Chapter 41

• ‘Fuckety fuck, fuck, fuck it,’ I say. I ’m saying it to no one, because the minute I clocked the three of them, I ran straight for the bathrooms. Now I ’m locked in a cubicle, having what I sup pose is a very mild version of a panic attack: I’m looking at my shoes and saying ‘fuck’ a lot.
• What do I do now? I have to leave, right? I cannot brazen my way out of this, no matter how detached and cool I pretend to be. I ’ll text Plum and ask her to come in here, perhaps we can fashion a burkha of some kind out of her scarf, and I can escape without them seeing me —
• ‘Abigail?’ says a voice. It’s Plum. ‘Why did you just do a pirouet te and leap for the ladies?’