2

You have got to be kidding. I swear I only set my alarm about three minutes ago. How the hell can it be 10 a.m. already?

I open my eyes a crack, praying to see darkness, despite the fact the birds were already singing when the four of us stumbled off the night bus. Instead, I’m greeted with full-on blinding sunshine blasting through Stella’s white organza curtains and threatening to burn my poor hungover retinas to dust. I squeeze my eyes shut again and pull the duvet over my head.

The alarm is getting louder. Where the hell is my phone? Beside me, Stella doesn’t even stir. She sleeps like a corpse, flat on her back and eerily still, her mouth slack and shimmering with drool. The piece of hair I cut yesterday sticks out from her skull at a right angle. She finally stopped going on about it last night, around the time we located the exotic booze stash at Andrew’s party.

Over the other side of the room, Mikey and Kimmie are totally out of it on the inflatable mattress; Mikey is star-fished on his front, the soles of his skinny pink feet poking out from under the duvet, Kimmie nestled at his side, curled up in foetal position.

I hang over the edge of the bed, figuring I must have plugged my phone in to charge when we got in, my hand almost upsetting a plastic washing-up bowl on the floor. I peer in. A couple of centimetres of congealed vomit clings to the bottom. The stench of regurgitated banana tequila hits my nostrils at the exact same time the flashback of sitting on the edge on the bed, head between my knees, whooshes before my eyes. Bile gushes up into my throat and before I know it I’m puking all over again. A curl falls loose from my ponytail and dangles in the vomit. I pluck a tissue from the box on Stella’s bedside table and attempt to wipe my hair and chin clean. With the other hand, I locate my phone in the tangle of wires under Stella’s bed and manage to turn off the alarm. I expect the silence to make me feel better but it does the opposite, drawing all my attention to the ringing in my ears instead. I flop back on the bed, my head hitting the pillow like a ton of bricks.

This is all Grace’s fault. If it wasn’t for her stupid welcome-home lunch, I could sleep in until one or two, then spend the rest of the afternoon lying in Stella’s massive bed watching Netflix and guzzling full-fat Coke and Domino’s pizza, and by 4 p.m. I’d be more or less back to normal. As it is, I’m destined to feel crap until tomorrow morning at the very earliest.

It’s worth it, though; last night was a right laugh. Once we got bored of Andrew’s, I suggested we get the bus into town, sparking a mass exodus from the party. As I headed up the group on our way to the bus stop, I couldn’t help but picture that experiment Mr Crowley did in Year 7 science, the one where he held a magnet above a pile of iron filings and they all leaped up in the air to cling on. It’s always been like this. When I was younger Mum used to call me the ‘Pied Piper’ because wherever I went, other kids would follow, no questions asked.

When we got into town, we almost didn’t get into the Cuckoo Club because the bouncer didn’t believe Kimmie was over eighteen. Poor Kimmie, she’s so dinky that when we went to Pizza Express for Mikey’s birthday last year, the waitress gave her the kids’ menu and a packet of crayons (we nearly died laughing). Anyway, I had to flirt like mad to get the bouncer to let us in, fluttering my false eyelashes for all they were worth until he groaned and unclipped the tatty velvet rope.

Once we were inside, loads of boys came up to me. I didn’t really fancy any of them, but who cares, especially when they’re buying the drinks and telling you how gorgeous you are.

The next thing I know, my alarm is going off again, this time right next to my head. Only it isn’t my alarm, it’s a call. I must have drifted back off to sleep. I jab at the screen with my index finger.

‘Hello?’ My voice sounds like gravel.

Stella rolls away from me, yanking the pillow from under my head and pulling it over her face.

‘It’s me. We’re outside,’ a female voice crackles down the line.

It’s Audrey. I check the time. 10.30 a.m. bang-on.

‘Coming,’ I say, struggling to sit up, my head still pounding. I can hear Mum tutting away in the background, bitching about how much we have to do before Grace arrives.

Grace, Grace, Grace.

Groaning, I hang up and start the search for my clothes.

 

‘I thought I asked you to get rid of those shorts,’ Mum says as I climb in the back seat of the car five minutes later.

Audrey is in the passenger seat directly in front of me, eating a protein bar, a damp semicircle on the back of her T-shirt from her wet hair.

‘Why, what’s wrong with them?’ I ask, even though Mum’s issue with my shorts is well established.

‘Well, for starters, I can see your bum cheeks,’ she says.

‘You’re supposed to,’ I mutter, pulling on my seatbelt and gazing mournfully up at Stella’s bedroom window.

The shorts in question are my very favourite pair of denim hot pants. Mum hates them with a passion. But then she hates most of my clothes. Which is totally unfair. It’s not my fault I have a naturally hot body and everything I put on looks automatically sexy whether I intend it to or not. In fact, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s Mum’s, considering the fact her DNA is fifty per cent responsible. Sometimes I think she’d be happier if I just went full-on Amish and started wearing a bonnet and woolly tights with dresses down to my ankles.

It’s going to be a hot day, a proper scorcher according to the weather report on the radio, which of course means the entire country will fall apart temporarily. I can already feel sweat patches forming under my armpits. The sweat smells of booze, I swear. I peel my T-shirt away from my skin and try to waft some non-existent air with the loose material, making a mental note not to let Mum get too close.

Mum and Audrey are talking about Audrey’s new training schedule, their voices low and serious. Ever since she won a string of medals at the British Junior Swimming Championships last year, people have been throwing the ‘O’ word around, like it isn’t totally outlandish to imagine Audrey up on the podium one day in the not-so-distant future, a shiny Olympic medal dangling round her neck and the British national anthem blaring out over the tannoy.

I fiddle with the hem of my T-shirt, curling it round my index finger until the skin goes bright white. I let go, watching as the blood rushes back, turning my finger pink again. I can smell Audrey’s protein bar. It reminds me of the stuff she feeds her guinea pig, and makes me feel a bit sick. I look down at my legs. They’re covered in bruises and inspire another flashback to last night – me and Mikey on Andrew’s trampoline, competing to see who could jump the highest. From the state of my black and blue legs it didn’t end well. I catch Mum’s eye in the rear-view mirror. She frowns. I pretend not to notice, rifling in my bag for my sunglasses. I slip them on and try to ignore the churning in my stomach as Mum and Audrey talk about ‘land training’ and ‘kick boards’ and ‘county times’ and a ton of other swimming stuff that has nothing to do with me.

Not that I’m surprised. I know perfectly well where I come in the family pecking order – right at the very bottom.