Is she unconscious or worse – drowned – in a pool of her own vomit, just six foot away from me on the other side of the bathroom door? Or has she checked in with me, only to sneak off again in order to have sex with some anonymous Nigerian boy? Where is she? Her bed next to mine is empty!
This is the second night running my beloved sixteen-year-old daughter has returned back to our hotel at 4am, after a night’s clubbing with some English children she met on the beach on our first day.
Last time she reported that the world was spinning after she’d downed a Pina Colada; two Jagermeisters (whatever they are); a beer, three tequila shots and a dark brown syrupy one. All for just over a tenner. And all imbibed by a sweet woman-child whose preference over dinner with me is still a Coke-Zero.
And now she’s disappeared again – I suspect to lie down on the marble floor of the baking hot bathroom, with her head and bum as close to the loo as possible.
Should I check? Should I disturb her? Will I sleep at all if I’m not certain that she’s actually there? The comfy long roller-pillow of her bed is missing. Surely she must be on the other side of the bathroom door nestled down with that? I hope so anyway…