Jaeger-Bombed

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Olivia liked to claim she wasn’t posh, but she was; everything about her oozed money and class. She wasn’t ostentatious about it; there were no gaudy labels she didn’t order Verve when we went out on a Friday night, but the way she walked, the way she spoke, the way her clothes hung just so, told us that this was one classy girl. To be honest when we first met, I didn’t like her, her fragile porcelain features and dainty mannerisms made me want to smash her to smithereens but over time she grew on me, so it was sad to see her go. 
Every Friday night was pub night, we’d clock off at 5 and get into the Fox and Hounds. The cast changed every week, but Rich and I were the mainstays and recently, Olivia had been a regular too. She seemed to like our sense of humour although god knows why, seeing as most of our jokes were directed at her. But to be fair she gave as good as she got, and she had a hell of a potty mouth on her; even if the Fs and Cs came out a little unnatural from her well-bred lips.
A mixture of holidays, Christmas parties, sniffs and snuffles meant tonight it was just the three of us, but that didn’t matter, if anything that made it better, there were no politics, no minding our language, no making sure Nicola from accounts wasn’t eavesdropping on our gossip. We were free to laugh and joke and take the piss out of who we pleased. 
We were sitting up at the bar, me with my fifth or sixth Guinness, Rich with his lager and Olivia with her Prosecco, Then Rich had an idea. 
“Shall we have a Jaeger?” he said. 
“No Rich, no spirits, you know I can’t do spirits,” I said, but the protests fell of drunk ears. 
“Don’t be such a girl,” he said. 
“I’ve never had Jaeger,” Olivia said.
“What?” we both said. “Really? How can you be in your thirties and never have had a Jager?”
“I’m twenty nine,” Olivia said. 
“That’s settled it,” Rich said. “Barman!” he yelled, despite the fact the poor fella was only 2 foot away. “Three Jaegers please.”
 The three glasses landed in front of us. I looked at the evil spirit, cursing both my friend and the convention that said I had to drink it. 
“Okay, on three,” Rich said. “One, two, three.” 
We gulped back our drinks. 
“That’s lush,” Olivia said. “I can’t believe I’ve never had that before. Three more please.”
“No,” I said but I was ignored, three more drinks arrived and this time it was Olivia’s turn to count us in. 
“That’s it,” I said. 
“Oh yeah when it’s your round.” Rich said.
“Rich, I can’t.” 
“Three more,” he said, the bastard had hollow legs. But before the barman could act Olivia crashed off her stool.
“Fuck!” Rich giggled. 
“Fuck that affected her quick,” I said also trying to stifle laughter. But when I looked at her face I realised this was no laughing matter. 
“What the F?” 
“Call a fucking ambulance!” Rich yelled, falling to his knees and trying to resuscitate her, but it was too late, she was dead. 
We blamed ourselves of course, but how were we to know she was allergic to anise?