‘Here’s to our kids finally becoming adults,’ Bridget says. ‘Well, your three, anyway. Here’s to Harper, Beatriz and Daniel. A few weeks to graduation, then a long summer and bright futures ahead of them.’
Our hostess pushes aside her plate and leans forward to refill our glasses.
I say ‘refill’. Bridget only poured the champagne a few minutes ago, so the rest of us have barely made a start. Her own glass is already empty, though. As are the three wine bottles that stand amid the remains of our dinner party.
Dear Bridge does like a drink. And tomorrow, she’ll complain that the hangover potion I brew her isn’t strong enough. But then, I’m a witch, not a miracle worker.