22. The Last Hurrah

"THE LAST HURRAH"

R osie stood in the middle of her living room, surveying the chaos around her with a mixture of amusement and mild horror. Streamers hung from every available surface, balloons bobbed gently against the ceiling, and a banner proclaiming "Goodbye House, Hello Adventure!" stretched across the fireplace. The banner, lovingly crafted by Julie, featured what appeared to be a house with legs running towards a sunset made entirely of glitter – Emma's contribution, naturally.

"Remind me again why I thought this was a good idea?" Rosie muttered to herself as she adjusted a slightly lopsided flower arrangement.

"Because, darling," Emma's voice rang out as she swept into the room carrying what looked suspiciously like a punch bowl, "you can't leave this house without giving it a proper send-off. Now, where shall we put the libations?"

Rosie eyed the punch bowl warily. "Emma, please tell me that's not your infamous 'Sensational Sixty' cocktail. I still haven't recovered from the last time."

Emma's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Of course not! This is my new creation – 'The House Warmer.' Or should that be 'House Cooler' since we're leaving? Either way, I promise it's only slightly lethal."

Before Rosie could protest, the doorbell rang. She opened it to find Lisa on the doorstep, looking uncharacteristically flustered and carrying an enormous cake box.

"Rosie, thank goodness," Lisa said, bustling past her. "You won't believe what happened. The bakery mixed up our order. Instead of 'Farewell to Rosie's House,' the cake says 'Congratulations on Your Vasectomy, Ross.'"

Rosie blinked, trying to process this information. "I... what?"

Lisa set the box down on the dining table, lifting the lid to reveal a truly impressive cake adorned with anatomically incorrect decorations that Rosie decided she'd rather not examine too closely. "I tried to explain the mistake, but the baker just kept insisting that this was the only cake they had there."

Emma, who had wandered over to inspect the cake, burst into laughter. "Oh, this is perfect! Nothing says 'new beginnings' quite like celebrating the end of someone else's fertility. Ross, whoever he is, will just have to find another cake."

As Rosie and Lisa debated the merits of trying to scrape off the more questionable decorations, the house gradually filled with guests. Julie arrived with an easel and art supplies, declaring her intention to create a "living memory" of the party. Catherine brought enough food to feed a small army, explaining that she wasn't sure what kind of snacks were appropriate for a "house funeral."

Trisha, ever the organiser, had taken it upon herself to create a schedule for the evening. "I've allotted time for mingling, reminiscing, and a brief period for Emma to teach everyone the dance routine she's been threatening us with," she explained, brandishing a colour-coded chart.

"Dance routine?" Rosie asked weakly, but her question was drowned out by the arrival of more guests.

Soon, the house was buzzing with conversation and laughter. Neighbours Rosie had known for years mingled with newer friends, all sharing stories and memories of the house that had been Rosie's home for so long.

Mrs. Fitzgerald from next door cornered Rosie by the punch bowl, her eyes slightly glazed from Emma's concoction. "I'll never forget the time your cat got stuck in our chimney," she reminisced. "Took three firemen and a very confused pizza delivery boy to get him out!"

Rosie nodded politely, trying to remember if she'd ever owned a cat. She made a mental note to cut Mrs. Fitzgerald off from the punch.

The evening wore on and Rosie found herself swept up in a whirlwind of emotions. Every room held a memory – some joyful, some bittersweet. In the kitchen, she remembered teaching Mary to bake cookies, flour covering every surface and giggles filling the air. In the study, she recalled long nights working on her novel, fuelled by tea and determination.

She was lost in thought, staring at a family photo on the mantelpiece, when a familiar voice made her heart skip a beat.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Rosie turned to find Mike standing behind her, a warm smile on his face and a bottle of wine in his hand. "Mike! You came," she said, unable to keep the pleasure out of her voice.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," he replied. "Though I have to admit, I'm a little concerned about the cake. Is there something you haven't told me about a 'Ross' in your life?"

Rosie laughed, feeling some of the melancholy of the evening lift. "Oh, that. It's a long story involving a mix-up at the bakery and possibly the end of someone's genetic line. But never mind that – I'm so glad you're here."

