6. Girls Night Out

GIRLS' NIGHT OUT

R osie stood in front of her wardrobe, hands on hips, surveying the battlefield of discarded outfits strewn across her bed. Who knew deciding what to wear for a night out could be so stressful? It had been years since she'd gone to a pub for anything other than a quiet Sunday lunch.

Her phone buzzed with a message from Emma: "If you're not wearing something that would make your ex-husband's eyes pop out, you're doing it wrong."

Rosie chuckled, shaking her head. Trust Emma to cut right to the chase. With renewed determination, she pushed aside the sensible blouses and reached for a sparkly top she'd bought on impulse years ago but never had the courage to wear.

"Well," she muttered to her reflection as she slipped it on, "if not now, when?"

An hour later, Rosie found herself outside The Golden Fleece, the local pub that had recently undergone a trendy renovation. Gone were the dartboards and dusty horse brasses; in their place were exposed brick walls and Edison bulbs dangling from the ceiling.

She spotted her friends huddled near the entrance, looking like a group of teenagers on their first night out - if teenagers had wrinkles and creaky joints.

"Well, well, well," Emma whistled as Rosie approached. "Look who decided to bring the disco ball with her."

Rosie felt her cheeks warm. "Is it too much? I knew I should have gone with the cardigan..."

"Don't you dare," Lisa interjected, giving Rosie an approving once-over. "You look fantastic. We all do. Right, ladies?"

There was a chorus of agreement, though Catherine still looked like she might bolt at any moment. Her usual conservative attire had been replaced by a flowing bohemian top that Julie had clearly had a hand in choosing.

"Right then," Emma said, rubbing her hands together with glee. "Let's go paint this town... well, maybe not red. More of a tasteful mauve. Come on!"

As they entered the pub, Rosie was struck by how loud it was. The place was packed, mostly with people half their age, all shouting to be heard over the thumping music.

"Good grief," Julie yelled, her eyes wide. "Is this what pubs are like now? I feel like I've stepped into a nightclub!"

"What?" Lisa shouted back, cupping her ear.

"I said... oh, never mind. Let's find a table!"

They managed to snag a booth in the corner, squeezing in together like sardines in a sparkly tin. A young waiter approached, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of them.

"What can I get you... ladies?" he asked, his tone suggesting he wasn't quite sure if that was the right form of address.

"Gin and tonic," Emma said promptly. "And keep 'em coming, sonny. We've got a lot of lost time to make up for."

The others placed their orders - a vodka martini for Lisa, white wine for Julie, a rather daring cosmopolitan for Catherine, and after a moment's hesitation, a mojito for Rosie.

As the waiter walked away, looking slightly shell-shocked, Rosie leaned in. "I've never had a mojito before," she confessed. "I'm not even sure what's in it."

"Rum, mint, and a healthy dose of midlife crisis," Emma quipped. "You'll love it."

Their drinks arrived, and Rosie took a tentative sip of her mojito. The fresh, minty flavour with a kick of rum was a revelation. "Oh my," she said, her eyebrows rising. "That's rather good."

"Told you," Emma grinned, raising her gin and tonic in a toast. "To the Sensational Sixties Squad and our first big night out!"

They clinked glasses, giggling like schoolgirls. As the alcohol began to work its magic, their inhibitions started to loosen. Lisa, usually so composed, was regaling them with increasingly hilarious stories from her life as a high-powered executive.

"...and then," she gasped, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, "the CEO walked in, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and a tie!"

The table erupted in laughter, drawing curious glances from nearby patrons. Rosie couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed so hard. It felt good, like she was shedding years of pent-up stress and propriety.

"Ladies, ladies," Emma said, holding up her hand. "I hate to interrupt, but nature calls. Anyone care to join me in powdering our noses?"

Catherine and Julie volunteered to accompany her, leaving Rosie and Lisa at the table.

"Having fun?" Lisa asked, giving Rosie a warm smile.

Rosie nodded enthusiastically. "More than I've had in years. I'd forgotten what it was like to just... let loose."

"I know what you mean," Lisa agreed. "It's like we've been given permission to be silly again. To remember who we were before life got so..."

"Complicated?" Rosie finished for her.

"Exactly."

Their conversation was interrupted by a commotion near the bar. Rosie turned to see Emma engaged in what appeared to be a heated debate with a group of young men.

"Oh lord," Lisa muttered. "What's she up to now?"

As they watched, Emma gestured dramatically, nearly knocking over someone's drink in the process. The young men were laughing, but not unkindly. In fact, they seemed to be thoroughly entertained by whatever Emma was saying.

"Should we rescue her?" Rosie asked, half-rising from her seat.

Lisa shook her head, a knowing smile on her face. "Trust me, Emma doesn't need rescuing. In fact, I'd be more worried about those poor boys."

Sure enough, a moment later, Emma returned to the table, a triumphant grin on her face and a fresh drink in her hand. "Gentlemen…" she announced, "are not dead. Those lovely lads just bought me a drink and invited us to join their pub quiz team."

"Their what?" Catherine squeaked, looking alarmed.

"Pub quiz, darling. You know, trivia? Come on, it'll be fun!"

Before they knew it, they found themselves squeezed around a large table with the group of young men, all of whom seemed both amused and slightly in awe of their new teammates.

"Right," said one of the lads, a fresh-faced young man who introduced himself as Tom. "We've got sports, pop culture, history, and science. What are your strong suits, ladies?"

Emma puffed out her chest. "I'll have you know I'm a walking encyclopaedia of 60s and 70s music trivia."

