Ophelia was good at many things.

Reading Chaucer with the correct pronunciation. Quoting the lyrics to indie rock songs. Biking back from a farmer's market balancing a basket of bread and cheese, which meant riding without holding the handlebars.

Drinking, however, wasn't one of them.

Unfortunately, Ophelia remembered this around her sixth tequila shot, by which point the room had already started to spin. Damn her competitive streak. Louise had been an Olympic gin drinker since they were teenagers; Ophelia, on the other hand, still struggled to open a corked bottle of wine.

She should never have tried to keep up with her.

But alas.

She forced herself to try to focus on things. The low, sloping ceiling. The sticky brown tabletops. The oil painting of a stern-looking man in a grey wig. But all of it was pleasantly blurry, glittering like a mirage rising above red sand dunes.

"I'm drunk," Ophelia declared. "Extremely drunk, in fact." She pulled a ratty menu towards her, squinting at the floating black letters. "What on earth are crisps?"

"Chips," Louise translated.

Ophelia tapped the menu. "Then what are chips?"

"Fries."

"You know what?" Ophelia shook her head. "I'll just get both."

It had only been a few hours since they'd eaten, but vegetable pakoras could only get you so far. Besides, Ophelia needed to sober up; she sensed that she was heading for a cliff edge, and only greasy food could prevent her from falling.

She crossed unsteadily to the bar, ordering both from a bored-looking young man with a lip piercing. He continued to grow unimpressed as she fumbled with the foreign silver coins, mixing up the five and ten pence, and she let out a sigh of relief when Louise came over to help.

Louise guided her back to the table. "You've been this drunk before, right?"

"Of course I have."

"Like when?"

"Last year, remember?"

It had been Ophelia's second — and last — time at a bar, in fact. The night had been a blur of cocktails and dingy lighting, and it had ended with a horrible cab ride, a misplaced bag of drugs, and her cousin Sophia making international headlines and being subsequently forced to move across the country.

But, you know.

A story for another time.

Both of their phones buzzed. Ophelia squinted down at the screen, trying to make the blue and green bubbles stop moving. Louise grinned.

"It's from Sophia," she explained. "She's reminding you to drink water."

Ophelia groaned. "She's about three hours too late."

"Do you want to text her?"

"Absolutely not."

Ophelia loved her cousin, but she was terrified of her; Sophia had a tongue sharper than a paper cut. Some days, Ophelia felt like she had spent most of her life feeling exasperated, usually by Sophia or Louise or a combination of both. Thank god for their fourth friend, Ella; her quiet sweetness balanced them all out.

Ophelia frowned. It was a miracle that they were all friends, actually; they had clicked more than a decade ago at Lovewood Academy, a private boarding school in Toronto. She was grateful for that. Their shared history.

She wasn't sure if they would connect as well, now.

They were just all so different; Louise had the headstrong impulsiveness of Elizabeth Bennet, while Sophia was the sophisticated — and occasionally snobbish — Caroline Bingley. And Ella was more like Jane Bennet: kind and unassuming.

And Ophelia was...

Well, she wasn't sure what she was.

Drunk, currently.

She let out a sigh of relief as their food arrived, immediately digging into the fries. Or, er, chips. Whatever they were called. The warm potato tasted heavenly, and she had to forcefully restrain herself from stuffing fistfuls into her mouth.

"Fi." Louise nudged her. "Fi! That guy is staring at you."

"Hmmm?"

"Over there."

Ophelia followed her gaze and then froze, a fry halfway to her mouth.

Oh, dear god. Was that...? No. It couldn't be. Her tequila-addled brain was clearly hallucinating things. There was no way that he was actually here.

Digby caught her eye and grinned.

"Dickens!" he called.

Ophelia almost choked on her fry.

Digby was sitting at a scrubbed wooden table, his white collared shirt rolled up to his forearms. His cheeks were flushed with drunk. Before she could fully process what was happening, he had hopped to his feet, making his way towards them.

Ophelia set down the fry, her heart pounding.

Thankfully, none of the other three people at Digby's table looked up. One of the men was tucking into a plate of fish and chips with gusto, and the other man — a haughty blond — was currently snapping at an angry-looking woman.

Yikes.

"Small world," Digby said, grinning. "Or small city, rather." He nodded at Louise. "This is your impatient friend, I take it?"

Ophelia opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Work brain, she thought desperately. For god's sake. Just string a sentence together. Literally any sentence.

Fortunately, Louise stepped in.

"I'm Louise," she said, offering her hand. "Ophelia's friend."

"Digby."

They shook. Digby plopped into a chair, helping himself to one of the fries. A crumb caught on his lips and Ophelia couldn't stop staring at it.

Stupid, tempting crumb.

"So," Digby said. "One of you has an American accent, and the other one is English." He popped a second fry into his mouth. "How did that happen?"

"Canadian," Ophelia said quickly.

"What?"

"I'm Canadian."

"Interesting."

Digby leaned forward, clearly inviting her to continue. Unfortunately, Ophelia's brain decided to go blank again. She fidgeted with a paper coaster. Damn her shyness. Why was she like this? Why couldn't she just speak to hot men like a normal person?

Louise cleared her throat. "We grew up together," she explained. "In Canada."

"Oh, really?"

