Page 48 of Girls Just Want to Have Sun

‘It’s my job,’ explains Tash. ‘I have to deliver up to four hours of lectures per week. It’s exhausting.’

There’s a murmur of understanding.

‘And to be fair,Ionly drink because I’m a mother. It can be horrendous,’ Cherry tells us.

Ah, yes. Cherry’s children, aged one and three, are demons sent from hell to torment her and her long-suffering husband.

‘I drink between births. It’s the only way. I’m a huge supporter of fanny,’ admits Big Mand. ‘But there’s a limit to how much fanny a person can take in one day.’

No one seems to know how to react to this.

‘And another thing.’ I sniff, beginning to calm a little in the face of such empathy among the girls. ‘Those photos of me on your Instagram were hideous. I was humiliated.’

Suddenly, I’m joined by Liberty, Big Mand and Big Sue, who didn’t like their photos either and accuse Tash of never asking their permission first. Especially as some of them have important jobs and wouldn’t want drunken photos of themselves or their undercarriages splashed about the office.

‘You’re right. I only ever post photos where I look fabulous and you all look less… fabulous,’ Tash says, leaning against the kitchen table. ‘I suppose it’s my one flaw.’

They all lean in towards me with caring expressions. I suddenly wonder if I’ve horribly misjudged them.

‘Shit. Incoming!’ yells Big Sue, straightening up and waving her phone around. ‘It’s Nancy. Look alive, people!’

‘I can’t believe she’s making us do this,’ complains Tash as we make our way into the Old Town.

‘She’s treating us like children,’ agrees Liberty. ‘It’s your simple power play. Well, it won’t work on me.’

‘Connie,’ says Big Sue, ‘I think you’re probably the best one to take the lead on this, seeing as you’ve been promoted back up to headline act.’

Nancy tore strips off us all for our unprofessionalism and our holidaymaker attitude to what is essentially a work trip and nothing else. She ended the call yelling, ‘Don’t you dare let me down or else you’ll all be coming back in body bags.’

I check the directions on my phone and stop abruptly outside an old building in a bustling, narrow street. There’s a sign above the ancient wooden door sayingJezebel Music.

‘We’re here.’ I hesitate, not looking forward to seeing Matteo under such disgraceful circumstances before pushing the door open, allowing the Dollz to troop through. Once inside,the reception area is surprisingly modern and spacious. The receptionist greets us in English.

‘Here are your passes for the festival tomorrow. Your maps for the site and the details of timings,’ she says, efficiently handing us a pile of papers. Her smile fades as we hear a clip-clopping sound approach. We all turn to see a very glamorous woman wearing a less than impressed expression. I recognise her instantly. She’s the dark-haired beauty from The Jolly Roger who stood next to Matteo and followed him outside and who was with him yesterday outside Tiki Beach.

‘Hello,’ she says coldly in a thick Spanish accent. ‘I’m Alexandra. Co-owner of Jezebel Music.’

Nancy’s instructions were very clear. We were to come to Jezebel Music and essentially grovel an apology to the two owners of the company, Matteo and his business partner, Alex.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’m?—’

She cuts me off. ‘You’re the singer who lied to me over the phone, ruined the gig at The Jolly Roger and,’ she says, pointing to the Dollz, ‘you’re the ones who ruined the gig last night. It’s like you have come here to purposefully put me out of business.’ There’s a slight pause as none of us are quite sure what to say. She’s spot on with her assessment. ‘Follow me.’

We follow her into a sparse office and crowd in as she sits at her desk. There aren’t enough seats for us, so we stand awkwardly around the room.

‘I would have fired you after The Jolly Roger gig. What was that? It was embarrassing,’ she says to me. ‘We expect much better. We have a reputation to uphold. We are the biggest promoters in Spain and building our reputation across Europe. We can’t have artists like you making fools of us.’

My cheeks are on fire.

‘To be fair,’ says Tash, ‘it wasn’t Connie’s fault she was late. We accidentally left her behind at the villa with all those randy nuns. They can be a real handful.’

‘Which is why she turned up looking like she’d been standing in a wind tunnel,’ says Liberty, trying to be helpful.

Oh my word.

‘Butmoresobecause I got a lift on a motorbike afterwards from our landlord,’ I say. ‘Not because of anything I got up to with the nuns. Although Nacho’s driving was a bit wild.’

Somehow, this explanation doesn’t sound very convincing. It makes me sound like I was late due to bonking my way through half of Benidorm, but I’m grateful to them for trying.

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