Page 12 of Girls Just Want to Have Sun

‘They’re named after us,’ Tash tells me, insisting I have at least one.

My drink comes in a hollowed-out pineapple with a sorry-looking cocktail stick full of limp bits of fruit jutting out of the top. It tastes of melted ice lolly mixed with Haribo and a dash of diabetes. I drink it very warily, unsure if now is the right time to reveal that, for the sake of not losing a leg, I would very much like to go teetotal.

‘I can’t bear these people who are afraid of a bit of sugar,’ Tash is saying to the other Dollz, which makes up my mind to keep quiet, although none of the toxic drinks appear sanitary as the barman pours them into an assortment of jam jars, coconuts and obscure medical bric-a-brac to give the impression that, here in Benidorm, a simple clean glass will not do. I watch Cherry sucking hard on her colostomy bag while Liberty’s has come in a roller skate.

Even Jorge resigns himself to a few small beers, about forty cigarettes and a plate of something long and fried that could well have been a bicycle tyre the way he’s chewing on it.

As the second round of cocktails are being whizzed up in blenders, a group of nuns stagger past the bar. I can’t help but notice they are all wearing trainers and have unusually large feet. The tallest of the nuns turns abruptly towards us, stroking his beard.

‘Holy shit! Mother of God Almighty! Lads, would you just look at these stunners,’ he says, sweeping his bulging gaze over us. As they stop in their tracks, Tash bats her lashes and casually asks the beefy, bearded nuns where they are off to.

‘Church,’ one of them, with an elaborate head tattoo and a huge murderer’s moustache, is quick to say. ‘But first, would you mind if we, women of the cloth, join you ladies for a drink?’

Tash nods her head, giggling.

‘I’m the Mother Superior. This is Sister Kevin and Sister Hugh Huge Ones,’ he says, holding his hand against his heart while he introduces us to the rest. I take in their wrecked faces and wonder how many days they’ve been here. Too many, by the looks of things. Sister Kevin has red eyes and a bewildered look about him. I can’t help but worry if we’ll end up in the same sorry state after our own tequila-soaked visit.

‘Been here long?’ Tash asks.

‘Flew in last night.’

Dear God.

‘Shame you’re leaving,’ he says, nodding towards our driver. ‘Looks like you’ve had a messy one though. You can tell us where best to go.’

‘Literally just arrived,’ Tash says defensively.

‘Fuck me,’ Sister Kevin says in surprise. I try to take great offence, but I am simply too pissed to care.

‘Now, have you gorgeous beauties anything to confess?’ the Mother Superior asks cheekily.

‘Not yet, but hopefully we will later,’ promises Liberty with a suggestive cackle.

‘Ah’ – the nun nods thoughtfully – ‘but are we notallmartyrs to the sins of the flesh?’

‘You what, love?’ asks Cherry, confused.

‘He’s asking if we are all up for a good shagging later,’ barks Tash, and everyone bursts out laughing.

I bristle with alarm as these cross-dressing clergywomen sit down amongst us and much flirting and making of plans to meet up later in the day ‘for confession’ takes place. Liberty asks them to keep us in their prayers as the Mother Superior lifts his habit,rummages round in his undergarments and pulls out his phone to put in her number.

I’m relieved to head back on to the bus. I gaze tipsily out of the window as Jorge navigates the one-way system with what he probably thinks is expertise and panache by the way he keeps turning around and nodding expectantly at the Dollz. He narrowly misses a family of four, clips the mirror of a moped parked up at right angles to the road and laughs as he upends a rubbish bin. The narrow streets are littered with people absent-mindedly crossing roads whenever the mood takes. To my untrained eye, every man, woman and child in this town seems totally shit-faced. I see the bar and kebab-shop-lined streets whizz past as though in a hypnotic daze.

Why am I here? When did my life take such a catastrophic wrong turn?

Moments later, we pull up outside our new home for the next week. It is a spectacular villa with terracotta tiles, palm trees peeping over the huge white walls surrounding it and, I do a double take here, an extremely hot guy standing by the gate.

‘Why is Enreeky Iglesias waiting to let us in?’ Cherry asks, eyes wide with disbelief.

‘No, babes, it’s Justin Bieber. He must own this friggin’ villa,’ Liberty says, bursting with excitement.

There’s a mad scramble to get off the bus while Jorge is left to unload all the bags, gutted that his departure goes totally unnoticed. Tash is the first to try and communicate with the heart-throb. He welcomes us in his sexy accent, and she responds with a shriek. I’m instantly amused to see her go beetroot red and flustered, keen but quite unable to articulate a sentence in this beautiful man’s language.

‘Has anyone else got fanny flutters?’ asks Cherry as he takes us all in.

We are all transfixed. It’s one of those moments where language barriers must be overcome through tone and facial expressions. A respectful silence falls despite the deafening clang of eggs exploding from ovaries. Finally, he introduces himself as Nacho.

‘Nacho?’

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