Page 29 of Girls Just Want to Have Sun

‘But mostly how you look though, yeah?’ says Liberty.

‘And how you dance around,’ adds Cherry. ‘Always keep on the move and they’ll not notice how terrible you look or sound.’

They stampede back off upstairs full of giggles and tales of see-through tops and spray-on glitter clothing for their spectacular, showstopping opening extravaganza on The Strip. I stand rigid for a full minute after they’ve gone. I am so far out of my comfort zone. I down my Prosecco in one gulp and make my way nervously back to the cottage in a daze.

Why did I waste the day cliff diving? Why?

I’d had very little time to pack and feel panicked as I rifle through what few clothes I have and pull out some black denim shorts, a black bra and a mesh black vest top that I’m pretty sure Liam must have sneaked in there, wishing for the first time ever that I had some leg tattoos to brighten it up. It seems incredibly daring for a stage outfit, so I grab a little cardigan to throw over the top. I look like I’m about to go skateboarding with a load of teens. I strip off and rummage through the case until I find my standard-issue black dress. It’s a no-nonsense, knee-length number perfect for all occasions. There’ll be no dramas, no wardrobe malfunctions; it is literally disaster-proof. A shout from the main house is inviting me for slammers. I make my way unsteadily to the kitchen in my high criss-cross strappy sandals – my nod to a sexier Benidorm style. I think I’ll get away with them if I don’t move a muscle on stage.

As I reach the kitchen, I am greeted by a blaze of colour. My jaw drops. Surely this is a joke? I’m sure it’s the law that glitter is only acceptable if you are either starring in aVoguephoto shoot or you are eight years old. Some of the girls have opted for brightly coloured see-through fishnet tops that reveal not just a hint of nipple but nipple piercings and underboob as well. They’ve all opted for bum-cheek reveal and heavy make-up to hide their sunburnt faces.

I clip-clop through the patio doors.

‘Oh my God. Who died?’ Liberty says dryly.

I smooth the fabric down self-consciously. I might have known this would be their reaction. ‘No one, obviously. This is what serious… Wait, have you just glued glitter and rhinestones over your bare breasts?’ I’m distracted by the strapless bikini sprayed across Liberty’s chest.

‘We want to make a good first impression,’ she tells me. ‘So you can take that judgemental look off your face.’

‘I’m not, it’s not… I don’t think,’ I say, struggling to deny it. ‘I just thought…’

I’m not sure what I thought. I’ve seen their videos, all of them dressed in provocative underwear on stage, but this, this takes it to a whole new level.

‘I don’t have the abs for that sort of outfit.’

Liberty purses her lips. ‘You definitely do.’

Tash sashays in wearing a spectacular silver snakeskin catsuit that also looks sprayed on. On closer inspection, it is indeed sprayed on. She twangs an invisible piece of elastic which holds a minuscule silver thong in place. I marvel at the superior breasts bursting to be free of the tiny bra top stuck on with body glue.

‘Industrial strength. I got it off the internet,’ she says. ‘It’s illegal in most countries.’

‘Ooh, givvuz summa that then, hun, for me nipple tips,’ says Big Mand, enthusiastically taking the tube Tash is handing over.

‘They’llnevercome off with that glue. It’s used in shipping yards,’ Tash boasts confidently.

I mean, they all look amazing, like extras in a Scandinavian sci-fi porn movie. I watch in awe as hundreds and hundreds of selfies, at all angles, are taken. It’s the most smiling I’ve seen the girls do since we got here. Liberty shows the group her selfie, proudly zooming in. I marvel at the explicit image of her undercarriage and bum-cheek reveal.

‘Very flattering. Huge thigh gap, babes. Amaze.’

‘Great bum cheeks. So firm. Like a young boy.’

Silence descends as though they have just realised I’m still here. Tash examines my outfit and flicks her finger towards my dress. ‘You’re not going to be making any fashion headlines like that.’ She frowns and flicks her finger upwards, indicating that I should hitch it up. ‘What’s with the who-died approach? You are so off-message, Connie. This sort of thing might work at a wake but not on stage in Benidorm.’

‘It’s a tribute gig, hun. You’re supposed to be colourful and fun,’ says Cherry. ‘It’s just too dowdy, babes. Too frumpy. You look like a woman who grows her own veg and uses her own poo as fertiliser.’

‘I can’t see any extra hairpieces. There’s no glitter, no lashes and no tattoos,’ says Big Mand, counting off her fingers.

‘You do realise weallhave to look the same? That’s kind of the point? Sisterhood? We’re essentially two halves of the same act,’ says Tash.

‘We’ll need to redo you from top to bottom,’ says Big Sue, brandishing a make-up brush.

I stand in silence to let the irony of their idea of ‘sisterhood’ wash over me, then against my better judgement I down two shots of tequila in rapid succession and let them at me.

Tash says, ‘Try this, babes.’

I catch a slither of material being thrown in my direction. I hold it up. It’s a brightly coloured Lycra hairband. I slide it over my forehead, slightly confused as to how this will be in any way transformational.

‘That’s one of my favourite dresses,’ she announces.

---