The night sky swiped and tilted and curved, turning us really slowly. Turning. I put my hand up into it, trying to touch the stars, daring to get as close as I could without burning, not quite reaching. When I blinked there were more, just for a millisecond, ten times as many.

There was a tug on my other hand. I looked at Fraser. ‘I totally need to pee,’ I said in the sort of voice that would normally say ‘You are very beautiful’, or, ‘This is the most magical night of my life’.

When I came back in, he was walking towards me, hands in his pockets, head bent. Something between his teeth.

I plucked out the little square of plastic and tapped his nose with it. ‘Don’t really want an audience,’ I said in his ear.

‘What audience?’ Fraser nodded to the armchair in the corner, where Finn was curled up, one arm slung over his head, his mouth loose. Becca was still outside doing her banshee-wolf thing.

‘You asked for it.’ I pulled him towards the corner.

Sleeping bag sex. Awkward. Hilarious, but awkward. I was fifteen again, trying to work out where everything went. Joey Crawshaw, dyed-black wavy hair and painted black nails and breath like cinnamon chewing gum and dried chickpeas. That little blitz of pain and making him stop really suddenly, convinced that it was the wrong place entirely because it hurt so much. He’d had dark blonde hair on his stomach and texted me twelve times the next day but I was too embarrassed to reply. Me and Stef would fool around but our hearts weren’t really in it and, frankly, he was rubbish. ‘You’ve got all the wrong bits, love,’ he’d said after a while, squeezing my breast unceremoniously like it was Play-Doh and feeling for my crotch. ‘Need a bit more here, not here.’

Fraser stopped. ‘Hang on,’ he said in a whisper, and started yanking at the zip of the sleeping bag on the bottom bunk. He was half lying on top of me, trying to undo it, getting his feet stuck.

I put my hand over my mouth.

‘Shhh,’ he said. ‘No giggling.’

We rolled over onto the ground mat, the sleeping bag sliding over us and catching under his knee. My thighs were definitely going to get splinters. And my elbows.

There was more shushing and more unzipping of things and a lot more giggling. My head felt like a honeycomb. And then somehow we’d managed it, and everything was cute and slick – and still, to be honest, a bit wrong, what with an unconscious fourteen-year-old in the room.

Becca was standing there in the doorway, dead straight, looking at us.

‘JesusFuckFraser,’ I said.

He stopped inside me and looked up.

Becca just stared, her face glowing blood orange. ‘There’s a man outside.’

Fraser shifted his hips and I tried to be totally bloody normal about the fact that we were having a conversation with someone while having sort of static sex. ‘What do you mean?’ he said.