Page 37 of Girls Just Want to Have Sun

‘It’s almost as though she’s never done a real show before,’ says Cherry, seeing my alarmed expression.

‘I wonder what Nancy was thinking? She usually sends us someone top-notch,’ says Big Mand. ‘Not some first-timer. Connie, how long have you been singing in clubs?’

‘Erm,’ I hesitate. ‘Seven years.’

‘Seven feckin’ years?’ Tash all but screams. ‘Jesus. How have you lasted this long? Seven years? Seven actual years? Or do you mean seven dog years?’

They all howl with laughter.

‘What time are we leaving?’ I ask tightly.

I’m going to stay civil and polite. After all, I am here to develop a healthy and lasting week-long professional relationship with these attention-seeking, shallow, nun-obsessed boozehounds that just happen to be much better on stage than me, even though they put far less effort in and havebeen doing it for less time. There’s no point explaining that the last five years were spent nosediving, as I helped nurse my mother through cancer and became consumed with grief.

‘Hoargghhhay is booked for 8p.m.,’ answers Tash. ‘We’ll pop to Tiki Beach for a confidence drink before we go on stage tonight.’

‘Fine,’ I say, checking the time on my phone.

I can do this. The show must go on.

As they stampede away, I think wistfully of Ged and Liam, always there to support me, and importantly, to advise on my fashion choices to keep me in touch with my inner truth, or as they like to say, to keep me from looking like a village librarian. I could really do with a fairy godmother about now. Suddenly, an idea pops into my head. I will text Nacho for help. He seems the type that would know all about grooming. Within minutes he has dropped me the location for a salon and the nearest Zara. I have a quick shower and head straight off.

As I rush into the salon, I am greeted by one of the girls I recognise from cliff diving. We exchange cheek kisses before I show her pictures on my phone of the nails, hair and make-up I need done. She hurries me to a seat, and I hear comforting words that sound like lift, tone and highlight as she picks up strands of my hair and rubs them between her fingers. She frowns, deep in thought, as she pulls my hair down the sides of my face before messing about with side partings as she makes eye contact with me through the mirror. Almost as though she is telepathically suggesting it is time for an exciting change.

While another beautician deftly works her magic on my neglected nails, I check online for dresses in Zara. All the whilemy thoughts flash back to Matteo and the way he looked at me while I was making a fool of myself on stage. I feel a surge of panic swilling in the pit of my stomach. Trust him to be the head of Jezebel Music. It’s like the universe has really got it in for me.

I fight back the instinct to run away from it all, fly back to Newcastle and hide in my bed. I need to turn this negative spiral around. I sit upright and square my shoulders as I stare at myself in the mirror. It’s time to be the woman I know Ineedto be, not the invisible woman I oftenwantto be. When it is time for my hair to be washed and conditioned, I turn my phone on to ‘do not disturb’ mode, close my eyes and force myself to daydream that I’m excellent on stage. And at the end, Matteo is so impressed he asks for my bloody number. In fact, he’s desperate for my number; he begs me for my number.Begs!

Two and a half hours later and I can’t believe what I am seeing. The woman in the mirror is sophisticated, elegant, and really quite stunning. The girls at the salon have managed to make my black eye disappear behind professional make-up. They’ve given me extremely flattering contouring and have styled my hair with subtle highlights. It shines as I swing my head from side to side. I leave in a cloud of coconut-scented hair mist and air kisses and, even though they protest, I leave the girls a huge tip.

I walk on air across the bustling square, almost strutting as I pass tables laden with tourists sitting outside in the sunshine having tapas and drinks. People are laughing, chatting, sharing time together. It’s such a happy and uplifting environment, it’s infectious. I check my phone map and see the store I need is just up ahead.

In Zara, I pick out a sparkly, dark ruby-red dress which complements my newly sleek and glossy hair. It has shoulder cap sleeves that show off my toned arms and is short enough to show off my legs without being tacky. I also treat myself to somehigh black shoe boots that finish the outfit off perfectly, and some pretty underwear because I need all the confidence I can get.

I send the girls at the salon a photo as requested, and ahugethanks and some emoji love hearts for squeezing me in to make sure I was ready on time. I send the same photo to my father, Ged and Liam with the same emoji love hearts. I havenever everlooked this good in my entire life. This is confirmed in capitals by Ged and Liam almost instantly. I feel like I might just be able to pull this off.

Once back outside, the warm air hits me. Luckily, the evening sun is low, and the heat is not so harsh. I peer down one of the narrow cobbled lanes towards the sea twinkling away. I have just enough time to make it to Tiki Beach for 8p.m. I can’t wait until the girls see me. Not that I need their approval in any way, obviously. I am a strong, resilient woman, as of an hour ago.

I walk along to the bar we’ve arranged to meet in to find it is rammed full of (I’d love to say boisterous and good-natured) lager louts. I stand outside to wait for the Dollz.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I suddenly remember my phone is on ‘do not disturb’. It beeps the second I turn it back off. I have thirteen missed calls, all in the last five minutes.

Shite.

I feel instantly panicky as I return the call.

Tash screeches down the phone, ‘Connie, I’ve been trying to ring you for fucking ages!’

Five minutes.

‘What’s wrong?’ I yell back desperately. ‘Is it your ankle? Has it burst?’

‘Who switches their phone off before an important gig?’

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