Grateful: A Cambridge Hen Weekend

**Author's Note:**

Look, I'll be honest - this probably isn't what you came here for.

If you're after a quick wank, skip to about two-thirds through. The rest is... I don't know. A character study? Me working through something? It's a 45-year-old woman at a hen do making catastrophically bad decisions, and it takes its time getting there.

There's a lot of wine, a lot of bitter internal monologue, and a lot of setup before anything actually happens. When it does happen, it's messy and complicated, which I realise isn't exactly sexy. But that's what came out when I sat down to write this.

Also, it's British. Sorry about all the "bloody" and "bollocks." That's just how she talks in my head.

Anyway. You've been warned. Hope some of you get something out of it.

***

I lay in that narrow bed with two sleeping boys pressed against me. Their breathing deep and even. The room smelled like sex and whisky.

Wait. Let me back up a bit.

***

The prosecco was shit. Cheap stuff that tasted like someone had mixed Sprite with nail varnish remover, but Chloe from Marketing had insisted on "keeping costs down" because apparently not everyone could afford the good stuff. Not everyone had a husband who made partner at forty-two and bought them a house in Clapham that we couldn't really afford but looked impressive enough to fool the neighbours.

I was forty-five and standing in a cocktail bar in Cambridge wearing a feather boa that kept shedding pink fluff onto my black dress. The dress was new. Designer. The kind of thing I'd convinced myself I needed because turning forty-five meant either buying expensive clothes or admitting I was invisible. The feathers were making my neck itch, but I couldn't take the bloody thing off because Jess, the bride-to-be, had made us all promise to wear them for the entire night. Team bonding or some such bollocks.

Jess was twenty-eight. Fresh-faced and optimistic in that way that only comes from never having been truly disappointed by anything. She worked in our London office doing something with social media that I didn't entirely understand but apparently paid well enough for her to afford a weekend in Cambridge for twelve women, most of whom she barely knew. Her fiancé was called Brad, which should have been the first red flag, and he worked "in tech" which meant precisely fuck all but sounded important at dinner parties.

I'd tried to get out of this weekend. Told Richard I had a migraine, family obligations, work deadlines. But Richard had practically pushed me out the door. "Have some fun darling, let your hair down with the girls."

The bar was one of those gastropub affairs that Cambridge was full of, all exposed brick and Edison bulbs, trying to look rustic whilst charging fifteen quid for a burger. The sort of place that served chips in little metal buckets and had waiters who introduced themselves by name as if we were going to be lifelong friends.

Our waiter was called Tom. He had floppy brown hair and the kind of earnest face that suggested he was probably studying something useless like Medieval Literature or Philosophy. Twenty-two at most. Maybe younger. Probably wondering what twelve women in pink feather boas were doing here and not round the corner in spoons.

"Another round ladies?"

"God yes," said Priya from HR, who'd been matching me drink for drink since we'd arrived. "And make them proper measures this time. None of that stingy nonsense."

Tom grinned. He had nice teeth. Straight and white in that way that suggested expensive orthodontia and parents who'd worried about his future. "Absolutely. Same again for everyone?"

I found myself nodding even though the prosecco was giving me heartburn. At home, Richard and I drank wine with dinner in careful silence, discussing school fees and mortgage rates and whether we needed to replace the boiler.

The table next to ours was full of young men. Undergraduates, obviously. You could tell from the way they were dressed - expensive casual clothes that were trying to look careless. Old money, the kind that bought your way into Cambridge regardless of your A-level results. They were playing some drinking game that involved shouting Latin phrases and downing pints. Public school boys reliving their glory days.

One of them kept looking over at our table. Dark hair, green eyes, preppy handsome. He was wearing a navy jumper and jeans. When he caught me looking back, he didn't look away. Just smiled.

I'd caught Richard sexting someone last week - saw the messages pop up on his phone while he was in the shower. "Can't wait to taste you again. x" Not even the courtesy of proper punctuation.

I hadn't confronted him. We'd been married for eighteen years. Long enough to know that some conversations only led to lawyers and custody arrangements and having to explain to the neighbours why Richard's Jaguar wasn't in the driveway anymore.

"Earth to Sarah!" Jess was waving her hand in front of my face. "We're doing speeches!"