As they chatted, Emma's voice came thundering through the room, amplified by what appeared to be a megaphone fashioned out of a wine bottle and a rolled-up magazine. "Ladies and gentlemen, and those who are fabulously neither," she announced, "it's time for the main event of the evening – the House Memory Tour!"

A chorus of cheers (and a few confused murmurs from those who hadn't been warned about Emma's penchant for impromptu events) filled the air.

"Now," Emma continued, somehow managing to look both regal and slightly unsteady as she climbed onto a chair, "we'll be going room by room, sharing our favourite memories of Rosie's house. And for each memory shared, we'll raise a toast! Don't worry, I've prepared non-alcoholic options for the lightweights among us." She winked at Lisa, who rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

What followed was a meandering, slightly chaotic, but ultimately heartwarming journey through Rosie's home. In the kitchen, Mary (who had arrived fashionably late with the twins in tow) recounted the time she'd tried to surprise Rosie with breakfast in bed, resulting in a small fire and the discovery that pancake batter could, in fact, defy gravity if applied with enough enthusiasm to the ceiling.

In the living room, Catherine shared the story of their first book club meeting, which had quickly devolved into a wine-fuelled debate about whether Mr. Darcy or Heathcliff would make a better modern-day boyfriend. "For the record," Catherine hiccupped, already three glasses into Emma's punch, "I still say Heathcliff. A man who can brood like that must have hidden depths."

As they moved upstairs, Julie insisted on recreating the infamous "Yoga Incident" in Rosie's bedroom, nearly taking out a lamp and two unsuspecting guests in her enthusiastic demonstration of a "downward-facing disaster."

Each story, each memory shared, felt like a thread weaving together the tapestry of Rosie's life in this house. There were tears, as Rosie and Mary hugged, and there was laughter – particularly when Emma recounted the time she'd tried to install a disco ball in the guest room as a "surprise home improvement."

Through it all, Rosie felt Mike's steady presence beside her, his hand occasionally finding hers in quiet support. She caught him more than once looking at her with an expression that made her heart flutter in a most unseemly (but not unwelcome) way for a woman of her age.

As the tour wound down, ending back in the living room, Emma called for silence. "And now," she said, her voice taking on a theatrical solemnity, "it's time for the lady of the house herself to share a memory. Rosie, darling, the floor is yours."

All eyes turned to Rosie. She felt a moment of panic – how could she possibly sum up thirty years of life in this house in one memory? But as she looked around at the faces of her friends, old and new, she knew exactly what to say.

"My favourite memory of this house," she began, her voice strong despite the lump in her throat, "is happening right now. This house has been a home not just because of the memories it holds, but because of the people who have filled it with love and laughter. Yes, even you, Emma, with your glitter-based solutions to life's problems."

A ripple of affectionate laughter went through the room.

"I thought selling this house would be an ending," Rosie continued. "But being here with all of you tonight, I realise it's just the beginning of a new adventure. So thank you – for the memories we've shared, and for the ones we've yet to make."

There was a moment of silence as her words sank in, broken only by the sound of Catherine blowing her nose loudly into what appeared to be one of Julie's paintbrushes.

Then Emma, never one to let a moment become too sentimental, raised her glass high. "To Rosie!" she declared. "May hour next home be filled with as much love, laughter, and impromptu dance parties as this one!"

"To Rosie!" the room echoed, glasses clinking and voices raised in a cacophony of affection.

As the party resumed its cheerful chaos around her, Rosie found herself by the window, looking out at the garden where she'd spent so many peaceful mornings. She felt rather than heard Mike approach.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

Rosie nodded, smiling up at him. "You know, I really am. It's bittersweet, of course, but... I'm excited for what comes next."

Mike's hand found hers, their fingers intertwining naturally. "I'm excited too," he said. "Especially if it involves more parties like this. Though maybe with slightly less anatomically incorrect cake decorations."

Rosie laughed, leaning into him slightly. "Oh, I don't know. I think the Sensational Sixties Squad Headquarters might need a mascot. Why not a misunderstood vasectomy cake?"

Their moment was interrupted by a crash from the kitchen, followed by Emma's voice floating out: "Nobody panic! The punch bowl is safe. Can't say the same for Rosie's fine china, but really, who needs plates when you're starting a new adventure?"

