Page 21 of Girls Just Want to Have Sun

I peel off my grungy clothes and step into the mosaic-tiled shower, and as the hot water washes the sticky Fanta from my body, I treat myself to a little pity sob. As always, my thoughts drift to my mother. Apart from when she’d go on glamorous tours with the world’s leading orchestras, we were inseparable. She used to say I was born singing. Our passion for music bonded us together like no other relationship I’ve ever known. She taught me everything she knew. And when she reached the pinnacle of her career, she happily sacrificed opportunities to stay closer to me. She was my champion when I failed my first few auditions for the Sinfonia. She used to tell me my time would come, and I believed her. Even after all this time, it still makes me unbelievably sad that she died and isn’t here to watch me blossom into a proper nobody. Failing at life. Her hope for me died with her. My breathing halts for a brief moment as I feel the grief wash through my soul, squeezing the very life from my veins. My sniffle turns into a good, noisy, no-holding-back weep as I let the shower wash away my heartache.

Within moments, the tears are replaced with a succession of some of my favourite heart-wrenching ballads. It’s been the onlyway to deal with the tidal waves of grief since my mother passed. As I’m belting out the desolate lyrics, I take in a huge lungful of air and hold the note like a pro. At least this counts as practice, and I don’t care if I can be heard over in Morocco.

Afterwards, I massage the complimentary oils and creamy shampoo into my hair, which envelop me in delicious calming scents. I condition my hair from straw-based back to silky and soon I feel clean and refreshed. I put a bit of concealer on my bad eye to cover the black. It almost works so I try adding some powder. Miraculously, I feel almost normal again. Even though it is only for my benefit, I dry my hair and straighten it so that it’s soft and shiny and swishes gently round my face. The wild expression from earlier has gone and the nicely drugged-up, painkiller eyes are wide and relaxed. I spray some more spa aromatherapy oils over myself and breathe in the fragrant bergamot and jasmine.

Even the stiffness in my back is easing. I put on the fluffy white robe that is hanging on the back of the door and momentarily stop to notice the spare peg next to it. An image pops into my mind of Matteo showering here. It causes a momentary fluttering in my stomach before I head into the lounge.

You’re concussed,I remind myself,and hungry. Also, he went to great lengths to make sure I knew he wasn’t attracted to me. My phone pings, and through the cracked screen, I see a notification from the Dollz’ Facebook page. It’s a new post of what I hope is a gentleman’s moustache dyed pink, until a message pops up underneath, announcing Tash has won the designer vagina competition, accompanied by lots of photos of them having fun. They seem to be about my age and yet manage to balance professional careers with singing while maintaining a deranged and enviably carefree zest for life. And here I am, alone. Again.

I wander through to the kitchen to make some snacks. I’m just about to open the fridge when I hear a noise outside. I stop to listen and immediately let out a high-pitched scream as the distinct sound of the patio doors sliding open in the other room is followed by footsteps crossing the lounge. I dart round, attempting to grab something off the bench for protection.

‘It’s okay! It’s just me,’ Matteo yells as I brandish a pair of salad tongs at him.

‘You gave me such a fright,’ I say, clutching a hand to my chest as I lower the weapon.

Matteo looks at the salad tongs. ‘Were you planning to toss me to death?’

We both frown awkwardly at each other, leaving the unintended sexual innuendo hanging between us. There’s a high possibility it’s only in my head.

After a beat, he says, ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry after your accident. I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered pizza for you.’

What a cheek.

‘Myaccident?’ I say to him. ‘You knocked me over. If it was anyone’s accident it wasyours!’

‘You weren’t even looking where you were going,’ he says, eyes wide with disbelief. ‘You just stepped out in front of me. And if we’re going to split hairs, I’d say you tripped over the kerb.’

We stare crossly at each other before he rolls his eyes away from mine. ‘You’re right, I should have the intuition to know that at any given moment, a pedestrian, busy checking their Snapchat, will walk out in front of me, and next time, I’ll be more prepared!’

I find his derision unnecessary and, at the risk of sounding like a stuffy English professor, it shows a real lack of vocabulary and syntactical prowess, which I explicitly share with him.

‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.’

Yes, I’m aware that I used it earlier but that was different.

‘Yeah. Whatever,’ he snaps. He clearly doesn’t care about syntax or sarcasm. ‘The pizza’s getting cold.’

He stomps away, and I stomp after him, but when I reach the patio, the table is laid with snacks. There are two glasses full of water sitting next to the plates and cutlery and an unopened bottle of wine. The air is thick with the delicious aroma of pizza. The lights are twinkling, and music is playing softly in the background. Matteo looks as if he wishes he hadn’t bothered. I immediately feel ungrateful. I stare at the beautiful surroundings and begin to appreciate the effort he has gone to.

‘Thank you. It’s lovely.’

‘I just wanted to make up for your support band letting you down,’ he says, sounding hacked off. ‘They shouldn’t have gone off and left you like that.’

Oh. That’s unexpectedly sweet of him.

‘How about we drink all of that wine instead, and start the evening over?’ I say. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit… whatever. I think I’m a little concussed. And hungry.’

He thinks about it for a few seconds before holding a chair out for me. I dive straight for a slice of pizza and groan with delight as the cheese melts against my tongue and slides down my throat.

‘This is so delicious,’ I say, licking my fingers and wiping them on the napkin. Matteo seems relieved to see me tucking in and reaches for a slice. We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes before I become acutely aware that I am naked underneath my dressing gown and we are totally isolated here, yet I make no move to get dressed. Matteo says nothing as he watches me knock back two more painkillers and gulp at the crisp, cold wine like it’s water.

After we’ve had plenty to drink and are stuffed with pizza, he asks, ‘How come you know so much about panic attacks?’

I drain my glass and hold it out for a refill. As he pours, I study his face. He has kind eyes. I may as well open with the truth.

‘My mother died.’

It still feels unreal. Somehow untrue. I still feel wobbly when I hear myself say the words out loud. He gives me a moment to let it sink in. I will never be able to say it without feeling devastated. It’s as though it happened only yesterday.

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