Page 7 of Benidorm Again

‘And he did invite usout to LA to see him,’ Liam says, casually rewriting history. ‘It’s basically next door to Vegas anyway.’

Could a four-hour drive be considered practically next door, though? Could it?

Ged nods. He’s not fully on board with Liam’s obvious crush and has sensibly not allowed him to switch out Harry Styles for Matteo lookalikes as his free pass.

‘And it makes perfect sense for us to be in Las Vegas,’ Liam continues.

It doesn’t, but go on…

‘I mean, it’s not like we’ll take up all of your time. We wouldn’t dream of it, honey. But he might have an issue with all The Dollz piling over. As much as I adore them, they can be a bit of a handful. Especially Liberty and her wandering vagina,’ Ged shrugs casually.

He’s not wrong there. I, too, adore all five of The Dollz and their loud, vampish, uncontrollable thirst for cocktails and anything on two legs, but not when I was hoping to spend a quiet week trying to impress my new lover with how low maintenance and sane I can be.

Ged and Liam are famous micro-managers. Meticulous to a clinically obsessive degree. But worse than that is their absolute devotion to the flamboyant pop icon Harry Styles.I am going to have to find out if he is in town, otherwise I will never hear the end of it if we miss a sighting of him at a club. But one thing I do know for sure is that I am not asking Matteo for such a huge favour on top of everything else. Maybe Nancy will have an idea.

While I get started folding the huge heavy gowns, a string of texts from The Dollz ping into my phone. We have a group WhatsApp because during the summer we did a gig at the Benidorm music festival, and I lost them all. I found them riding around on camels one minute before we were due on stage. I am immediately transported back to them handcuffing me and Matteo together and him having to accompany me out on stage.

Gah!It was so bloody INCREDIBLE. I felt high. Flooded with endorphins. I have never felt more alive in my entire life.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

Tash wants to know if I can get my fella to pull some strings and get us a table at the Bellagio. Not to do any eating. Just for the Gram. She warns Cherry not to be messy if they share a hotel room. She is sick of her rolling down her knickers four times a day with each costume change and just leaving them lying around on the floor like discarded croissants. Liberty is wondering if we all own pink Stetsonhats, pink glitter thigh-high boots and pink Daisy Dukes for the Barbie-themed week as her and Cherry are doing the outfits, and to leave it all to them. She will tot up how much they spend and send me the total.

She also reminds us that she will be getting off with as many rich American billionaires as she can manage. Especially if they have those handlebar moustaches that she says she is craving.

God help us. I hope Matteo is understanding after I tell him I’ll be working during the one week off he’s gone to great lengths to arrange for us to be together. I’ll also be dressed as Barbie when not in my stripper outfits, and our dates will be centred around trying to track down a variety of pop stars at every opportunity.

How did this happen?

A message from Matteo flashes up. It says he will be switching off his phone for most of the week, which means he can only call me at random times, depending on how long the recording sessions last. He is working with a notoriously difficult producer who is well known in the music industry for being a perfectionist and a tyrant. Her name is Birdie, and she doesn’t like the creative process to be interrupted by phones pinging or by the toxic radio waves they produce. He uses an exclamation mark to signify thatperhaps this is a crazy notion, but it’s the word ‘she’ that pops out and has me all a fluster.

My brain immediately leaps to unsubstantiated and wildly inappropriate conclusions.

Matteo then sends a short follow-up voice note to say that he is really looking forward to seeing me. He has planned lots of exciting sightseeing trips and cool places to go.

I listen to his lovely voice a few times before I frantically Google music producers in LA called Birdie.

Oh. My. Effing. Word.

She is a stunning glamourpuss with curves in all the right places and a face that’s so perfect she could be next-Gen AI. She has a string of accolades and industry awards. There are photos galore of her with famous rap artists and singers at all the cool parties.

‘Who’s the goddess?’ asks Liam on his way to the kitchen. ‘Gorgeous hair. Is that neon coral or salmon pink, would you say?’

‘Birdie DuPont. She’s a French music producer in LA,’ I say, trying not to sound too jealous.

Of course, she’d be cool and sexy and French. She’s probably flicking her Gauloise cigarette holder and twanging her fishnet stockings at him as we speak. But I fully trust Matteoto resist the temptation, and not give her stockings a second glance.

‘Good thing Matteo is locked away in a music studio,’ says Liam, sounding relieved. ‘I wouldn’t want that LA bombshell getting her hands on him.’

‘They’re working together,’ I say, a lump forming in my throat. ‘They’ll be shut off from the whole world. Locked in a studio making hot Latino music together.’

Liam looks again at the image of Birdie on my phone, and then back up to me. He looks devastated.

Deep breaths.

Deep breaths.

Early the next morning, Liam drops me off at the Sinfonia with my huge suitcases. I had a restless night tossing and turning, images plaguing my dreams of Birdie running off with Matteo in slow motion, hand in hand, through a cornfield at sunset. She was perfectly naked and wearing only a large floppy sunhat and a huge, satisfied smile.

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