Our last night at Exton before Christmas had always meant pyjamas, bad festive films, too many snacks, and talking far later than was sensible.
This year, it also meant several bottles of illicit prosecco, because we were all finally old enough to be legally irresponsible.
"Pour her another one," Jen declares from the sofa, wrapped in a fluffy cream blanket like some sort of glamorous sea creature who has decided to winter on land.
Celine, cross-legged on the floor having painted her nails a deep wine red, pops the cork of our third bottle with far too much satisfaction.
"This is exactly why I like spending time with women," she says. "No one is trying to impress anyone. We are just here being gorgeous and enabling each other."
"I object," I say, holding out my glass anyway. "You are