She tuned out slightly as Louise regaled Digby with tales from Lovewood Academy, including a hilarious anecdote involving an escaped pig, black tar, and a sackful of feathers. Her face glowed as she spoke, and her hands flew about her like two small doves. Digby threw back his head and laughed.

Ophelia felt a small stab of jealousy. Louise was just so good at this; she was naturally charming in a way that Ophelia could never be.

She bent the edges of the coaster. Her tattoo winked up at her. It was hardly a tattoo at all — just three black dots on her left index finger — but the sight of it calmed her.

Louise's voice, however, did not.

"Awfully bold of you to eat all of our chips."

Digby patted his stomach. "I'm a growing boy."

"Oh?" Louise smirked. "Which part of you, exactly?"

Digby roared with laughter, and Ophelia's stomach twisted. She knew that Louise wasn't trying to flirt with the love of her life, but god — she could tone it down a bit. To her horror, Digby winked at Louise.

"Stick around and find out, love."

Nope.

Ophelia wasn't about to watch this anymore.

She scraped back her chair. Both Louise and Digby turned to her in surprise, but Ophelia no longer cared; the room was stretching out like Play-Doh, and she felt like the floor was rocking under her feet.

"I feel sick," she declared. "I'm going to get some air."

Louise shot up from the table. "I'll come with you."

"No!" Ophelia closed her eyes. "No, don't."

God, that was the last thing she needed; Louise would fuss, and then demand to know what was wrong, and Ophelia would have to explain that she was irrationally jealous of Louise flirting with a man that she had spoken maybe five sentences to.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

"Stay here," Ophelia said. "I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Louise cast her a doubtful look, but she sunk down obediently in her seat. Digby frowned up at her. "Do you need water? I can get you some."

Ophelia couldn't help but melt a little. Was that concern in his voice?

"I just need some air," she reassured him. "I'll be back in a moment."

Ophelia stumbled across the pub, pushing her way through the front door. Or at least, she thought it was the front door; she blinked. She appeared to have emerged in a narrow, cobblestone alleyway.

What the hell?

She scanned her surroundings. Heaps of rubbish were stacked by the door, and the only light came from a black iron lamp, jutting out from the brick wall like a curling treble clef. Nope. Definitely not the front door.

The door swung open.

Instinctively, Ophelia shrunk back into the shadows. A blonde girl stormed through the door, quickly followed by a man, who slammed the door behind him.

"What the hell, Eleanora?"

The girl — Eleanora, clearly — spun around. "Don't start with me."

"Didn't you get the flowers?"

She laughed bitterly. "It was our anniversary, Andrew. Our anniversary! Do you know what an idiot I looked like waiting for you at that table?" She shook her head. "Flowers aren't going to cut it this time."

Ophelia frowned. Wait. She knew them. But from where? Oh, right; they were the couple sitting with Digby in the pub. The pair that had been squabbling.

And apparently, they hadn't stopped.

The man — Andrew — took a step forward. "I told you; I had to leave for Cornwall. It was important."

"More important than me?"

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to."

Eleanora stepped into the light, and for the first time, Ophelia could see her properly. Blonde, wispy hair. Upturned button nose. Lips as thin as an afterthought. She lit a cigarette, taking a deep pull on it.

"You always do this," she said, more quietly this time.

"Do what?"

"This." She gestured between them. "You ruin things."

"Eleanora..."

"Remember when we first started dating?" she asked. "You used to leave me funny notes. Or cook me dinner on Sundays." She tipped her head back, blowing smoke into the black sky. "I miss those days."

"I've been busy."

"So I've heard," Eleanora said. "What's her name this week? Tiff? Millie?"

Ophelia swallowed. Oh, god. This was getting way too personal. She glanced desperately to the door, but Andrew was still standing in front of it, his tall frame blocking her exit. Shit. She'd just have to wait it out, then.

Andrew's face was impassive. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't treat me like an idiot," Eleanora said sharply. "I know you've been seeing other women. But I forgave you for them, forgave you for all of it..." She blew out smoke. "And for what? To be treated like this?"

"So why did you stay?"

Eleanora stared at him. "Really? That's all you have to say?"

"Would you feel better if I denied it?"

Eleanora laughed. It was a humorless laugh, tinged with a sort of bleakness that made Ophelia shiver. She watched as the other girl dropped the cigarette, grinding it into the pavement with her heel.

"You know what, Andrew? You're a real arsehole."

"Eleanora—"

"No!" She held up a hand. "I'm done. Have a nice life."

She stormed back into the pub. Andrew let out a long breath, stepping into the lamp's yellow glow. He ran a hand through his blond hair, staring down at the crushed cigarette mournfully. Ophelia couldn't help it; she felt a twinge of sympathy. Sure, the man sounded like a raging asshole, but she had always had a soft spot for the Sydney Cartons of the world.

She held her breath as Andrew straightened. Thank god. Was he finally going back into the pub? He turned, starting towards the door—

Andrew's eyes landed on her, and he inhaled sharply.

"Who the hell are you?"

A/N: Happy Wednesday everyone!

Eek thank-you so much for all of your votes and comments yesterday — they seriously made my whole week!

The pub in this chapter is inspired by Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese in London, which I went to a few years ago (there was also an extremely drunk stag do singing on a table when I went, which really enhanced the whole experience for me lol).

We've also officially met Andrew now! What does everyone think so far?

Affectionately,

J.K.