**A Night Out at the Restaurant**
“Off we go for an adventure!” said the inseparable best friends, tossing their suitcases into the boot. The train departed right on schedule and arrived—without a hitch—promptly at eight in the morning.
But let’s start at the beginning.
Summer was in full swing. June had zoomed by like a jet, leaving behind no memorable impressions. Yes, the first month of summer had melted away like ice cream in a sundae glass, vanishing into the endless whirl of daily struggles. Life, after all, rushes just as swiftly toward its finale—fleeting, transitory, and hectic.
And just like that, July crept up unnoticed, turned the key, and strolled right into their lives without knocking.
Those who work a Monday-to-Friday job know all too well the emotional struggle of slogging through those final hours before holiday—your mind is already on the beach, but your weary body is still stuck at the desk. Clenching their fists, they endured, patiently waiting for freedom.
To future holidaygoers, customers seemed unbearably fussy, bosses unfairly critical, and time dragged unbearably slow.
“Someone must’ve glued the hour hand in place,” thought Emily, eyeing the clock. “I need this holiday already.”
Her heart raced at the promise of escape, her soul eager for carefree relaxation.
“I fancy sweetcorn, pickled mussels, and prawns,” muttered Charlotte, once the latest customer had left.
The girls dreamed of treating themselves to a fine Scotch whisky, too—its rich aroma, deep amber hue, and lingering finish never failed to impress. True, the proud and noble spirit could play tricks on the unwary, but let bygones be bygones, eh? Folks always seemed to forget the second half of that saying, but no need to dwell on that now.
“Fancy a swim?” they asked each other during lunch. “What’s stopping us?”
With the way things were, their choice was obvious—foreign getaways were hopelessly out of budget, and no other options even crossed their minds. They settled on Brighton.
Finally, the dream of these thrill-seeking, slightly reckless, ever-optimistic best friends was coming true! Though, was it even doable?
“Everyone will be green with envy, so let’s keep this under wraps,” the girls agreed before diving into packing.
Now, who can tell me how to cram endless outfits, shoes, cosmetics, creams, and all sorts of other “essentials” (most of which could easily be done without) into one suitcase? For women, it’s an impossible task—on par with solving Fermat’s Last Theorem.
And yet, there they were—by the sea. Gentle waves lapped at the shore. Loud gulls wheeled overhead, scanning the water for prey. Paradise!
Beachgoers soaked up the illusion of serenity, nibbling salted peanuts and crisps, washing them down with cold lager straight from the bottle. Kids happily devoured buttery pasties and greasy fish and chips.
“Smile! Chin up! Right foot forward—perfect!” Emily directed, snapping photos of Charlotte by the water.
“Now with the watermelon. Gorgeous shot!” she said, wiping sweat from her brow. “Your turn.”
A seaside photoshoot—now that’s an ordeal! The girls had to look tanned, toned, and, ideally, free of puffy eyes. Sure, everyone knows a late-night pint won’t do your complexion any favours, but on holiday? Why not indulge?
“Charlie! What on earth? How’d you manage to make me look like I’m snarling? Couldn’t you say something?” Emily huffed. “Hold the phone properly—one tap, not fifty! Ugh. I’ll do it myself.”
Charlotte, bristling, nearly stormed off for a swim, but Emily wasn’t done.
“Don’t sulk! C’mere, gorgeous—one last snap with the melon, lavender, and wineglasses. Big smile! Got it!”
The photos turned out surprisingly well.
“Em, we should celebrate our photoshoot success. How about dinner tonight?” Charlotte offered peaceably.
“Brilliant! I’ll take lobster and champagne,” Emily grinned, already imagining herself in some posh bistro, reclining with a flute of bubbly.
No sooner said than done. Dressed in their finest, the giddy pair set off that very evening.
The restaurant visit seemed harmless—little did they know they’d attempt this more than once.
The dining room was quiet.
“Let’s grab that table by the window,” Charlotte suggested.
“Apologies, but that’s reserved,” the waitress said regretfully. “How about the one by the pillar?”
“It started so well!” Charlotte sighed, scanning the menu. “I wanted sea views with supper. She only said it was booked so we’d pay extra. Oh well, we’ll manage.”
“What?! Two hundred grams of grilled scallop salad for the price of my secondhand Mini?” Emily gasped.
“Rocket with prawns—two-forty grams. For that, I could buy a wingtip off a plane!” Charlotte fumed.
“Maybe the wine list’s better,” Emily muttered, flipping through glossy pages.
Silence.
“Hundred fifty quid for a glass? Outrageous. Charlie, you know that’s barely a sip for us. We’d need twice that, and that’s not in the budget. I was hoping to return debt-free!”
“Let’s duck out quietly and find somewhere else,” Charlotte whispered. “Go first—I’ll follow.”
Outside, they burst into laughter.
“Like a pair of schoolkids!” Emily giggled. “At least we got the photos. No one’ll guess we bolted. There’s a cute place round the corner—I’m starving.”
First, they snapped photos on the red-carpet step-and-repeat.
Seated inside, Charlotte sighed, “Em, you know I’m up for anything—except starvation or smelling salts. But this is a month’s wages, easy. I’m off to the loo. Grab our bags in five.”
Attempt two: foiled. Maybe third time lucky?
“Look how busy this one is—prices must be decent,” Emily said, tugging Charlotte inside.
The host seated them by a grand aquarium where goldfish (or so they fancied) winked conspiratorially.
“Still no luck,” Emily muttered, eyeing the menu. “Right. Time for theatrics. Watch and learn!”
She signalled the waiter, snapped the menu shut, and crossed her legs—showcasing sun-kissed knees—before tossing her head back, diamond-drop earrings swaying.
“Darling,” she cooed, “we’ll start with an aperitif. A ’01 Pétrus Pomerol, please. I prefer red with seafood. Charlie, your usual—’00 Mouton Rothschild?”
Charlotte nodded.
“Now, beluga caviar, two bluefin tuna steaks with sesame oil—tell the chef not to ruin them. And Kumamoto oysters. Dessert? Carrot cake with truffle mousse. Oh, and do hurry—the tip reflects service.”
The waiter’s pen faltered. “One moment—I’ll fetch the manager.”
“What are you doing?!” Charlotte hissed. “Let’s leave before they throw us out!”
“Relax. The way out is the way in,” Emily smirked.
Soon, the flustered staff approached.
“Ladies, we don’t carry those dishes. May we recommend paella, mussels in cream, or risotto?”
“What a pity. Bring us a ’07 Lokoya Cabernet then.”
“Another regret—but please, have a complimentary Veuve Clicquot Brut.”
“We don’t drink French bubbly. Since you’ve nothing fit for us, we’ll take our custom elsewhere.”
Regal as queens, they swept out.
Outside, Charlotte groaned, “We could’ve had free champagne!”
“Nothing’s ever free,” Emily retorted.
“Home, then? Grab instant noodles, Prosecco, and tinned tuna on the way. At least your drama lessons paid off—I almost believed you!”
“Who knows? Supermarket first.”
Silently, they bought plastic flutes, cured meats, chocolate, and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
The cashier eyed their frowns. “Go easy, alright?”
Kicking off sandals, they dashed down to the beach, cracked open the whiskey, and gazed at the moonlit waves as sirens wailed overhead.
You can’t defeat a nation with women like these.
