosting. Next time, your turn.
Again the words tried to slip into apology
No buts, she scolded herself. Im not here to please everyone.
Returning to her phone, she slowly typed:
Lucy, Im honestly worn out. Next time lets have your place for a change, all right? I just need a break from guests.
Her finger hovered. Tension gripped herfear of losing, of offending, of hearing, Knew you were boring all along.
She sent it, put the phone aside.
Now for the real talk, she muttered. Face to face.
At the mirror, she practised the conversation a few more times.
Lucy, this is my home, its hard having people round non-stop
Lucy, I love you, but I dont have to be everyones venue
Lucy, lets set some boundaries.
Every time, the word boundaries came out thinner, her voice catching.
She saw herself not as some fearless hostess, but as someone learning to say no for the first time, like a foreign word that snags on the tongue.
But somewhere in the midst of all the rehearsals, she found something else in her gazenot anger, not exhaustion, but determined resolve.
Right, she told her mirror-self. Lets go to hers. Not here. Hers.
***
She decided to go to Lucys flat without warning.
If she can show up at mine with pie and friends unannounced, so can I, thought Sarah. Not as the host, but as a guesta witness.
Lucys place is a seedy old Victorian conversionhigh ceilings, crumbling paintwork, the scent of stale magazines and damp. Sarah used to love these types of flats for their history, but now that history smells of old socks and chip smoke.
Theres no lift. She climbs slowly, counting the steps. On the third landing, air freshener and the whiff of leftover stew.
Lucys door is unmistakable, with its lopsided fake laurel wreath and a wooden sign: Miracles live here. It once seemed cute; now, it feels somehow tragic and childish.
She knocks. No sound. Tries the bell. After an age, slow footstepsthen a voice, hoarse and fuzzy:
Who is it?
Me, Sarah answers. Sarah.
The lock fumbles as if the door is reluctant. At last, it opens a crack.
Lucy peers out, using the door as a shield. Shes in a baggy trackie, one woolly sock on, the other in her hand. Hair scraped up, eyes puffy.
Sarah? Why turn up now, with no warning?
Do you ever check with me before dropping by? Sarah says, calmly.
Lucy blinks, but steps back to let her in.
The flat hits Sarah not with décor but with emptinessa sense you feel in your bones.
No cheery entrance, no welcome mat, nowhere for shoes. A mop leans against the wall, scuffed trainers, a lonely heel, a stained patch on the worn lino.
Inside, her heart tugs.
Theres a battered old sofa, almost grey with use, festooned in crumpled clothesdresses, jeans, T-shirtsall jumbled. On the floor: empty wine bottles, a couple of energy drink cans, and a dogeared magazine. The side table is an old stool with a laptop, overflowing ashtray.
Two mugs under the tableone tipped over, its rings dried to the linoleum; the other teetering, a dried froth of coffee clinging, sprinkled with cigarette ash.
Drunken mug of coffee, recalls Sarahjust as Tilly had once called thesethe forgotten mugs when lifes busier than your peace of mind.
The windowsillno blooms. Just takeaway cups, an old crisp packet, a dessicated lemon abandoned by the radiator.
It isnt just an untidy flatits life splaying into every corner, with no one who cares.
***
Dont look at me like that, Lucy snaps, catching her glance. I havent tidied up since well, since.
Since what? Sarah asks quietly.
Since Mum. Since work. Since all this, she gestures at the bottles. Just life, you know?
Lucy heads to the kitchentiny, shed said, a cupboard. One table, one chair, ancient fridge littered with faded magnets. Sink heaped with plates, ketchup-glazed, a frying pan with cold, stuck potato, a bin bag waiting to go out, but never does.
I meant to ring you, Lucy mutters over her shoulder, filling a kettle thats truly seen better days. But you know how it is. She shrugs.
Sarah stands, clutching her bag. Flooding her mind are visions of her own kitchen, her tablecloths, cakes, the sparkle and laughter. All in sharp contrast to this world, where laughter is for elsewhere, and you come home to the wreckage.
She finally sees: for Lucy, Sarahs flat isnt simply handy. Its the only place left to hide from her own cupboardher loneliness.
Have you just come to check up on me? Lucy asks, finally turning. Or is there a reason?
Theres a reason, Sarah replies. But, I suppose, a bit of checking up too.
***
I Lucy sits abruptly, legs caving beneath her, and Sarah sees the real tears shining in her friends eyesnot laughter, but pain.
I thought you were still cross, Lucy croaks.
I am, Sarah replies, honest. Those endless gatherings at minelast one tipped me over.
She throws her bag onto the table, not bothering to clear space.
But also she hears her voice wobble, steadies it. I wanted to understand.
Lucy rubs her face, smudging her makeup.