Rosie sighed, but couldn't keep the fondness out of her voice as she said, "I should probably go see what's broken. Coming?"

Mike grinned, squeezing her hand.

As they made their way to the kitchen, navigating through guests who were now engaged in what appeared to be a very competitive game of charades (Julie was currently trying to act out "Fifty Shades of Grey" using only a feather duster and a very confused looking houseplant), Rosie felt a surge of affection for this motley crew she called her friends.

The kitchen was a scene of cheerful disaster. Emma, covered in what Rosie hoped was just punch, was attempting to sweep up shards of her best serving platter while simultaneously arguing with Lisa about the merits of using a salad bowl as an emergency punch container.

"It's the perfect solution!" Emma insisted. "It's big, it's deep, and let's be honest, nobody was going to eat salad at this shindig anyway."

Lisa, looking torn between exasperation and amusement, caught sight of Rosie and Mike. "Oh, thank goodness," she said. "Rosie, please tell Emma that we can't serve punch out of your salad bowl. It's... unsanitary."

Emma scoffed. "Unsanitary? Lisa, darling, I'm glad we didn't know each other when I was younger and drinking cheap wine out of shoes."

Rosie held up her hands in mock surrender. "Far be it from me to get between Emma and her mission to serve alcohol from increasingly inappropriate containers. Use the salad bowl if you must, but please, for the love of all that's holy, wash it first."

As Emma crowed in triumph and Lisa muttered something about investing in plastic cups for future gatherings, Rosie turned to survey the rest of the kitchen. It was a mess, to be sure – dishes piled in the sink, half-empty glasses littering every surface, and what appeared to be the remnants of Catherine's attempt at flambéing something (despite the distinct lack of a proper flambé dish or, indeed, any culinary skill whatsoever).

But it was a happy mess. A mess full of life and laughter and friendship. Looking at it, Rosie suddenly realized that this – this joyful chaos – was what she'd been missing in the latter years of her marriage. This sense of adventure, of never quite knowing what might happen next but being excited to find out.

She turned to Mike, who had been watching the scene with an amused smile. "You know," she said, "I think I'm going to like this next chapter of my life."

Mike's smile widened. "I think I'm going to like being a part of it," he replied, leaning in to plant a soft kiss on her cheek.

Of course, because the universe (or perhaps just Emma) had a sense of humour, this tender moment was immediately interrupted by a shout from the living room.

"Oi, lovebirds!" Emma's voice rang out. "Stop canoodling in the kitchen and get in here! Julie's about to unveil her masterpiece, and I've got twenty quid riding on it being either a nude portrait of the house or an interpretive piece about divorce featuring at least three different bodily fluids as paint!"

Rosie and Mike exchanged a look – part exasperation, part amusement, and entirely fond.

"Shall we?" Mike asked, offering his arm with exaggerated gallantry.

Rosie laughed, linking her arm through his. "Oh, why not? I have a feeling we're about to witness either a artistic triumph or a crime against canvas. Either way, it'll be memorable."

As they made their way back to the living room, Rosie took one last look around her kitchen. Yes, she was leaving this house. But she wasn't leaving behind the warmth, the laughter, or the love that had filled it. She was taking all of that with her, into whatever adventure came next.

The living room had been transformed into an impromptu art gallery, with Julie's easel taking centre stage. A sheet covered what Rosie assumed was the painting, adding an air of dramatic mystery to the proceedings.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Julie announced, her voice carrying the gravitas of a museum curator unveiling a long-lost masterpiece, "I present to you: 'Rosie's House: A Journey Through Time and Questionable Fashion Choices'!"

With a flourish that would have made any magician proud, Julie whipped off the sheet. There was a moment of stunned silence as the gathered guests tried to make sense of what they were seeing.

The painting was... well, it was certainly something. At its centre was a fairly accurate rendition of Rosie's house, but surrounding it were swirls of colour and what appeared to be scenes from various moments in Rosie's life.

There was a remarkably detailed depiction of the "Yoga Incident," complete with Catherine frozen in an impossible pose and Emma wielding what looked suspiciously like a wine bottle instead of a yoga mat.

