Page 70 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘Weekend Plans, 200, Wet Paint, Sleepover, HERO, TriggerTrigger … ’

So long as True Love aren’t playing I really don’t care. I haven’t spoken to Lowe in almost a year. Not since their album release. Not since they’ve blown up. Not since I can’t go anywhere without them being everywhere.

But I’m still looking for an excuse to stay at home and say, ‘Not my dream line-up … ’

‘No, Ella, don’t back out. You’re doing it,’ Bianca orders.

Aoife and Bianca are both sick with wanderlust and, this time, they’re determined not to leave me behind. Aoife is willing to blow her entire student loan in one summer and Bianca’s already quit her temping job. I’m definitely still playing the little sister. Unable to step into my big boots and catch up with them, I lag behind, unable to imagine the big world they’ve seen. The changes come out in little reminders, like when they can identify street food at Camden Market. Or when they wear their matching Havaianas and I’m in my plimsolls. Or the way they salute the sun and I sit, spine like a bent coat hanger, watching TV. And, of course, the eternal reminder is Bianca’s shit tattoo, which we all know doesn’t say ‘serendipity’.

‘Is it going to be … OK?’

Obviously, I’m PETRIFIED. But Aoife and Bianca aren’t; they’re like expert travellers now, explorers of the world.

‘For God’s sake, Ella, yes,’ Bianca says.

‘Elbow, listen,’ adds Aoife. ‘You are TWENTY years old! It will be exactly like going to a festival in the UK, just better because it will be hot and everyone will be in a good mood and fit.’

‘And nothing you do out there can come back to bite you on the arse cos you can leave it behind in Spain!’ Bianca screeches.

I know they think I’m boring. As far as they’re concerned, my life has stood still. Frozen in time like forgotten fishfingers. They’ve stepped out of their comfort zones; I’m just ticking along. I still live with Mum and Stepdad Adam, arguing over who ate the last onion bagel with Sonny and Violet. Still studying very un-Creative Writing at the same university. No boyfriend. Same job. Journeying only by writing love poems about ‘love’ when all I really know about love is Lowe. My pen is my battered passport. Whereas Aoife and Bianca have all these new experiences under their belt, names and numbers in their phones, big plans. They certainly aren’t fussed by the barriers of money: ‘It always works out,’ they reassure me, ‘what more do you need? Sun, sea, music! People will always help us if we get stuck.’ That sounds like begging to me. Freeloading. What kind of hippy chat is this? ‘Besides, this is what money is for!’ Aoife says. Yeah, no shit, because I’m the only one with a job right now. They think I’m uptight. But I’ve worked so hard at the hairdressers to save up for this damn festival – long enough to see a client’s spontaneous break-up head-shave grow out into Rapunzel’s luscious locks – so seeing the money go out of my account for festival tickets and a flight feels outrageous, luxurious, unnecessary, mostly because I can’t see myself actually doing any of this. Will I really see any of this through? But even the stylists at the salon are ushering me along now. I suppose it will give me will give me some new material to talk about at the basins when I get back.

The festival website is stressing me out: half of it’s in Spanish; there are all these different campsites – some are better than others apparently; there are tips in the reviews … warnings about overpriced bus tickets and dangerous, long, off-road walks that aren’t lit, about the extreme heat, drug dealers and touts. I try not to bore Aoife and Bianca with the mundane logistical stuff that’s keeping me awake at night like how will we get from the airport to the festival? Will our phones work out there? Can we drink the tap water? And where will we sleep? We don’t have a tent!

But Bianca has it all worked out. ‘We can take my cousin’s tent! It literally flings up in seconds. It’s like a palace.’

I’m yet to meet a tent that’s a palace but we say bye and hang up.

‘Why are you so stressed?’ Violet asks, judgmental and disgusted. Just because she’s studying Food Tech now she thinks she’s the only one who has the right to be stressed. She’s been trying to make us use different coloured boards to chop vegetables and protein but we don’t pay attention.

‘Have you ever been travelling?’ I ask dramatically.

‘Travelling? Ha! For eight days?’ Violet says. ‘Please.’ And walks off scoffing.

I change up my money. Write down some key phrases. It’s hard to pack summer clothes that are suitable for boiling weather and also demonstrate my sense of fashion. Sun cream, insect repellent. Sunglasses. Two days before we fly, I remind Bianca to borrow the tent from her cousins; we need to air it out before we go. ‘Will do,’ she says before asking her dad to pass her the remote. She’s not listening. I text again to remind her, not wanting to sound anxious, but I definitely am.

The day before we fly, Bianca organizes another three-way call.

‘So … about the tent.’

‘What?’

‘It’s currently in the New Forest,’ Bianca says, without apologizing. Typical.

‘What? So where are we gonna sleep?’

‘Under the stars! It’s just a tent. Loosen up.’

‘Errr no,’ Aoife snaps.

‘You’ve got to be joking, Bianca; we’ll get bitten to death. Or RAPED.’

‘Ella’s right. I fucking hate rapists. Why can’t men just leave us alone? Let us sleep, man.’

I don’t really understand how the added millimetre shield made of polyester, nylon and a zip is going to act as a rape preventative, but I’ve got enough to worry about already before catastrophizing. Why didn’t she sort the tent before now?

‘Well, I know we don’t have one,’ I say. One of the only things my parents do still have in common is that they both hate camping.

‘Ugh, I think we have one,’ Aoife offers. ‘But it’s a hundred years old and weighs a ton; it really is a last resort.’

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