‘Journalists and drivers are just as forbidden as Bellas and Treblemakers,’ I point out.
Kurt runs a hand through his hair. ‘I’m not saying marry a driver or make anything public – that would never work. Just a cheeky one-nighter.’
‘There are two of us, so that leaves eighteen drivers,’ Étienne reasons. When did he get on board? Go back to ribbing Kurt.
‘Micah’s pretty cute,’ Kurt suggests.
‘Why don’t you date him then?’ I shoot back.
They snigger like schoolchildren.
‘Jack?’ he tries again.
‘Not my type,’ I say too quickly and pray to all that’s holy neither of them notice.
Kurt hesitates and smiles slowly. ‘Then what is your type?’
‘Eilo,’ Étienne says solemnly, and they laugh.
I wish I was the one wearing a clay mask so my cheeks weren’t visible.
‘I think he’s dating someone, you know,’ says Kurt, poking curiously at his grey face.Finallyhe’s doing something helpful and I rescind my previous wish to set him on fire.
Étienne cocks his head. ‘’E’s, like, fourteen,non?’
‘He’s only three years younger than you,’ Kurt retorts. ‘Yeah, a girl swings by our motorhome sometimes. She’sfine. Long hair, great ti—’ He catches my eye. ‘T-Timberlands. Top of the range ones.’ Sure, in thirty-four-degree heat. ‘I think she’s an influencer and undergrad. Had a little Insta stalk, as you do. From Finland, same as he is.’
‘A regular Poirot over here,’ I mumble. ‘Time to get your clay off!’ Fifteen minutes haven’t passed but I can’t sit idly in this conversation any longer. Tomorrow they can shine like a K-beauty influencer for all I care. I hurry towards the kitchen to grab my flannels.
‘It’spwah-roh,’ Étienne corrects with eye-rolling enunciation as I return.
‘You should know,’ Kurt responds, voice dripping in torment, ‘since you’re both French.’
Étienne’s eyes bulge despite their constraints. ‘’E’s not—I’m not French! We’re both not French! ’E’sBelgian; I’mMonégasque!’
‘Your parents are from Marseille,’ I add, because winding up Étienne is a lot more fun than the Spanish Inquisition.
‘I wasbornin Monaco, Igrew upin Monaco?—’
‘We all grew up in Monaco,’ Kurt argues. ‘I’m German; she’s English.’
‘But—’
Kurt sits up straighter. ‘And you were cheering for France in Eurovision! I know it wasn’t because you liked that boring ballad.’
‘Pfftyou wouldn’t know ’eartfelt if it smacked you between the eyes. Who was I supposed to vote for?The United Kingdom?’
I don’t appreciate that tone. Our song wasn’t amazing but we didn’t deserve to come last. Again.
Kurt lolls his head. ‘No,of courseI wasn’t insinuating?—’
I cross my arms with damp flannels in both hands. ‘Hey! We weren’t that bad.’ They shoot me matching scowls. ‘Latvia were dressed as seagulls!’
‘They were fun,’ Étienne muses.
I try again. ‘Luxembourg ran off crying!’
‘I’d like to see you up there, Minnie,’ Kurt argues. ‘It’s scary. Over a hundred and thirty million people watch.’
