One Drink Only

Date: 7/15/2026

I’ve been invited to a party. I know. Take a moment. I’m just as surprised as you are. Post-lockdown, my social life has dwindled into little more than dust quietly gathering in the corners of my life. Somewhere along the line, I slowly retreated from the world… and if I’m honest, I never really found my way back again. Which is odd. Because once upon a time, I was genuinely quite sociable. A social butterfly, if you will. Not one of those graceful butterflies that drift effortlessly from flower to flower, mind you. More the sort that ricochets off conservatory windows after four glasses of Pinot Grigio before somehow ending up upside down in a hanging basket. Still… My calendar used to be gloriously chaotic. Dinner parties. Barbecues. Birthday nights out. Firepit Fridays. Random Tuesdays that somehow became midnight. People dropping by because “they just happened to be passing” — which was always a blatant lie because nobody accidentally passes my house. Now? The calendar remains spectacularly empty. Apart from Sacred Monday with my mum — our weekly pilgrimage involving garden centres, coffee, and pretending we’re “just popping into one shop” before somehow leaving three hours later. Then there’s the occasional catch-up with my friend Ash, which is less of a conversation and more of a three-hour verbal marathon where I nod encouragingly, make the appropriate facial expressions, and occasionally remember to blink. So when an invitation drops through my letterbox from my old friend Liz… An actual invitation. On proper card. Like it’s 1997 and nobody’s heard of WhatsApp. …it fills me with equal parts excitement and the dawning horror that I might actually have to leave the house and pretend I know how to talk to people. Who sends invitations anymore? Honestly, Liz… just text me. Save a tree. Save me. I leave it on the kitchen side for the rest of the day, walking past it every so often as though it’s a parking ticket that’s somehow going to disappear if I ignore it long enough. Eventually… I say yes. Because that’s what sensible adults do. Isn’t it? They push themselves. They reconnect. They accept invitations without mentally rehearsing seventeen different excuses to cancel. They dust themselves off and rejoin civilisation. I can’t spend the rest of my life living like a hermit crab. Although, in fairness, hermit crabs have absolutely nailed the whole “leave me alone in my shell” lifestyle. Then Friday arrives. Far sooner than feels remotely reasonable. One moment I’m feeling quite pleased with myself for saying yes… The next I’m standing outside Liz’s front door wondering whether I can fake my own disappearance. Her white Audi sits proudly on the driveway beneath its personalised number plate. She’s definitely home. Bugger. I could still leave. She hasn’t seen me yet. I could quietly turn around and be halfway down the road before anyone even knows I came. If anyone asks, I’ll say I was abducted by swans. People underestimate swans. They look majestic… Right up until they’re chasing you across the car park with murder in their eyes. They’re basically feathered sociopaths. Worst of all… I’ve arrived empty-handed. No bottle of wine. No emergency Prosecco. No liquid confidence tucked discreetly under my arm. Normally I’d turn up armed with enough Dutch courage to tranquilise a small horse. Tonight? Nothing. I’m choosing to believe Tesco Express simply ran out. It’s healthier than admitting I’d deliberately come unarmed. Liz opens the door. “Oh…” Oh? Just… …Oh? It’s not quite the greeting I’d spent the entire journey imagining. I’d pictured something along the lines of — “PANDAAAAA!” — followed by a hug that lasts slightly too long, and someone immediately thrusting a drink into my hand. Instead… She just sort of… looks at me. Not pleased. Not disappointed either. Just faintly underwhelmed. Like she’d ordered something exciting online… and I’d arrived instead. “Shall I… come in?” “Can do.” Can do? Not “Of course.” Not “Come here, you!” Not even “I’ve missed you.” Just… Can do. Before I’ve even stepped inside, she presses a small piece of card into my hand. Three words. ONE DRINK ONLY. I blink. Surely this is a joke. It has to be. I know the cost of living has gone up… …but rationing the guests feels like taking things a little too far. I follow her into the open-plan lounge, where clusters of people stand around performing the ancient British ritual known as Pretending To Enjoy Themselves. The conversation limps awkwardly from weather… to holidays… back to weather again. Good grief. This isn’t a party. It’s a networking event for people who’ve forgotten how to network. Or a hostage situation with hummus. Liz appears beside me carrying a glass of rosé. At last. She pours me a glass. Not sparkling. Not chilled within an inch of its life. Not poured into one of those gloriously irresponsible fishbowl glasses capable of holding an entire bottle of wine. Just… a perfectly sensible little wine glass. I take a sip. Then another. I tell myself to slow down. To make it last. Honestly, I do. For almost five whole minutes. But this is me. Or at least… the version of me I’ve spent years bringing to parties. The woman who quietly convinced herself wine wasn’t something she drank… It was something she wore. An invisible life jacket I could pull on before stepping into a room full of people. Slip it on, and suddenly conversations felt easier. Jokes came quicker. Eye contact lasted longer. The anxious voice in my head finally shut up for five blessed minutes. I don’t sip. I never have. I neck. Before I’ve properly introduced myself to half of the room, my glass is empty. Brilliant. Now I have to be myself. Stone-cold sober. Jesus Christ. I glance around the room. Sophie and Christian hover beside the kitchen island, holding onto their wine glasses like they’re emotional support beverages. Jenni and Stove sit together on the sofa, both wearing the polite, fixed smiles of people who’ve run out of things to say twenty minutes ago but are determined to see it through. Then there are unfamiliar faces. Or perhaps they’re perfectly familiar. Perhaps I’ve met them before. Perhaps I