Stephanie says I should get some sleep. Stephanie says a lot of things. On this occasion, for once, Stephanie is right. I can feel my eyes straining, I’m running on the stale stench of dried alcohol and perspired adrenaline. But as ever with Stephanie’s bold statements and personal judgements, the timing could be better. Like when she told Mischa she should just chill-out and have a fucking laugh once in a while, the day after Mischa’s boyfriend dumped her.
We’re stuck at the train station, we’ve missed the last train home until tomorrow morning. People freeze on railway station platforms. I would sleep but for the shivering, for the cauterizing cold, the night-frost tearing and pinching at my muscles. The more I think about it, the more my teeth chatter and my jaw starts to ache. The bench we’re sitting on is turning to ice. People freeze to death on benches. People spontaneously combust on benches all the time, Stephanie says.
There’s no buses until morning; and the cost of a cab to home is way beyond the realms of our purses. Fuck, the price of a burger and chips each is out of our icy grasps, let alone a room in a Travelodge or whatever. Warmth is in Stephanie’s front garden, our coats and jeans tucked up safe in a plastic bag, hidden in a hedge – it’s our ploy to avoid her mother and that scalding, scathing, sneering I’m not having you leaving the house looking like prostitutes speech she gives as we try to escape out of the front door.
Do they let you in a Travelodge at three in the morning, anyway? Stephanie asks. Not with two-pound-fifty-seven, half-a-bottle of orange Fanta, 12 B&H and a Boots Advantage card. Still, at least it’s not a school night.
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