Gold bachelorette party temporary tattoo on forearm

Margaret, who ran the ticket office and had seen every sort of wedding party come and go, found the missing one at the bench outside, squinting at the timetable upside down. The card pinned to her cardigan said she belonged with Melissa's bachelorette party, and if she was lost, somebody should buy her a drink. Margaret had been married thirty-one years to a man who had never once bought a round, and she decided the instruction was sound advice that had simply been waiting for a chance to be used.

They ended up in the Snowdrop with a pint of bitter, two sherries and a lemonade for the one who had been driving the others mad since Haywards Heath. The bride's party arrived at closing time in a clatter of heels and a cloud of Evening in Paris, and the gold heart on each card caught the light from the bar. Melissa's mother took one look at the empty seat where the missing girl should have been and asked who was paying.

Margaret pushed the card across the table. Keep it, she said. You'll need it more than I do, and she went home that night with the timetable folded in her handbag and a sudden urge to go somewhere she had never been.