introduced myself to them three times at somebody’s barbecue in 2018 and simply have no memory of it. It’s surprisingly difficult to build lasting memories when you’ve spent the evening pickling your brain in Pinot Grigio. I don’t really drink much anymore. Hardly ever, actually. Because drinking was never about the alcohol. Not for me. It was about borrowing someone else’s confidence. About silencing the little voice that insists I’m saying the wrong thing… standing the wrong way… existing too awkwardly. Wine didn’t make me a different person. It simply made me stop overthinking the person I already was. For a while… It felt like freedom. Until it didn’t. Of course… there was always a point where Sensible Amanda quietly gathered her things, wished everyone a lovely evening, and slipped out the back door… …leaving Drunk Amanda enthusiastically in charge. Drunk Amanda has absolutely no sense of self-preservation. Because nobody ever talks about the deal you quietly make with yourself. For a few glorious hours, the fear disappears. You stop analysing every sentence before it leaves your mouth. You stop wondering whether people like you. You stop performing the exhausting job of trying to appear normal. The trouble is… you eventually sober up. And suddenly, you’re left alone with yourself again. Because Drunk Amanda has a remarkable talent for creating memories Sober Amanda would rather forget. Like asking a heavily bearded man if he was a woman. To be fair… he had magnificent hair. Pantene-level magnificent. She also develops an overwhelming belief that everyone secretly finds her irresistible. Men. Women. People waiting at bus stops. Potentially garden furniture. After enough wine, humanity becomes alarmingly attractive. Every joke becomes hilarious. Every story is fascinating. Every stranger feels like someone I’ve known my whole life. I become the sort of woman who laughs too loudly, touches people’s arms far too often and, on more than one occasion, has floated the idea of a threesome as I’m though asking if anyone fancies another round of drinks. Entirely hypothetical. Entirely unwanted. Entirely to my husband’s horror. Needless to say… they never happen. Then there are the sneezes. A glorious family inheritance from my dad. The more wine I drink… the more my nose apparently decides it’s allergic to happiness. “AAAAA-CHOOOO!” Again. Again. Again. It’s remarkably difficult to appear mysterious and alluring when you’re repeatedly firing atomised Sauvignon Blanc over innocent bystanders. Then comes the next morning. And with it… the reckoning. The laughter evaporates overnight. The confidence swirls down the drain like the last dregs of wine. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling while my brain replays the previous evening on an endless loop. What did I say? Who did I embarrass? Did I overshare? Flirt with someone? Suggest another entirely fictional threesome? Or worse… was I simply not as funny as I thought I was? Nobody else is thinking about any of this. They’re all getting on with their day. Meanwhile, I’m conducting a forensic investigation into my own personality. That’s the deal you make. The confidence is only ever borrowed. The shame comes to collect it. I glance down at my empty glass. Even now, I’m still holding it. Like letting go might somehow expose me. Dutch courage. Jesus juice. Call it whatever you like. Without it… I don’t know what to do with my hands. Or my face. Or my voice. I perch awkwardly on the edge of the sofa, wondering how everybody else seems to know the rules. When to speak. When to laugh. How to belong. And I can’t help but wonder… Are they pretending too? I wish I’d stayed home. I’d already be in my pyjamas by now. Curled beneath a blanket. Remote in hand. The outside world can fuck right off. But… I’m here. I chose to come. Admittedly, under the wildly optimistic impression there’d be significantly more wine. The evening drifts on. Conversation never really flows. It just… sits there. As stagnant as the Robinson’s fruit squash now warming in my hand. I glance towards the door. Nobody would notice if I slipped away now. I could fake food poisoning. Claim I’ve left the oven on. Pretend Monkey had developed opposable thumbs and has texted to say there’s an emergency at home. Honestly… every excuse feels entirely reasonable. Then… I look at Liz. Really look. And I see it. She’s not enjoying herself either. She’s wandering around her own party wearing the same polite smile I’ve been wearing all night. Smiling because that’s what hosts do. This isn’t the evening she’d imagined. The woman who once filled rooms with laughter now looks like she’s trying to disappear into the wallpaper. The wild cat who once cracked bottles open with her bare teeth… And suddenly… I understand. Maybe this party wasn’t really about parties. Maybe it was about courage. Not the kind that comes in a wine glass… The kind that sends invitations anyway. The kind that opens your front door hoping people still come. The kind that admits you’ve forgotten how to do this. Maybe all of us had quietly drifted away from each other. Maybe all of us had forgotten how to gather. How to talk. How to simply… be together. So… I stay. Not because the party suddenly becomes the night of the year. It doesn’t. It remains every bit as aggressively average as the Robinson’s squash I’m still clutching. I wander over to Jenni and Stove. We begin what is quite possibly the least remarkable conversation held by three adults. Weather. Work. Air fryers. Whether anyone actually understands their smart meter. Nobody says anything particularly memorable. Nobody laughs until they cry. Nobody is dancing on table. And not a single offer of a threesome. Probably for the best. When I finally leave later that evening, I realise something. I’d spent years believing alcohol was the thing that carried me through nights like this. The thing that made me braver. Funnier. Easier to be around. But tonight, there was no liquid courage. No life jacket. No safety net. Just me. Awkward, anxious, and probably overthinking every conversation I’d had. But still there. Still standing. And maybe, for tonight, that was enough.