"Perfect," Tom grinned. "And the rest of you?"

To everyone's surprise, it was Catherine who spoke up next. "I... I'm quite good at history. Especially British monarchs."

"Brilliant! Lisa, what about you?"

Lisa straightened her shoulders. "Put me down for politics and current events. I may be retired, but I still read the Financial Times every morning."

Julie raised her hand. "I can handle the art questions. And possibly literature."

All eyes turned to Rosie. She felt a moment of panic. What was she good at? She'd spent so many years being Derek's wife, Mary's mother, that she'd almost forgotten what her own interests were.

"I... I suppose I know a bit about gardening," she said hesitantly. "And I'm not bad at general knowledge."

"Sounds like we've got all our bases covered then," Tom said enthusiastically. "Are you going to show us youngsters how it's done?"

As the quiz got underway, Rosie found herself getting caught up in the excitement. She surprised herself by knowing answers to questions she didn't even realise she knew. The years fell away as she and her friends laughed, debated, and celebrated each correct answer.

It was during a break between rounds that Rosie noticed him. A distinguished-looking man at the bar, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly trimmed, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He caught her eye and smiled, raising his glass in a small salute.

Rosie felt a flutter in her stomach that she hadn't experienced in years. She smiled back, then quickly looked away, her cheeks warming.

"Well, well," Emma's voice came from beside her, full of mischief. "What have we here? Has our Rosie spotted a silver fox?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rosie muttered, but she could feel her blush deepening.

"Oh yes, you do," Emma grinned. "Go on, go talk to him. We'll cover for you in the next round."

"I couldn't possibly..." Rosie began, but Emma was already gently pushing her out of her seat.

"You can, and you will. Doctor's orders."

"Doctor?" Rosie asked, confused.

Emma nodded towards the man at the bar. "That's Mike Thompson. He's a GP at the local surgery. Divorced, no kids, and if the local gossip is to be believed, an excellent dancer. Now go!"

Before Rosie could protest further, she found herself standing and making her way to the bar. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure everyone could hear it.

"Hello," she said, wincing internally at how breathless she sounded. "I'm Rosie."

Mike turned to her, his smile widening. "Hello, Rosie. I'm Mike. Can I buy you a drink?"

His voice was deep and warm, with a hint of a Scottish burr. "That would be lovely, thank you."

As Mike ordered her another mojito, Rosie caught sight of her friends at the quiz table. They were all giving her enthusiastic thumbs up, with Emma miming what appeared to be a very inappropriate gesture.

Rosie turned back to Mike, determined to make conversation. "So, you're a doctor?"

Mike nodded. "GP, yes. Though tonight I'm off duty and strictly here for the pub quiz. Which I see you've already been recruited for."

Rosie laughed. "Yes, though I'm not sure how much help I'm being. It's been a while since I've done anything like this."

"Well, from what I could see, you were holding your own quite well," Mike said, his eyes twinkling. "Especially on that last gardening question. I was impressed."

They fell into easy conversation, discussing everything from the merits of different rose varieties to the challenges of modern healthcare. Rosie was surprised at how comfortable she felt, how easily the words flowed.

It was only when she heard a commotion from the quiz table that she realised how much time had passed. She turned to see Emma engaged in what appeared to be a heated debate with the quiz master.

"Oh dear," Rosie muttered. "I should probably..."

Mike nodded understandingly. "Go rescue your friends. But Rosie..." he hesitated for a moment. "I've enjoyed talking with you. Perhaps we could do it again sometime? Over dinner, maybe?"

Rosie felt a thrill run through her. Was she really being asked out on a date? At her age? She found herself nodding before she could overthink it. "I'd like that very much."

As she made her way back to the table, she could hear Emma's voice rising above the general hubbub.

"...and I'm telling you, it was definitely Mick Jagger, not Keith Richards!"

The quiz master, a harried-looking young man, was shaking his head. "I'm sorry, madam, but the answer sheet clearly states..."

"Oh, stuff your answer sheet," Emma interrupted. "I was there, sonny. Front row at Hyde Park. Trust me, I know my Rolling Stones."

Rosie slid into her seat just as Emma, frustrated by the quiz master's intransigence, pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.

"Emma, no!" Lisa hissed. "You can't smoke in here. It's been banned for years!"

But Emma, fuelled by gin and indignation, wasn't listening. She stuck a cigarette between her lips and flicked the lighter.

What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. The sprinkler system, detecting the flame, suddenly burst into life. Water rained down on the entire pub, soaking patrons, short-circuiting the sound system, and turning the quiz sheets into soggy pulp.

For a moment, there was stunned silence. Then, as if on cue, the entire pub erupted into chaos. People shrieked and laughed, slipping and sliding on the wet floor as they made for the exits.

Rosie looked at her friends, all of them dripping wet, mascara running down their faces, and felt a bubble of laughter rise in her chest. Soon, they were all howling with mirth, clutching their sides as tears of laughter mingled with the sprinkler water on their cheeks.

As they stumbled out of the pub, still giggling, Rosie caught Mike's eye across the street. He was as soaked as the rest of them, but he was grinning and gave her a wink that made her heart skip a beat.

"Well, ladies," Emma said, wringing water out of her hair, "I'd say our first big night out was a roaring success, wouldn't you?"

And as they linked arms and began the wobbly walk home, still laughing and already planning their next adventure, Rosie couldn't help but agree. It had been chaotic, slightly ridiculous, and utterly, wonderfully perfect.