Tales From a Hen Weekend by Olivia Ryan

making a cup of tea.
    Thank God for friends, I think to myself, watching Jude padding about the room getting her oils and potions ready for her bath. Within less than twenty-four hours I’ve found out my sister’s having an affair and my father was a cheating bastard who ruined my mum’s life. Times like this, friends seem like a very good option indeed.
     
    An hour or so later, I feel a lot better. It’s amazing what a bath, a couple of cups of tea and a nap can do; and I’ve even managed to read the first page of Love In The Afternoon , although so far (and experience has taught me it isn’t fair to judge a book on its first page any more than its cover), I have to say that it doesn’t seem to have much to do with either love, or afternoons, but presumably that’s all to come. The reason I haven’t got any further than the first page is that every time I try to concentrate, I find my mind drifting and I start remembering things.
    Lisa’s wedding, for instance. She had a lovely wedding to Rick The Prick – by all accounts the only really nice day they’ve had together. I remember thinking at the time how nice Mum looked in her sea-green mother-of-the-bride suit, matching hat and shoes, and fixed smile. Now I come to think about it in more detail, was her smile just a little too fixed? Certainly she put away a lot of champagne while she was waxing lyrical to everyone about her lovely new son-in-law. She was completely drunk by the end of the reception. She tripped, and almost fell, on her way out to the car when it was time to go home, and blamed it on the new shoes. But then again – come on! Every mother gets a little bit tipsy at their own daughter’s wedding. We were all pretty drunk that day, as far as I can remember.
    And look what happened when Charlie was born. Her first grandchild! She was ecstatic when Rick phoned from the hospital with the news. She got out the wine glasses and said we should all drink a toast to the new baby. It seemed like a good idea. That’s what people do: wet the baby’s head. Except in her case, she nearly bloody drowned it. We all laughed about it at the time – Joyce and Ron and I, and even Rick when he called in later on his way home from the maternity ward, to find the new grandma virtually passed out in the chair. We’d all stopped at one drink, but she’d just gone on … and on…. Fair enough, we thought – it’s not every day someone becomes a grandmother. Let her enjoy her little drink.
    She did the same thing when Matt and I got engaged. It was low-key. We didn’t want a party or anything like that – bad enough with all the fuss of the wedding. But we called round to show Mum the ring and her instant response was: ‘Let’s get the bottle out! This calls for a celebration!’ And of course by the time we left, she’d celebrated so hard we couldn’t even wake her up to say goodbye.
    I’m not worried about any of this. After all, everyone has a few drinks on these occasions, don’t they – I’m hardly one to talk. I was drunk on and off pretty well the whole way through university. I suppose I just assumed that Mum got drunk quickly because she wasn’t used to it.
    But now I’m thinking about it – doesn’t she seem to have a glass of wine to hand most of the time when I call round to see her? Doesn’t she always have ‘a little pre-dinner drink’ while she’s cooking the evening meal? As well as the frequent top-ups during and after dinner?
    But I’m not at all concerned about that. As she admitted today – she might like a couple of little drinks to cheer her up – doesn’t everyone? But she’s obviously only drinking in moderation, because I can’t remember ever seeing her drunk before, apart from those special family occasions. Everyone gets drunk at those. I’ve never even thought about it before.
    So I’m not going to start now.
    For God’s sake! As if there wasn’t enough to worry about! This is not a problem. OK? Just keep