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music, though in both cases this is despite interference from closer to the front. Gillian and Deborah and their little clique have their own iPod playing in competition, showcasing ‘Ibiza Club-Ned Anthems Volume 103’. It’s the same stuff that’s always blaring out of the open windows of souped-up chav-mobiles when they pull up at traffic lights. She’s often wondered whether the little guys at the wheel are secretly hoping you’ll lean in as you walk past and say: ‘Your tunes are the bomb, mate. You must be cool as.’
    The smell of blow is one of the few things to penetrate the fug of perfume and body spray enveloping this section of the bus. If the collective scent could be bottled, it would be called Trying Too Hard. Marianne hopes they’ve brought dental mints too, because even all that eau-de-teen-queen isn’t going to mask what’s on their breath.
    ‘Eeuugh,’ splutters Yvonne, looking with distaste at the green bottle. ‘Is white wine no’ meant to be chilled?’
    God’s sake, some front she’s got, Gillian reckons. Never brought anything more intoxicating than a packet of Lockets and the cheeky cow is slagging her contribution?
    ‘Aye, sorry,’ Gillian responds. ‘Hang on till I get my ice bucket out of my bag. If you don’t want it, pass it on.’
    ‘I didn’t say that,’ Yvonne clarifies with a giggle. ‘I’ve just got more rarified taste than you plebs.’
    ‘What are you talking about?’ asks Julie. ‘It’s been decanted and everything. Right into that Appletise bottle.’
    Yvonne hands the bottle to Theresa, who helps herself to a long swig.
    ‘Aah,’ she says approvingly. ‘Liebfraumilch. Shitey German sweet white wine served at room temperature with just a hint of three different shades of lipstick.’
    Julie has taken the bottle next, and spills a little on her chin as she laughs at what Theresa just said.
    It was quite funny, Gillian would concede, but the lassie better be as ready to break out some vintage swally when they get there as she’s ready to break out the cheeky patter.
    ‘Still tastes better than Buckfast,’ Gillian asserts.
    ‘You’re tootin’ there,’ Yvonne agrees. ‘Michael McBean could do a big grogger into the bottle and it would still taste better than Buckfast. I think those monks must make that stuff to drink as a penance.’
    ‘Whereas if Liam Donnelly did a big grogger in it, you’d be the first to drink it,’ Debs suggests.
    ‘No I would not,’ Yvonne replies with a blush that is only partly fuelled by indignation.
    ‘Of course she wouldnae,’ agrees Gillian. ‘Different story if he came in it, right enough.’
    ‘I still wouldn’t be the first to drink it, though. I’d be lucky if I was third behind you pair.’
    They all laugh, though Deborah silently notes that Yvonne didn’t deny she would drink it. It’s always worth storing such ammunition, especially on a trip like this. You never know who you’ll end up sharing a room with and therefore how dirty you might need to fight in five-way conversations at two in the morning.
    She notices Gillian glancing back and across the aisle. Gill’s got a smirk on her face when she sees Deborah’s caught her. Deborah smiles too and steals a peek over the back of their seats. The subject is he of the supposedly coveted jizz (even when diluted in warm Liebfraumilch), Liam Donnelly. He’s gorgeous, but let’s face it: the only way she, Gill or Yvonne were likely to get near his bodily fluids would be if he spooged into a bottle. Him and his equally pretty pal Jason might be on this same coach, might be in the same classes, but it didn’t seem like they attended the same school. They were aloof: that was the word, one she finally understood when she saw them glide down a corridor like it was a catwalk, somehow disconnected from the world of damp duffle coats and dinner-hour tribal warfare that everyone else was stuck in. For years before that, she had assumed it meant something to do