‘Oh c’mon, lightweight.’ He bobs down and grabs her hand.
‘I’ve been dancing for hours!’ she protests.
He cocks his head to one side. ‘Come on, Han. Last chance.’
Grinning, she allows him to pull her up to her feet. She dances, conscious of Rona watching her intently, as if she might be planning to kidnap Johnny, stuff him into one of her crates and whisk him off to her studio flat in Archway. ‘I’m dying of thirst,’ she announces as the song finishes.
‘There’s definitely nothing left to drink,’ announces Sadie, glossy red lipstick somewhat smeared.
‘We must have something,’ Hannah declares, heading for the kitchen as Rona reclaims Johnny with a sharp tug of his arm.
‘Spike saves the day!’ Spike announces, brandishing a bottle of red wine like a trophy.
‘Where d’you find that?’ Hannah asks.
‘Ah, well …’ He taps the side of his nose. ‘It was hiding at the back of your cupboard behind Lou’s bird food cereal.’
‘Spike, you can’t drink that!’ Lou shrieks from the doorway.
‘Why not?’ He grips the bottle to his chest as if someone might try to wrestle it from him.
‘My parents gave it to me the day I left home. It’s to stay unopened for fifteen years – that’s why it was hidden – and then it’ll be worth a fortune.’
‘Fifteen years?’ Spike looks bereft. ‘How can anyone be expected to wait that long for a drink?’
‘Mum and Dad’ll go crazy,’ Lou laments. ‘God, Spike, you’ll have to jam the cork back in. Quick, before air gets in and ruins it …’
‘Jeez …’ Spike rakes a hand through his hair. ‘Sorry, Lou-Lou. I just thought, seeing as it’s still early …’
Lou pauses, then her small, dainty face erupts into a grin. ‘You honestly think my parents would trust me to keep a bottle of wine for fifteen years? It’s just ordinary stuff we must have forgotten about. Come on, get it open.’ Obediently, and clearly relieved, Spike pours a glass.
‘You’re not actually planning to drink that, are you?’ Rona has wandered into the kitchen, and is gripping Johnny’s hand firmly.
Spike raises his glass unsteadily. ‘Yeah. Why not?’
‘Because it’s disgusting. It’s got bits in it. Look.’ Rona steps forward – she’s all bones and sharp edges, Hannah decides – and prods his glass with a burgundy fingernail.
Spike peers at it. ‘Right. Well, they’re probably just bits of grape, and fruit’s good for you, isn’t it …’
‘… says Glasgow’s top wine connoisseur,’ someone quips.
‘No one would drink that unless they had some kind of problem,’ Rona retorts, glaring at Johnny as if expecting him to agree.
‘The only problem Spike’s got,’ he chuckles, ‘is how to strain out the bits.’
Spike frowns as if faced with a tough mathematical equation. ‘Yeah, you’re right. What can we use?’
‘A colander?’ someone suggests.
‘I know.’ Spike brightens. ‘Get me some tights, Lou. Clean ones, not fishnet, and not grubby old things out of your linen basket either …’
‘What for?’
‘Straining. Rona’s right – there are bits floating about in it. God knows, you girls keep a terrible wine cellar.’
Giggling, Lou rushes off to her room, returning with a pair of black tights, which Spike carefully stretches over a stripey milk jug so a leg dangles down at each side. He pours out the contents of his glass, and then the rest of the wine from the bottle into the gusset. Filtration complete, he removes Lou’s wine-sodden hosiery from the jug and shares out the wine. A disgusted Rona clip-clops back to the living room.
Someone has turned the music down, and a sense of quiet – or, perhaps, hushed respect for Spike’s ingenuity – settles over the group. ‘Where did you learn to do that, Spike?’ asks Sadie.
‘Boy scouts,’ he sniggers, ‘although there wasn’t a badge for it, sadly.’
With a smile, Hannah sips from her glass and lets her gaze skim over her favourite people in the whole world:
Lou, a talented jeweller, who, despite the odd flash of exasperation, is bonkers in love with the most flirtatious man in Glasgow (even now, with Lou in the room, Spike is sneaking quick glances at some friend of a friend with a long blonde plait coiled ingeniously on top of her head).
Sadie, the half-Italian beauty, who’s already had orders for her sensational hand-printed corsets, and on whom pretty much every boy in their year has nurtured an ill-disguised crush.
Johnny from upstairs, a catering student, virtually their fourth flatmate and provider of emergency rations ever since, one bleak winter’s night, he popped down to find the girls stony broke, trying to pretend that Weetabix and lime marmalade constituted a perfectly well-balanced meal. Johnny, whose new girlfriend is, although icily beautiful, a most unsuitable choice.
Hannah knows, too, that Johnny’s love life is none of her business, especially now, when she’s leaving. Feeling her stomach tighten, she glances again at Sadie and Lou who catch the look on her face, and who at once wrap their arms tightly around her. ‘Don’t forget us, will you?’ Sadie murmurs.
‘Are you mad? Of course I won’t …’ Then, as Rona comes in search of her fake alligator bag which someone must have ‘stolen’ – she finds it wedged behind the kitchen door – Johnny grabs Hannah by the arm and says, ‘Great party, Han. The best.’
‘Thanks, Johnny.’ She blinks, not knowing what else to say.
He meets her gaze, and she’s surprised by the flicker of sadness she sees in his eyes. ‘A new start, isn’t it?’ he adds.
‘Guess so. It’s bloody terrifying, though …’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean,’ he mutters.
Hannah frowns. ‘What, London?’
He glances around the girls’ devastated kitchen. ‘Um … yeah. Sort of.’
‘Johnny?’ says Rona sharply. ‘You ready to go now? I’ve got a pounding headache.’
‘Yep, just coming.’ He smiles stoically. ‘So you’re off tomorrow?’
Hannah nods. ‘Mum and Dad are coming with the van at eleven. The way Dad drives, it should only take us about three weeks to get to London.’
Johnny laughs. ‘Bye, then, Han.’
‘Bye, Johnny.’ They pause, and he hugs her before Rona takes his hand and leads him to the door.
The final stragglers leave amidst drunken good-lucks, and Spike totters unsteadily towards Lou’s bedroom, a smear of pink, which doesn’t match Lou’s lipstick, on his cheek. ‘My God,’ Lou breathes, taking in the nuts and tortilla chips crunched into the cork-tiled floor, the gigantic pub ashtray piled high with butts and the table crammed with smeared glasses and empty bottles. ‘We really should make a start on this.’
Hannah nods wearily. ‘Yeah, let’s do it now.’
‘No,’ Sadie declares, ‘not on your last night. Me and Lou will do it tomorrow after you’ve gone.’
‘But I can’t leave you with this!’
‘’Course you can,’ Lou cuts in. ‘It’ll keep us busy – stop us pining for you, sobbing into your