Fuck. I'd completely zoned out. The other women were all looking at me expectantly. Chloe was holding up her phone, presumably filming for Instagram or TikTok or whatever shitty platform would document this drunken moment for posterity.

"Speech! Speech!" they chanted, and I realised with growing horror that it was my turn to say something meaningful about Jess's impending nuptials.

I stood up. The prosecco hit me all at once, that warm fuzzy feeling that meant I was definitely going to regret this tomorrow. "Right. Jess."

I looked down at her expectant face. So young. So hopeful. She probably still believed in happily ever after and forever love.

"Marriage," I began, then stopped.

"Marriage is..." I tried again. The table had gone quiet. Even the boys next to us had stopped their drinking game to listen. "Marriage is like buying a house. Looks perfect from the outside, but once you're inside you realise the plumbing's fucked and the heating doesn't work properly and there's a weird smell coming from somewhere you can't quite identify."

There was a moment of absolute silence. Then Priya started laughing, proper belly laughs that made her snort. Soon the whole table was in hysterics, including Jess.

"To Jess!" I raised my glass. "May your plumbing always work!"

We drank. The boys at the next table applauded. The one with the green eyes caught my attention again and mouthed "brilliant."

Oh god. He was looking at me. Still looking. Say something. Don't just stand here. Smile back. Did I smile back? Too late now. Sit down. Where was my glass?

Two hours later, I was substantially more drunk and somehow engaged in conversation with Green Eyes and his friend, a blonde boy called Hugo who looked like he'd walked out of a Ralph Lauren advert. The hen party had moved on to some club that played music I didn't recognise, but I'd begged off with a headache that wasn't entirely fictional. Priya had joined me.

"You're not what I expected," Green Eyes - who'd introduced himself as James - was saying. We were in that wine bar on King's parade, the kind of place that served expensive bottles and pretended to be sophisticated. His friend Hugo was telling Priya something that was making her laugh hysterically.

"What did you expected?" I asked. Too eager. That sounded too eager.

"I don't know. Someone more..." He gestured vaguely. "Ordinary."

"I am ordinary."

"No, you're not." He leaned closer. I could smell his aftershave, "You don't take crap from anyone. That speech...bloody hell. You looked like you'd been waiting your whole life to say it."

Was he taking the piss? He had to be taking the piss. But his face looked serious. Sincere even. When was the last time anyone looked at me like that?

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Does it matter?"

"Humour me."

"Twenty-four."

Oh god. Oh god oh god. "I'm forty-five."

"I know."

"Married."

"I assumed."

"With children."

"How many?"

"Two. Teenagers. Probably older than your last girlfriend."

He laughed. "You're trying to scare me off."

"Is it working?"

"Not even slightly."

My glass was empty. When did that happen? Hugo and Priya had disappeared. Gone for a smoke or something. Should I go find them? Should I make an excuse and leave? This boy - and he was a boy - was twenty-four and looking at me like I was something worth looking at and I should definitely leave.

"Another bottle?" the waiter asked.

"Yes," I said. "Yes, please."

James refilled my glass. His hands were steady despite the amount he'd drunk.

"Tell me something about your life," he said.

"Like what?"

"Something real. Not the polite crap you tell people at dinner parties, something you'd never say out loud."

The wine was making my tongue loose. Making everything loose. I should lie. Should say something safe and boring about preferring cats to dogs or hating my job or something equally meaningless.

"I think my husband is having an affair," I said instead.

"Do you care?"

Did I care? Should I care? I should be devastated, heartbroken, planning my revenge or my escape. Instead I just felt... tired.

"No," I realised. "I don't think I do."

"Then why stay?"

"Because I'm forty-five and fat and invisible and the alternative is a bedsit in Croydon and eating Tesco ready meals alone while watching Masterchef reruns."

"You're not fat. You're fit..."

Fit. When was the last time Richard called me fit? Had he ever? I couldn't remember. Couldn't remember anything except his face lit up by his phone screen in the dark, texting someone who wasn't me.

"You're cute. And very drunk."

"I'm neither. Well, I'm drunk."

Something in his voice made me look at him properly. Not just the baby face and the trust fund clothes, but something else. Something harder underneath.

"What's your story then?" I asked.

"Trust fund brat with daddy issues and a cocaine habit I'm trying to kick?"

"Is that true?"

"Parts of it."

