Imogen steps inside, her stilettos clicking against the floor. She pauses, scanning the space with the kind of wary suspicion most people reserve for dodgy Airbnbs withunidentifiedstains.
“Are you sure it’s safe to sleep here?” she asks, frowning at the walls like burglars, murderers, or possiblya werewolfare lurking in the bushes, waiting to make off with her travel-sized Dyson hairdryer.
“What? Of course it’s safe!” I say.
“There’s no security.” She gestures toward the entrance as if expecting an armed guard to materialize.
I glance outside at a couple of staff members milling around, clearly not trained assassins but definitelypeople. “Look, there are . . . people. They’ll, um, keep an eye on things.”
Before I can muster a better argument, Bernice pipes up. “I read an article about this area having an outbreak of mutant super rats. Apparently, they’re the size of cats.”
Oh, for the love of—super rats? Are you fucking kidding me?
“What?No.That’s ridiculous,” I rush to say, trying to ignore the way Sophia’s expression tightens. “The rats here arenormal-sized.Tiny, even! I’m sure they’re adorable. Like . . .cartoon mice.”
I flutter my hand in the air, as if physically summoning the image of a wholesome little rat in a waistcoat. “This place isperfectlysafe.”
Sophia shoots me a grateful smile, but it’s strained—moreI’m trying not to panicthanbest weekend ever.Her gaze flicks nervously between Imogen and Bernice, like she’s moreconcerned about them than enjoying herself. Or maybe she’s bracing for a surprise attack from Bernice’s mutant rats.
From somewhere beyond the tents, a raspy neigh slices through the night.
Everyone freezes. Even me.
“What the fuck was that?” Imogen shrieks.
The sound comes again, louder this time, rattling through the darkness.
I squint, trying to locate the source. “A donkey,” I say finally, though my voice lacks conviction. “I think.”
“A donkey?” Bernice repeats, eyes wild. “Why is there a donkey?”
“It’s the countryside,” I say, throwing up my hands like that’s all the explanation required. “Donkeys . . . happen.”
I need a stiff drink. I thought this place was a slam dunk, but now we’re spiraling over donkeys and fictional rats.
I take a deep breath, summoning what’s left of my optimism reserves.Come on, Daisy. Rally.“Look, it’s probably just a friendly farm animal. Adds to the rustic charm, right?”
“Or it’s a wild beastwaiting to attack,” Bernice mutters darkly, arms crossed, gripping her designer handbag like it’s her last line of defense.
So much for the win.
“Where are the ladies?” Imogen snaps.
I blink at her, confused. For one horrifying second, I thinkOh god, have we lost a bridesmaid?Is one of them out there, wandering helplessly in the donkey-infested darkness?
Then it dawns on me—she means thetoilets.It feels weird to sayladieswhen we’re in the middle of a field.
“There’s no ladies’ room?” she shrieks. “Don’t tell me it’sunisex!”
“There is! Of course there is. They even have GHDs in there! And fancy soap. Everything’s fine.”
She huffs through her nose. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“We will,” I reply, my voice strained but painfully cheerful—like a flight attendant trying to convince everyone the emergency landing is a totally normal part of the experience. “In time. For now, let’s all just . . . relax.”
I spot a man who looks vaguely in charge—thank fucking god. “One sec. I’ll find out which tents are ours.”
Preferably before the super rats get here.
