She smiles, reaches into her bag and pulls out two A4 printouts. ‘We may or may not be going to the happiest place on earth.’

‘Sephora?’ I ask.

‘Fuck off.’ She laughs, putting down her phone. ‘We’re going to… Disneyland!’

Chapitre Vingt-deux

Chapitre vingt-deux

Seven rides, one questionable burger, three lattes, two long train trips, two pairs of Mickey Mouse ears, and twelve hours later, we’re in a bar not too far from home. Camilla has just ordered four more shots and my calves and feet are aching from walking around the theme park all day. I want to go home. The lights are dim and we’re sitting on two stools at the end of the metal bar, trying not to get elbowed by strangers. The coloured glass of the liquor bottles – amber, brown and blue – refracts the lights that hang from the ceiling.

‘Just these two more. Promise,’ she says with an it’ll-be-fun grin.

I reach for my phone and check the time – 10.02 pm – then go to scroll through my emails. But Camilla grabs it from me.

‘You promised no work,’ she says, squishing her face against mine and holding up the camera. We both smile and she takes a selfie.

‘Oh, it’s a pretty one. Send it to me so I can show him how amazing my life is?’ she says. She’s wearing a gold sequined dress she took from Anne’s cupboard, with a big black blazer hanging over her seat back. I’m wearing a black lace top, the same black jeans I wore earlier today and my leather jacket is on the stool beneath me.

I send the photo to her, she forwards it to Mr Fourteenth Floor, and I resist posting it to Instagram – I already uploaded one just like it with #whatanight when we arrived an hour ago – then I put my phone face down on the bar.

The bartender delivers our drinks, Camilla grins at him, slides one towards me and we both pour a bit of salt on our hands. Then it’s cheers, salt, drink, and a lemon wedge. Heat in my throat, my stomach, my veins and the room starts to spin a bit.

‘Can we go now?’ I say, putting my glass down. I don’t even like tequila.

‘No. We still have one more. We can’t waste it,’ she says. ‘Ready.’

But then her phone screen lights up from the bar beside her. Her eyes get big and her mouth opens a bit then she looks at me: ‘He’s calling me.’

I look down at the screen. It’s the sketch the Etsy-guy did. Mr Fourteenth Floor.

‘Well, go answer it,’ I say.

Camilla grabs her phone and pushes through the crowd, and just before she disappears behind a big guy in a dark blazer, she answers.