The wine was making everything soft around the edges. The bar, James's face, the distinction between what was sensible and what was dangerous. I reached out and touched his hand where it rested on the table. His skin was warm. Real.

"I should go back to my hotel," I said, not moving my hand.

"Should you?"

"Yes."

"Will you?"

No. The answer was no. I wasn't going back to my hotel. I was going to do something stupid and reckless and I could feel it coming like a wave I couldn't stop.

"Where are you staying?" I asked.

"College accommodation. Single room. Very monastic."

"Hugo?"

"Has his own room. And seems quite taken with your friend."

Priya was fifty-two and recently divorced. Good for her.

"This is insane," I said.

"Probably."

"I don't do things like this."

"I know."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're married to someone who doesn't see you. I know you give brilliant speeches about plumbing. I know you drink wine like you're trying to drown something. I know you're the most interesting woman in this bar."

"That's not exactly a high bar."

"Stop deflecting."

He was right. I was deflecting. Making jokes because the alternative was admitting that I wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted to feel desired and reckless, even if it was just for one night with a boy who'd probably forget my name by morning.

"One drink," I said. "At your room. Then I'm leaving."

"Of course."

We both knew I was lying.

His room was exactly what you'd expect from student accommodation. Single bed, desk covered in books, clothes draped over the chair. It smelled like aftershave and coffee and that particular scent of young men - something between soap and possibility.

"Drink?" he asked, producing a bottle of whisky from somewhere.

"God yes."

He poured two generous measures into coffee mugs. Definitely not his first time entertaining in these circumstances. How many other women had stood in this exact spot, looking around this exact room, making this exact decision?

"Cheers," he said, handing me a mug.

"To bad decisions."

"To excellent decisions made for the right reasons."

The whisky burned going down. Good whisky. Expensive.

"How many?" I asked.

"How many what?"

"Women. In this room."

He considered the question seriously. "You're the first married one."

"That's not what I asked."

"Does it matter?"

"No. Yes. I don't know."

He set down his mug and moved closer. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the faint scar above his left eyebrow.

"You're thinking too much," he said.

"It's what I do."

"Stop."

He kissed me then. Gentle at first, almost hesitant, then harder when I responded. His hands found my face, my hair, pulling me closer. I tasted whisky and want and something indefinably young.

When we broke apart, I was breathing hard.

"I should go," I said.

"Should you?"

"Yes."

"Will you?"

There was a knock at the door.

We froze. James looked at me, panicked.

"Expecting someone?" I whispered.

"No. Maybe Hugo?"

Another knock, more insistent.

"James? You in there mate?"

Not Hugo. Someone else. Someone with a posh accent and the confidence of someone who'd never been told no.

"Fuck," James muttered. "It's Freddie."

"Freddie?"

"Housemate. Probably drunk."

"James! Open up! I know you're in there!"

I looked around the room frantically. No escape route unless I fancied climbing out a third-floor window.

"Hide in the bathroom," James whispered.

"Are you serious?"

"Just for a minute. Till I get rid of him."

Ridiculous. This was ridiculous. I was forty-five years old, hiding in a student bathroom like a teenager. But I did it anyway, slipping into the tiny ensuite just as James opened the door.

"Freddie! What's up?"

"Mate, you'll never guess what just happened. Remember that bird from the wine bar? The older one?"

My blood turned to ice.

"Which one?" James's voice was carefully neutral.

"The one with the amazing tits. Sarah something. Turns out Hugo's pulled her mate! They're back at hers now. Apparently she's gagging for it. Thought you might want to know in case you fancied a go with the other one."

I pressed my back against the bathroom door.

Grateful. Gagging for it. MILF.

Fuck him. Fuck all of them. Fuck Richard too, with his "can't wait to taste you again." Let them see grateful. Let them fucking see.

"Right," James said. His voice had gone flat. "Good for Hugo."

"So where is she then? The one you were chatting up? Sarah?"

"Gone home. Wasn't interested."

"Shame. Bet she'd have been grateful. You know how these older birds are. Probably hasn't had a proper seeing-to in years."

My hands were shaking. Rage or shame or both. Couldn't tell. Didn't care.

"Freddie, I'm knackered. Can we catch up tomorrow?"

"Course mate. Just thought you'd want to know about Hugo's conquest. He's sending photos."

