My Favourite Part

30: lover birds

My dad told me two things that stuck with me when he bought his pub. The relevant one was that I should never underestimate an inebriate's ability to be profoundly entertaining or entertainingly profound. We're on our way home, and currently, this trainload of legless British socialites is proving him so very right.

Somehow the train back seemed busier than the train here, but Eric and I snagged an entire row to ourselves because the girls (friends of friends of friends of Pip) who were supposed to be sat here voted – drunkenly and amongst themselves, I might add – to give up their seats for the 'lover birds'. I told them they could sit with us, and Eric, ever the gentleman, insisted that we didn't need the whole row, and that there were enough seats for us all to sit down, but that only seemed to strengthen their resolve.

"Oh my god, you guys, they're so cute."

"So cute!"

"Nope! No! You two", one pointed at us, shaking a drunken finger and doing her best to steady herself, "are sitting together – right here. 's it. Final. Come on, girlies." Leading the legless line, they plopped themselves on the carpeted floor of the train, next to the 5 empty seats. Once Eric and I had accepted that they wouldn't budge, I shrugged and we took the seats, deciding to try and make it up to them by intervening in their drunk ramblings from time to time when things got teary or belligerent.

Eric had to pull Sasha and Georgina apart when Sasha called Georgina's fascinator the most fascinating thing about her, and currently, we're doing our very best to convince a blubbering Poppy that she will find love if she's open-mind about her... options. Well, I am. Eric's playing the silent support because he says a man has no place telling a woman how to feel about anything, and it makes me smile because it's exactly the sort of thing Mum would say.

"It's just, like, when I saw him today, I knew he was my soulmate, you know? Thanks, hun." She sniffles when Eric hands her his silk handkerchief since neither of us have any tissue. He's so sweet that he doesn't even flinch when she vigorously blows her nose in it. I do. "Like, I know there's nobody else."

"But Poppy, wh-" I stop short, preparing to say a string of words I never thought I would have to say, "what if Prince Harry isn't the only man out there for you?"

"But, Angie, they both had on cornflower blue today," Sasha garbles, all her words running together, "that means they're, like, written in the stars"

"But, like, I'll probably never see him again and that's so, like, sad."

"Shh, babe, don't say that," another one whispers, pressing her finger right against Poppy's lips, "if it's meant to be, you'll see him at Wimbledon." I'm not sure that's exactly how it works, but they're all sat in a coven-like circle, nodding their heads in agreement, and I sure as hell won't interrupt.

"You're so right. But, guys," Poppy whines, and the waterworks are threatening to start again, "what about his wife? She's like properly lush."

"Meghan? Pfft, babe, she might have the accent and the ring or whatever, but you – you have the soul."

"Yeah! And way nicer dimples."

"Aw, guys! Sto-op, I'm gonna start crying. D'you really think so?"

We've lost them, and Eric and I eye each other before he hides his laugh against my neck, and snuggles up close, resting his head on my shoulder. I relax against him, breathing in the faint smell of cedarwood.

I can feel my eyes slowly closing, but I straighten my posture and blink a few times, resisting sleep.

When Eric feels me tense up, he chuckles,