‘Amen to that,’ winks Mike, chucking an arm around me and pulling me close, kissing the top of my head.

‘Race you!’ shouts Vic, who’s already 100 metres ahead.

We don’t even hesitate. Arms and legs that only moments ago felt too knackered to carry on find a renewed energy.

*

Our little red tents might as well be five-star luxury hotels, which I know is rich coming from me, but whatever comfort they have to offer I’m grateful for. Just the thought of getting out of my boots and putting my tired feet into a pair of sandals feels like a blessing. The reality is that they have to be yanked off, with Vicky giving me some extra help to set my feet free before she starts rummaging through her bag so she can have a quick refresh with a wipe wash.

‘They must’ve swollen!’ I say, suddenly groaning as I grip hold of the soles of my feet and give them a squeeze, something that makes the muscles ache even more but feels oddly satisfying. Peeling off my socks I let out a gasp.

‘What?’ Vicky asks.

‘Might have to say goodbye to my strappy footwear this season,’ I say, waving them in her direction. Both heels have been invaded by the biggest blisters, as have my little toes, and one has randomly appeared just under my right big toe.

‘Shit,’ she says, her face screwing up while tending to her armpit with one of the wipes. ‘Do they hurt?’

‘They didn’t but they do now I’ve seen them,’ I admit. ‘I’ll let them breathe and then wrap them up in the morning,’ I decide, feeling surprisingly OK about the state of my feet that I usually take such good care over.

It’s for a purpose.

Plus, although I’ve not mentioned it to anyone at all since, I’m grateful that my body didn’t get more of a hit when I took a tumble. A broken bone or a twisted ankle would’ve been miserable.

Seeing Vicky reach for her phone makes me grab mine out of my pocket.

‘Fuck,’ she mutters, her face full of worry.

‘What’s up?’

‘Still no signal,’ she says with a frown.

‘Not too surprising, I guess,’ I say. We are, after all, in what appears to be the middle of nowhere. That said I can’t help but look at my own phone with a disappointed pout.

‘Were you hoping to message Liam and let him know you’re safe?’ she asks. ‘Or maybe Albie?’

‘Vic–’

‘It’s none of my business,’ she says, flapping her arms about as though she’s literally batting the conversation away.

‘You brought it up, but I agree. It isn’t,’ I state.

Thankfully the conversation is left.