In one corner, Rosie spotted what she assumed was meant to be her first meeting with the Sensational Sixties Squad, though why Julie had chosen to paint them all wearing superhero capes was anyone's guess.

"It's... certainly unique," Lisa offered diplomatically.

"It's bloody brilliant is what it is!" Emma declared, already halfway to tipsy and apparently loving every bizarre inch of the canvas. "Look, she's even included that time we tried to give Rosie a makeover."

Rosie, torn between mortification and amusement, stepped closer to examine the painting. Despite its eccentricities (or perhaps because of them), she found herself deeply touched. Every strange little scene represented a moment of friendship, of laughter, of life lived to the fullest.

"Julie," she said, her voice thick with emotion, "it's perfect. It's us."

Julie beamed, clearly pleased with the reception. "I wanted to capture not just the house, but the spirit of everything that's happened here. All the joy, the craziness, the love that have happened since we all met."

"Well, you've certainly captured the craziness," Mike murmured in Rosie's ear, causing her to stifle a giggle.

As the guests gathered around to examine the painting more closely, exclaiming over various details and sharing the stories behind them, Rosie felt a sense of completion wash over her. This was the perfect way to say goodbye to her home – surrounded by friends, laughter, and a truly bizarre piece of art that somehow encapsulated it all.

The party continued late into the night, fuelled by Emma's punch (now served from the salad bowl, much to Lisa's ongoing dismay) and an seemingly endless supply of stories and laughter.

By the time the last guest had been poured into a taxi, the house looked like it had hosted a particularly enthusiastic tornado.

Rosie stood in the doorway, surveying the aftermath with a mix of exhaustion and contentment. Streamers hung limply from the ceiling, deflated balloons littered the floor, and Julie's masterpiece stood proudly (if slightly askew) in the corner, a testament to the evening's festivities.

"Well," Mike said, coming up behind her and wrapping an arm around her waist, "I'd say that was a successful send-off."

Rosie leaned into him, grateful for his steady presence. "It certainly was. Though I'm not sure my poor house will ever recover."

"Oh, pish posh," Emma's voice floated in from the living room, where she was attempting to untangle herself from a string of fairy lights. "Houses are meant to be lived in, not preserved like museums. And I'd say we gave this one a proper send-off, wouldn't you?"

Lisa, who was methodically sorting recyclables from general waste (because even in the aftermath of a party, some habits die hard), nodded in agreement. "It was a lovely evening, Rosie. Though I do think we should ban Emma from punch-making duties for the foreseeable future. I'm fairly certain I saw Mary trying to salsa with your coat rack at one point."

"That wasn't the punch," Julie chimed in, carefully wrapping her painting for transport. "That was just Mary being Mary."

As they continued to tidy up, sharing quiet laughs and gentle reminiscences, Rosie felt a profound sense of gratitude wash over her.

"You know," Trisha said, pausing in her meticulous note taking of gift-givers (because heaven forbid anyone should go unthanked), "I think this party was the perfect preview of what life in the Sensational Sixties Squad Headquarters will be like."

Catherine, who was half-asleep on the sofa, roused herself enough to ask, "You mean chaotic, slightly ridiculous, and fuelled by Emma's questionable cocktails?"

"Exactly!" Emma said triumphantly. "It's going to be marvellous."

As the first light of dawn began to peek through the windows, Rosie found herself alone in the kitchen. The others had finally been persuaded to go home (or in Emma's case, to take a nap in the bathtub, as she insisted she was "too comfortable to move"). Mike had left reluctantly, but not before extracting a promise of dinner later in the week.

Rosie ran her hand along the familiar countertop, remembering all the meals prepared here, all the late-night cups of tea, all the moments big and small that had made up her life in this house. She thought she might cry, but instead found herself smiling.

"Thank you," she whispered to the empty room. "For everything."

Just then, a crash from the living room, followed by Emma's muffled voice calling out, "I'm okay! The lamp's not, but I'm fine!", broke the moment.

Rosie laughed, shaking her head fondly.

As she went to rescue Emma, Rosie felt a sense of excitement bubbling up inside her. They were all going to live together in a huge house. They were going to be like the Golden Girls.