Page 24 of Girls Just Want to Have Sun

‘You ate food, Big Mand?’ roars Tash incredulously. ‘While out drinking?’ Tash’s face is twisted into an ugly scowl. ‘Can everyone just stop throwing up, please? You selfish fuckers!’ She is hobbling around unsteadily. I notice her ankle is ballooning out over the tight strap of her high-heeled platform stilettos. It has gone an angry purple colour.

‘Twerk!’ screams Cherry, and everyone suddenly starts twerking, instantly forgetting how outraged they were mere moments ago. I sense Matteo trying not to snigger next to me. He rolls his eyes, and I feel a faint gust of butterflies in my stomach. It appears that he too is happy to draw a veil over the incident with my lips.

The twerking is interrupted by Big Mand slipping in a pool of vomit and landing heavily onto the tiles. Big Sue runs to see if she is okay, slips too and lands on top of her.

‘My arm! It’s broken!’ shouts Big Mand, sounding in real agony but still managing to hold her burning ciggie aloft and out of harm’s way.

‘I’ll get you something for the pain,’ volunteers Tash, making her way to the kitchen. She waves a bottle of tequila at her. ‘Ice and lemon, Big Mand?’

‘Yes, but ring an ambulance. Call 123 or whatever it is in Spain,’ she wheezes.

Tash nods, taking charge. ‘Good idea. I’ll get the shot glasses and the salt first though, hun. And I’ll do a quick wee in case the paramedics are quite fit. I imagine they will be, in those uniforms. In fact, I might get changed.’

This is not her finest hour.

Matteo shakes his head in disbelief. Suddenly it seems that the girls can no longer hear or see Big Mand lying by the pool or remember quite what happened as they stampede into the house, easily leaving her behind. Then all hell breaks loose in the kitchen when the discovery is made that there are no lemons. Suddenly, I hear my name, and Matteo and I both freeze.

‘Where the fuck is Connie with the lemons?’

‘Connie? Connie who?’ asks Liberty, sounding genuinely mystified. And literally, two minutes later, they’ve all stampeded off to bed. Even Big Mand manages to haul herself up using only one arm to trail drunkenly behind them yelling that she’s okay, she just needs to sleep it off.

‘Sleep what off?’ Tash yells back.

‘I can’t remember,’ replies Big Mand, stubbing her cigarette out on the patio before she goes inside. She must also have forgotten that she needs an ambulance.

The whole house falls silent. Matteo and I wait a few minutes to make sure no one is lurking around downstairs. Just as we make a move to go, a burning smell drifts over to us, accompanied by a sizzling sound.

‘Jesus Christ, the hair. It’s on fire!’ Like a whippet, Matteo darts over and kicks the burning hairpiece into the pool, quicklychecking nothing else is going to go up in flames. I dread to think what Big Mand will make of that in the morning.

With his hands on his hips, he looks over to where I’m hovering by the gap in the wall. He lets out a huge, bewildered sigh.

‘Goodnight, Connie.’

I wait to see if he asks me for my number, but he doesn’t. Of course he won’t ask for my number. Why would he? He’s completely not attracted to me sexually or otherwise. I pull my dressing gown tightly round me.

‘Well, goodnight then, Matteo.’

He gives me a lingering look that fills me full of flutters before he disappears off round the far side of the pool to avoid all the patches of sick. I hear the click of the front gate shutting and the quiet rumble of his old-lady scooter as he drives off.

8

The next morning, I awake feeling a bit tender, despite having had the best sleep of my life thanks to all the wine and those painkillers. I ease out of my four-poster bed like a gazelle (a slightly injured one, perhaps from a run-in with a moody-but-handsome lion with a great mane of glossy hair and eyes you could get hopelessly lost in) and head out into the sunshine on my private patio to enjoy a coffee.

Flashbacks of Matteo being all gallant, calling the doctor, fetching me pizza and saving us all from the villa burning down put me in the mood for being creative. I’m surprised to feel a slight thrill in the pit of my stomach at not knowing if he’ll come and see me perform later.

After an hour of writing lyrics and rehearsing melodies, I’m pleased to discover it’s just like riding a bike. Next, I consider going over my set list, but there’s still no sound from the main house, and I will definitely wake them up if I start singing, even from this distance. The mere thought of Matteo coming to see me sing on stage brings on a heady sensation and for the first time I feel excited about it. Checking the time, I decide to go for a run before I start panicking about the gig tonight. I’ll jog pastthe venue so I know where it is, and I’ll also jog past some shops to see if there’s an outfit that might be better than the ones I’ve packed. Ged and Liam are right. Maybe it is time to add a little sparkle to my act.

I set off from the villa, in the opposite direction to the supermarket, and discover that we are not far from the beachfront. I run the complete length of Benidorm promenade from end to end. My body is soaking up the sun, the heat penetrating right to my bones, healing my back and making me feel strong and healthy as I weave in and out of the early walkers dotting the wide pedestrianised path. The bustling cafés, British bars with their Union Jack flags and towering hotels overlooking the sandy beach become a blur until I reach the cobbled lanes of the Old Town, and I discover that the narrow lanes lead through to another crescent-shaped beach. It has a quaint marina lined with palm trees and is virtually deserted.

I take in a deep lungful of fresh salty air and set off at a much faster pace to really push myself. I feel my pulse racing and adrenaline flowing through my veins. My thoughts turn back to my performance tonight. I must channel this positive energy and rethink my song list. Nancy was adamant about the happy songs. I must try and make a good first impression on the patrons of Benidorm. And one patron in particular.

Just as I reach the end of the beach, I notice a jogger running towards me. He is extremely athletic and, as he comes closer into view, he seems familiar. For a split second, I panic. I recognise the dark hair, the perfectly tanned, lean torso and those biceps pumping up and down like pistons. It’s Matteo, and he’s about to see me all sweaty and dishevelled instead of poised and elegant on stage this evening. I become immediately flustered.

What should I say? What should I do?

I am suddenly reminded of our non-kiss moment and the startled look in his eyes. I make a snap decision to play it cool.After all, he did make it very clear that he is not, I repeatnot, sexually attracted to me. Not in the slightest. Nor did he ask for my number, which I’m pretty sure, along with spelling it out verbally, is also very much a sign of non-attraction. So why, in the name of all that is holy, do I find myself waving and shouting to get his attention?

‘Buenos dias, señor!’

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