Free Cocktails in Chelsea by Nikki Moore Page A

they'd watched it a load of times as teens.
    She studied the embossed ivory drinks menu. The booklet was thick, the cocktail list vast; champagne based, gin based, rum based, vodka based, whisky based, exotic, with a twist and traditional. She’d have preferred to stay in tonight after this morning’s tiring, chilly coach trip to Victoria and the stuffy, harried tube journey from there to Chelsea, but the cocktails would definitely serve as compensation for having to leave the house
    Running a polished oval nail down the list of vodka cocktails, she frowned, feeling like her hands belonged to someone else. The sisters had insisted she get her nails done and she'd agreed out of courtesy, and she had to admit the French manicure with the light pink overlay was kind of pretty. It wasn’t a word she usually associated with herself. Not that she was complaining. She loved her life, the adrenaline thrill of all the outdoorsy stuff she was into, so if the result was that she came across as a bit of a tomboy and wasn’t one of those glam girls that men chased, so what? It did however mean that tonight was her chance to be something different, so she should really just try and enjoy it. Once she was home, it was back to good old Sofia, hanging out with the guys she designed skate-parks with and her surfing buddies.
    Anyway, what was the worst that could happen over the next few days of the Easter Bank Holiday weekend? She could take in a bit of lively, diverse springtime London - eat, drink and see the sights - and hopefully sneak off to watch a footie match. She’d heard Chelsea were playing a home game against Stoke City on Saturday afternoon at Stamford Bridge. She chewed her lip and looked over at the other two girls. It was no wonder she felt out of place here. Tori and Christie probably wouldn’t be caught dead at a footie match full of chanting, sweaty, beery men and cheering women. Unless they sat with all the WAGs then they’d probably be right at home. Or maybe she was being too quick to judge. What did she really know about their lives nowadays? It’d been years since they’d spent any real time together.
    She looked at the bar again. 'Shall I go and get the drinks?'
    'Don't be silly,' Christie drawled, craning her head to look over Sofia's shoulder at someone. 'It’s table service.'
    'Its fine,' Sofia replied, smiling tightly, 'I'm not too sure what I fancy so I'll go and have a scope at the bar.'
    'Scope?' Christie repeated, looking faintly horrified.
    'Christie.' Tori chided in cultured tones, tucking an escaped strand of glossy chestnut hair behind a diamond-studded earlobe. 'Be nice.'
    'Nice is so boring.' Christie flapped a hand dismissively at her younger sister.
    Tori turned to Sofia, squeezing her upper arm. 'Ignore her. If you want to go to the bar, do. You may as well order us a bottle of Moet and give them Mummy's name while you’re there. We have a tab here.'
    'Okay, no probs,’ Sofia nodded, sliding off the stool.
    'Oh, Sofa?' Christie's voice cut through her. 'Please don't embarrass us.'
    Sofia heard Tori gasp her sister's name. She closed her eyes, counting to five in her head as slowly as possible.
Remember Mum
. 'Yes, Christie,' she gritted, opening them again. 'I'll try.’
Really hard not to strangle you with your ice-blonde ponytail.
    Sofa. The childhood name she’d always hated. Whenever their families got together - biannual short breaks at a fabulous holiday home in St Ives - she’d always felt like the fat girl because the sisters were both so effortlessly, elegantly slim. The nickname referred to the couple of extra pounds she’d carried until her mid-teens, later lost through swimming in the sea every morning, pier to pier from Boscombe to Bournemouth.
    Clanking across the floorboards in her high heels, she let out a long, loud sigh as she reached the bar. Resting her elbows on the wooden surface, she leaned forward to study the bottles in orderly rows inside the glass,