Page 11 of Girls Just Want to Have Sun

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Mr Window Seat speaks Spanish to the cabin crew and disappears down the steps. I have clearly lost the ability to talk to men. Especially tall, ripped, attractive men on the receiving end of my clumsiness. When Cherry clocks my swollen eye, she recommends I sue the pilot, just as the pilot himself emerges from the cockpit.

‘I’m a paralegal, love. I know about these things. You’ll need to press charges against the airline. I mean, you can’t go on stage looking like that, can you? You’ll need compensation from someone.’

The pilot’s face becomes thunderous, and I quickly tell him no one is suing anyone. As we hurriedly pass by the cabin crew with their plastered-on professional smiles, something is said in rapid Spanish and the ground crew can’t get us out of there fast enough.

Again, the upside to being a group of drunk women wearing denim G-strings and having a wheelchair user with us is that we are whizzed through passport control at the Spanish end with no fuss. The guards take one disappointed look at the riff-raff entering their beautiful country and barely check our passports.I hear disgruntled comments from the rest of the passengers joining the huge queue. The girls invite the crowd to hear them singing in Benidorm as they click-clack past. Trailing behind the rest of the group, I nurse my sore eye as I doggedly drag my case along. I catch a glimpse of Mr Window Seat on my way to the exit. His face gives nothing away.

There’s a lot for him to process, I guess. After all, I did practically save his life. And the truth of the matter is, it’s not every day that two people share such an intense connection. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I should write a song or maybe a short haiku about the experience. That way, the memory of our deeply profound shared encounter will linger on in written form for the rest of time. I’d like to think I’ve made him a tiny bit better, more humble, more compassionate. I give him a half smile and a wave, but he doesn’t return it.

Horrible man.

We are wheeled straight through to the exit, stopping briefly at the Alicante arrivals duty-free shop to purchase a few bottles of tequila from the rows upon rows of colourful bottles of booze.

For the love of God, why? Why do we need more drink?

‘For the journey,’ Tash says, as if reading my mind. ‘It could take up to forty minutes.’

We all crowd through the sliding doors to meet our minibus driver, who we immediately spot waiting for us at the far end. He is holding up a huge sign with ‘The Dollz and Ted Sheeran’ on it. As we make our way over, his eyes look about to burst from their sockets right out of his face and across the tarmac. It takes Jorge, or Hoargghhhay as he pronounces it, a few minutes to remember who he is and what he does for a living while we wait for Big Mand who thinks she has lost her passport and has retraced her steps to the duty-free.

Cherry and Big Sue take the opportunity to smoke three back-to-back cigarettes each and, finally, Tash hobbles on to theminibus with an ankle the size of Gibraltar to sit next to Liberty, who is in a dead sleep next to her, having taken her travel sickness tablets too late. Her huge lips are vibrating softly like a pair of pink inflatable lilos. We all look battered. It is barely ten in the morning and instead of feeling fresh and wholesome with the whole trip yet ahead of us, we could be returning from a year volunteering in a war zone.

Jorge takes the opportunity to smoke a cigarette himself and admire the girls’ boobs. He lets us know he is available for hire if we need him during our stay. He says if we need him foranythingat all, just call. He gives us a lascivious wink. His meaning is very clear. We choose to strategically ignore him until he puts out his cigarette and sheepishly climbs on to the bus.

‘We get that a lot,’ explains Cherry, tutting.

‘Except me,’ laughs Big Sue.

‘Are you a couple?’ I ask her and Big Mand politely, noticing how close they are standing to each other. They both instantly flame red, and I am met with a torrent of denials. ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. You just seem very close, that’s all.’

Cherry reminds me not to be so judgemental and sexist. ‘Or homophobic or whatever it is you’re being,’ she adds.

If anything, I have nothing but respect for same-sex couples and their struggles for equality and what have you, but I’m denied the chance to defend myself as Big Mand and Big Sue turn huffily away from me.

Eventually, Jorge drives us up the coast, where we are rewarded with a beautiful, twinkling Mediterranean Sea, bright sunshine, and picturesque mountains dotted with white villas and bright blue swimming pools. My thoughts drift back to the flight and Mr Window Seat, his wet crotch and furious face and those dark moody eyes. After half an hour, the natural landscapegives way to the infamous tower blocks that mark our arrival into Benidorm.

As we pass a quaint pedestrianised avenue lined with colourful flags, criss-crossing from rooftop to rooftop across the cobbled boulevard, home to one bar after another all the way down to the beach and its palm-tree-lined promenade, Tash shouts to Jorge, ‘It’s The Strip!The Strip! Stop the bus!’

I imagine the girls will want to take selfies at such an iconic tourist landmark.

‘Stop the bus right now!’

Jorge turns to the girls. ‘No stop here. Villa just two more minoots.’

‘Hoargghhhay! Stop the friggin’ bus! I’ve just seen a “four cocktails for the price of one” offer!’

‘Laydeez, is only two minoots to villa. I have important job to do after,’ he says, admirably sticking to his guns.

‘Five friggin’ minutes. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you, Hoargghhhay?’

The bus screeches to an immediate halt and the moment I step off, I question my life choices. I try to keep up with the Dollz as they march down The Strip. The street that appeared quaint and colourful from the bus has turned out to be home to several bars featuring live sex shows, a baffling variety of tribute acts and topless, pole-dancing bar staff. This is my home for the next week.

‘Here it is,’ yells Tash. ‘The Knee Trembler. It’s our favourite bar. Free tequila shots with every drink.’

We pile into the bar, which has only just opened up for cleaning purposes, following what I presume was a night of throwing drinks and wet napkins around. It stinks of ripe cheese and vinegar. This feels like a new professional low.

The girls order the poor beanpole teenage cleaner, now barman, to get them four Skanky Lady cocktails each, as per the special offer on the sign outside.

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