In a cinema cafe in London’s King’s Cross, Molly Manning Walker is showing me some pictures on her phone. They’re of a young woman, on holiday in Magaluf; a teenager with long brown hair and fake tan, laughing in her fake eyelashes and “out-out” clothes (belt skirt, stretchy top). Here she is on a bar crawl, falling off her mates; here, rotten hungover with a towel wrapped around her head. She looks as if she’s having the time of her life.
“I was,” says Walker. “I went on four of those holidays, when I was 16 to 18. You run away from your parents, you’re free. You can do whatever you want. The first time I went, there were 16 of us in four rooms on the same corridor. Sitting by the pool, talking absolute nonsense all day long, going out drinking all night, nonstop partying for a week. Nonstop. You pay €25 to get into the club, you get unlimited drinks all night.”
