“Sorry.” Roxanne spat out a feather with her words.
Eve lay on her back in her sleeping bag, looking up into the triangles of stitched canvas. The tent roof, propped perilously off the groundsheet with large sticks, still with the odd leaf attached, was, well, more droop than roof.
Eve mumbled apologetically, “Sorry I forgot the tent poles.”
“I thought Mr. Pugh was going to burst something. Did you see that vein on his temple throbbing?” Eve attempted to deepen her voice, sounding less like Mr. Pugh and more like Scooby-Doo. “Eve Eddison. You are sixteen. How on earth are you going to get through life, let alone through your Duke of Edinburgh? I mean, that’s not very encouraging is it?”
Roxanne said, matter-of-factly, “He’s a prick.”
“Not a fan of pricks then?” Eve giggled, pulling her sleeping bag up under her chin.
Roxanne said flatly, “No.”
Eve rolled on her side, to face Roxanne. “I’m now lying on the zip. Yeah, I’m not very keen on camp—”
“I like girls. Not boys. Girls.” Roxanne turned her head to Eve, who gave a short series of blinks in reply. “It’s okay, you’re quite safe. I don’t fancy you. I mean, God, no.” Eve blinked again. “Look, just forget about it. I’m knackered. Goodnight.” Roxanne turned over, away from Eve.
Eve lay on her back looking at the silhouette of branches casting their eerie shadow on the canvas roof. She flicked the torch off. Why wouldn’t you fancy me? I mean—what’s wrong with me?
“Shall we?” Moira pointed to a series of small steps which meandered down a slope dotted with clusters of clover.
Eve blinked into Moira’s smiling eyes. She pulled down her hood and looked around, feeling slightly startled, like a person woken suddenly from sleep.