The Carrier by Sophie Hannah

romantic advances. Really, you couldn’t be safer. Even if lesbianism overpowers me in my sleep, my good taste will hold firm and protect us both.’
    Lauren’s eyes widen. She backs away from me.
    ‘What? You’re shocked to hear the word “lesbianism” spoken aloud in polite society? Sorry, I forgot to brush up on my bigotry before I set off this morning. If I’d known I’d be meeting you, I’d have given it my all.’
    ‘Can’t you talk in a way I’ll understand?’ Lauren says quietly.
    ‘Yes. Night night – do you understand that?’ I kick off my shoes. Fully clothed, I lie down on the far side of the bed, cover myself with my coat and close my eyes. I’d have liked to brush my teeth, but the receptionist ran out of toothbrush-and-paste packs before Lauren and I reached the front of the queue.
    ‘Gaby?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I’m starving. I feel sick and dizzy. I need something to eat.’
    I wonder if I can get away with pretending to have fallen asleep after I said, ‘What?’ It’s worth a try.
    ‘Gaby? Gaby! Wake up!’
    Fooling a fool is no fun. It’s too easy. I open my eyes. ‘There’s a petrol station across the road from the hotel,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you go and buy something there? Take the room key.’
    ‘I’m not going on my own!’
    ‘Why not?’
    My callous suggestion that she should plunge herself into solitude for the next five to ten minutes has activated Lauren’s inner sprinkler system: she’s crying again. ‘They might not speak English. I’ve never been to a foreign shop on my own.’
    If I had the energy, I would kick myself. I knew she was hungry – she mentioned it earlier. I should have sent her to buy food while I waited in the queue.
    ‘Please, Gaby. Come with me. Then I swear I’ll let you sleep.’
    I sit up. Dizziness makes my head spin. I clutch at what might be the corner of a silver lining: I can eat something too. I haven’t noticed my hunger until now. I’ve been trying to lull myself into an insensate trance state in order not to notice how I feel about what’s happening to me.
    ‘Okay. Let’s go,’ I say, pulling my shoes back on. ‘What are you going to get? I hope they’ve got hot fattening things and a microwave. I fancy a burger, and a Yorkie bar for pudding.’
    Lauren screws up her face in distaste. ‘They’ll have something English, do you reckon? Foreign food turns my stomach.’
    ‘That’s ridiculous. Cheeseburgers don’t have passports.’
    ‘What, so liking the food in your own country’s ridiculous, is it?’ She turns on me. ‘It’s the Germans that are ridiculous! The only music I’ve heard all day since I got here is English music – every car stereo that drives past. They’ve got their own language, but they listen to our music. How daft is that?’
    Well, you know the Germans – no nationalistic pride, that’s their problem.
That’s what I say in my head. To Lauren, I say, ‘I think I’m going to get a can of Coke as well.’ I am learning the rules of moronic dialogue: when answering feels impossible, present an unconnected random statement as if it’s relevant to the topic at hand.
    Inside the petrol station, soaking wet from the rain, Lauren and I are reunited with the three football shirts from boarding gate B56 at Dusseldorf, the ones who were hoping to get drunk at Fly4You’s expense. This is what I like to see: ambition steadily maintained until the goal is reached. These men have not allowed exhaustion, depression or a better idea to divert them from their course. They are at the till, euros out, sixteen cans of beer stacked up on the counter in front of them, still joking about how legless they will soon be. I wonder if this is the way it works for most heavy drinkers: that it’s not so much the alcohol itself that’s the attraction, but rather the comedy goldmine it represents, the opportunity to say a dozen times, ‘How shit-faced are we going to be after all these?’
    ‘There’s sod all