Raised fist showing a wrist design of black and pink lettering reading I'm with Lucy's hen party, with a pink cocktail glass beneath.

Hen party lettering and cocktail glass on wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A raised fist is shown against a plain white background, with a lettering design on the inner wrist. The text reads I'M WITH Lucy's HEN PARTY, IF LOST, PLEASE BUY ME A DRINK, set in black capitals with the name in pink script and a pink cocktail glass below. The solid, flat colour and clean edges suggest a temporary tattoo rather than ink in skin.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The snow came over the top road on the Thursday afternoon, and by six the lane had vanished under it, hedges and all. Eleven women came up to the Hollin Arms on foot regardless, dragging a suitcase with one wheel and singing about a coach they had abandoned at Pennick Cross. The one at the front wore a paper crown and a sash that said BRIDE. She held out her wrist to me like a ticket. Her name was Lucy. The writing on the inside of it said that if she was lost, I was to buy her a drink, which I took as a bad sign for the till.

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My brother Dev runs the kitchen and does not believe in clean sheets for guests. We made up four beds and the rest of the party went on the snug floor under a heap of coats. By nine they had pushed two tables together, lit every candle I owned and asked me for a pink gin. I had no pink gin. Lucy produced a laminated recipe card from her handbag, read it aloud to me like the terms of a will, and asked whether I had any grenadine. We did, behind the lemonade, where it had been since 1987.

At eleven the power failed. Phone torches swept the beams while the women argued over whose round it was. Priya, the maid of honour, climbed onto a chair and read Lucy's wrist aloud in a voice like the shipping forecast, then turned to me and told me to sit down before I fell down. I sat. Dev brought out the last bottle of sloe gin and a tray of cold toast, and nobody mentioned the cost.

By dawn the plough had cut a path to the road, and the women filed out into the blue light with snow in their hair and their suitcase still missing its wheel. Lucy stopped at the door and pressed a pound coin into my palm. 'You looked lost,' she said. 'Buy yourself one. It's on the sticker.' Then they were gone, and I stood there holding the coin and the empty sloe gin bottle, wondering where I had left the shovel.

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