Understand what?
Why here Sarah gestures, is like this. And why my house is always the scene for home.
Lucy laughs, briefly and bitterly.
Because you have a real home. She looks around. This is just a rented set.
With a sigh, she spills:
I dont feel at home here, Sarah. Not since Mum died, not since all those rows and splitting up stuff. These walls arent mine. Im a squatter with belongings. But when Im at yours everythings right. Your throws straight, mugs shine, the cat snoozes in the sun. You just know how to be in charge of your life.
She sniffles.
At yours its the first time in ages I havent felt scared. Or alone.
Soft warmth unspools in Sarahs chesta shimmer of empathy.
And I Lucy laughs at herself, I thought you just loved having people round. You looked so togetherlike it keeps you happy. I didnt want to see all this mess. Maybe I just wanted your home to feel like how it used tobefore my mum died
Sarah swallows.
And meanwhile my house became an extension of your chaos?
Lucy covers her face.
Im scared of being alone, Sarah. Honestly, properly scared. When Im here, Mums voice comes backher demands, her doing it wrong again tone. I blast the music, call friends, leg it to yours because because its the only place thats still before.
Sarah sits opposite. The words she practised now lose all edgetheyre simply honest.
Lucy, she says gently, Im sorry youre so lonely. I love that you feel safe at mine. But
She places her hands on the table to steady herself.
I cant be the only thing stopping you running.
Lucy drops her eyes, blinking back tears. Sarah quietly breathes out.
Solets try something else.
***
What do you mean, something else? Lucy asks, blowing her nose.
Well Sarah surveys the room, not every partys at Sarahs.
She eyes the drunken mug on the floor, the chaos and the clutter.
We start by realisinghome isnt just the site of a laugh. Its somewhere youre not ashamed of, for yourself.
Lucy snorts.
Havent felt good about myself in ages, admits Lucy.
So, lets start there, Sarah says, getting to her feet. If we keep dragging all your crowd to mine, this will always stay empty. And I get overwhelmed.
She leans in.
Heres the deal: we rotate. One bash at mine, then one here. No big crowds. Just a couple of us. And not every weekonce a month.
You serious bring people here to this? Lucy gestures desperately.
Im saying, lets stop making mine the only place for fun, Sarah says. We make yours a place too.
More warmly now: And why dont we begin with something much smaller. Just us.
Lucy frowns.
Meaning?
Sarah rolls up her sleeves.
Meaning, we clear this mess, wash a few mugs, wipe the table, and fry some pancakes. Just us two. No crowds, no glitter, no séances.
Pancakes? Lucy sniffles, but theres a spark in her eyes. I actually do better drop scones.
Well have drop scones then, Sarah smiles.
***
So began their effort.
A bit clunky at first. Sarah found a clean bin liner, tied up the old one, dragged it to the door. Lucy, abashed, gathered mugs. Sarah put the kettle on, found a scouring pad.
I didnt grow up in a tidy flat, she said. Mum taught me. Then life. You just did what you needed to survive.
Lucy kept scrubbing, as though it were a test.
Soon, the kitchen smells of sizzling butter. Lucy, apron on, finally at home. As she flips a drop scone, Sarah glimpses the teenager from childhood, modelling in her mums robeall thats missing now is the wild laughter, and the battered flat replaces the catwalk.
Once sat at the table, munching the first warm drop scones with jam, the doorbell goes again.
Now who? Lucy leaps up.
Sarah peeks through the peepholesmiling despite herself.
Its family, she says.
On the doorstep is Tilly, rucksack and bag in tow.
Couldnt resist the smell, she confesses. Texted, Mumyou didnt answer, so I popped by.
Lucy tidies her hair, uncertain.
Come in, Sarah says. Dress rehearsal for a new routine.
Tilly surveys the flat, table, her aunt, her mum. Theres a flicker of surprise, then quiet approval.
Oh, she says, Aunt Lucys got glitter now, too.
Glitter? Lucy looks baffled.
Check the ceiling light, Tilly grins.
All three gaze upward. Stuck to the lamp, defiant, is a sparkling silver starprobably hitched over from Lucys top.
Sarah laughs.
Well there we are. Glitter for both of us, now. Not just me.
As long as its by mutual agreement, Tilly says, giving her mum a wink.
Sarah feels something vital shift and expand inside her. Shes still angry with Lucy, still nervous about future hen nights. But now, shes got a choice. And Lucy does too.
The three of them sit round the tiny kitchen table, sharing drop scones straight from the pan, all roaring when Lucy gets dusted with flour.
And in the laughter, theres no sense of someone taking liberties in someone elses home. Its just a proper, honest celebration for the first timeno queen of snacks, no best hostess. Just Sarah. Lucy. And Tilly.