"Photos?"

"Nothing too graphic. Just her tits. Nice for her age actually."

The door closed. James's footsteps across the room. Silence.

I stood in that tiny bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. Lipstick smeared. Hair coming undone. Middle-aged woman drinking too much making terrible decisions.

Grateful. They think I'm here to be used? Fine. I'll take the power. I'll make the rules. The whisky was still burning... I wasn't an object anymore; I was a consequence. Fuck it. All of it. I opened the bathroom door.

James was sitting on his narrow bed, head in his hands. He looked up when he heard me, startled.

"I thought you'd left."

"So did I."

We stared at each other. Voices in the corridor outside. Someone playing music too loudly from another room. Normal university sounds. Normal Saturday night.

"Everything Freddie said..." James started.

"I heard."

"I'm not like that. I'm not like them."

"Aren't you?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Because what could he say? Twenty-four years old, expensive education, expensive clothes. Born into a world where women like me were entertainment.

"Maybe you are," I said, moving closer. "Maybe that's exactly what you are."

Something shifted in his face.

"Sarah..."

"Maybe I am grateful," I continued. The whisky talking now. The wine. The anger. The fucking rage at being forty-five and invisible and married to a man who looked through me. "Maybe I haven't had a proper seeing-to in years."

I was standing right in front of him now.

"Maybe I want to be grateful."

He reached for me then, pulling me down onto the bed. His mouth found mine, hungrier this time, less careful.

My dress was already half-undone from earlier. His hands found the zip, pulled it down. I wasn't wearing a bra. Hadn't been all night. The dress was too fitted. Now James was staring at my breasts.

"Christ," he breathed.

I pulled back from the kiss, looking directly at him. "Do you have your phone?"

He looked confused but reached for it on the bedside table. "Why?"

"Take a photo."

"Are you serious?"

"Like Hugo did. Like they all do." Already topless, sitting on his bed in nothing but my black stockings and knickers. "I want evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"That this happened. That I was here."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then he lifted the phone.

The camera sound was sharp in the quiet room. Once. Twice. I posed for him, feeling powerful and reckless.

There was a knock at the door.

We both froze.

"James?" It was Hugo's voice. "You in there?"

I looked at James, and instead of the panic he expected, I gave him a slow smile. "Come in."

"Sarah!" James hissed.

"It's not locked," I said louder.

The door opened. Hugo stepped inside, took one look at me sitting topless on James's bed, and grinned.

"Well, well."

"Hello, Hugo," I said, not covering myself. "How's Priya?"

"Passed out in her hotel room about an hour ago." He closed the door behind him, leaning against it. "I was just coming to tell James about my evening, but it looks like he's having one of his own."

I gestured to the phone in James's hand. "Were you going to show him the photos?"

"What photos?" Hugo asked, puzzled.

"Of Priya. The ones Freddie mentioned."

Hugo had the grace to look embarrassed. "That was just talk."

"Show me."

He hesitated, then pulled out his phone. Scrolled through. Found what he was looking for. Turned the screen towards me.

Priya looked beautiful in the photo. Radiant. She was smiling directly at the camera.

"She wanted you to take it," I observed.

"Yeah. Said her ex-husband never made her feel sexy. Wanted proof that someone still did."

I understood that.

"What about you?" I asked James, my voice low and challenging. "Do you want to make me feel sexy?"

"You already are sexy."

"Prove it."

Hugo was already moving closer, his Ralph Lauren jumper coming off over his head. Youth and good genes.

I reached down, pulled off my knickers, and tossed them to James. "Keep these. Show your friends. Tell them about the MILF who fucked you both."

"Jesus Christ," Hugo breathed.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I admitted.

"Neither do we," James said, still staring at the black lace in his hand.

I pulled James down to kiss me, then stood, climbing onto the narrow bed. I looked down at both of them - Bloody hell, what was I doing - but the thought dissolved as quickly as it came. "I want both of you," I said, and hearing myself say it made it real. Made me someone who could say things like that.

They hesitated, looking at each other. Some unspoken boy communication I wasn't privy to. Then James moved first, his hands on my hips. Hugo moved closer but something wasn't - he wasn't quite -

Oh god. He couldn't get hard.

The alcohol probably. Or nerves. Or the sheer fucking absurdity of the situation. His face was going red even in the dark.