Page 71 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

Bianca calls us back. ‘Rob’s got one.’

Rob is Bianca’s toxic stoner ‘friend’ who is eight years older and the type of person our parents don’t like us using the internet because of. He scares the living day lights out of us because, well, let’s face it, he’s an actual man man.

Aoife hesitates.

‘What? You don’t want to sleep in Rob’s tent?’

‘It’s not that but … ’ Aoife tries but I take over.

‘I really don’t want to sleep in Rob’s tent; it will feel like sleeping in Rob’s bed. With his armpit hair, coffee breath and adult pubes.’

‘Look, we haven’t got a better option – I wanna get some weed to bring with us so I have to see him anyway.’

‘Bianca, you can’t bring weed to Spain!’ Aoife shouts.

‘You lemon, course you can! It’s Spain, it’s like going to … I dunno … Eastbourne. Chill. As. Fuck. Trust me.’

‘Get the tent but please don’t bring the weed and don’t forget to set your alarm – we’ve got our flight in the morning,’ I tell her.

‘Good idea … ’ Bianca says. ‘How do you set an alarm on your phone? Rob will show me. I’ll bring my passport to Rob’s in case I end up sleeping over – I can just leave from his in the morning.’

‘PLEASE DON’T DO THAT!’ I bark.

‘Are you sure you should sleep over? What about all your stuff? Is that a good idea?’ Aoife blurts.

‘Yes, don’t be ridiculous; it’ll be FINE.’

And lo and behold, at 4 a.m. my phone goes off. It’s Bianca.

What now?

She’s crying. ‘I had my passport on my chest when I was sleeping so I didn’t forget it – and … ’

‘OK, and?’

‘It rolled off and … ’ She starts really crying. ‘It fell into a pint of orange squash.’

‘Shit, is it salvageable?’

‘It’s been in there all night – it’s soaking.’ She sobs.

I can tell she’s still drunk or stoned or both. I’m not interested in making her feel any worse.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she cries.

Her dad was meant to be collecting us from the bloody airport on the way home. Bet he would have taken us to the Burger King Drive-Thru too. Livid.

‘Dad’s found a tent!’ Aoife says down the phone. ‘But it’s a bit crusty … ’

‘We’ll buy a new tent,’ I tell Aoife.

‘With what money? I’m spending my money on beer not tents! And the shops are all out – it’s festival season. We’re out of options.’

Mum reluctantly drives me to Aoife’s house where her dad has dug the oldest, ugliest bright-orange tent from the Seventies out of the shed where it nearly sliced off our toes like a guillotine. It’s as heavy as a desk. It has bazillions of chunky metal poles and thick ropes and massive wooden pegs – and no instructions. It’s like something from the original Girl Guides’ handbook or Clipart.

‘OK, let’s buy a tent when we get there? This thing will weigh a ton on the flight.’

‘And risk not having a tent at all?’

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