Page 6 of Girls Just Want to Have Sun

‘Don’t worry, hun. We’ll soon have you looking and acting like one of us,’ Tash says confidently, eyeing me up and down. ‘If you want to fit in over there in Benidorm just copy everything we do.’

‘Yes. Being sexy is all about spontaneity,’ Cherry says, flinging her leg over Liberty’s shoulder and dipping into a backwards crab shape as though to demonstrate.

‘And the way you look,’ adds Liberty, pouting at me.

‘And being completely in sync with one another,’ adds Big Mand, posing alongside them.

I scan the group and quickly run through a mental list: Tash is the lead singer and is very single at the moment, Cherry with the flaming-red hair is in charge of choreography and is very scary, Liberty with the inflatable lips is the very image of a Kardashian and is inexplicably drawn to married men, Big Sue is a sensible giantess, and Mandeep, or Big Mand as she has introduced herself, seems to adore Big Sue because she keeps looking up at her with obvious cow eyes. I’m just thinking what a cute couple they make when Cherry suddenly roars, ‘SLUT DROP!’

Oh Christ.

The Dollz draw the eye of everyone in the near vicinity, especially the already irritated security control officers whose heads whip around to witness the Beyoncé-style move withdistaste. The armed police guards instinctively reach for their guns. Tash, looking thrilled, flicks her hair in their direction and switches her lashes to bat on their most powerful setting. As an outraged security control officer marches towards us in the queue, I am equally unnerved to feel several pairs of hands pushing me forward with whispers of, ‘Go on, Connie, you’re the headline act. You deal with them.’

I’m appalled, but I suppose technically, according to Nancy, I am in charge. The officer rapidly asks me several questions to which he greets each answer with a disdainful tut. I tell him yes, I appear to be suddenly in charge of the group, while thinking to myself I am certainlynotin charge of the group for any longer than the length of this conversation, andno, of course we should not be dancing like prats while we go through the baggage check area, andyes, their outfits are little more than denim G-strings and bra tops and finally, thatyes, I will absolutely do my best to persuade them to cover up around families with children.

Next, under the watchful glare of several officers, we are instructed to get our toiletries out of our cases. This proves to be very unpopular and causes a ripple of lady-panic.

‘Should super-quick spray tan foam be classed as a liquid though? Because it definitely isn’t,’ Tash says sharply with some authority.

‘Liquid!’ snaps the officer, snatching the can from her and throwing it in the bin. There’s an almighty gasp from the girls as though he’s just thrown away a newborn kitten.

‘Is hairspray allowed?’ Tash asks.

The officer points to a massive sign that says:No aerosols. No liquids. No gels over 100ml.

‘Is hair mousse allowed, though?’

The officer sighs, pointing to the100mlbit of the sign.

‘Is conditioner a liquid, cos it’s more of a cream really, isn’t it? And body mist? It’s mostly air. Jesus Christ. Air’s not even on the friggin’ list!’ Tash screeches at him.

She gawps at the rest of us for backup before returning to face the accusing officer, who delights in explaining the basic chemistry behind an aerosol. The atmosphere is super tense and thick with outrage, as though the security officers have taken everything off the Dollz out of pure spite. Cherry finds herself once again in the firing line for wanting to save money with carry-on luggage and forgetting to warn the girls about the dire consequences.

‘Connie, follow me. Let’s get those pasty legs sorted,’ she says, grabbing my hand. We all scuttle through to the duty-free where a well-groomed sales assistant makes a timid enquiry to the group to ask if they need any help, only to be met with an unfriendly glare as they swiftly crowd her out.

In less than five minutes, everyone is encrusted in fake tan that costs more than our accommodation and travel put together. (‘Excuse me, ladies, those brand-new St. Tropez bottles you’re opening and spraying all over your legs are not testers. They’re thirty-nine pounds each! They’re not faulty, just empty because you’ve used it all!’)

For the sake of bonding purposes, my legs now have a strange yellow glow, my palms are a solid brown colour, and I have allowed Tash to draw some ludicrous eyebrows on me which extend a fraction above the natural eyebrow line.

‘They need to stand out on stage,’ she is explaining as I take in her own terrifying jet-black eyebrows. ‘You really should have them tattooed on for a much stronger look. Like mine.’

I peer anxiously at my reflection in the mirror. I will now arrive in Spain looking very surprised. As if I had expected to arrive in Finland or Japan or somewhere.

In the middle of the aisle, Cherry bellows, ‘SHOPPING CART!’ which rocks me to my core. Everyone stops to stare, taking photos of the girls putting imaginary toiletries into their imaginary shopping carts while gyrating their hips. We all inhale sharply as Tash, in a pair of vertiginous strappy sandals with heels like chopsticks, falls noisily to the ground, taking thousands of pounds’ worth of beauty products with her. Her shoes might look spectacular but, to be fair, it was only going to be a matter of time before someone twisted an ankle. There’s much slipping and sliding as bottles and creams are strewn everywhere, with Tash screaming at the top of her lungs about being in ‘complete aggs’. ‘Get help!’ she yells forcefully in my direction. ‘But make sure it’s from a man. A big, strong one. With a neat beard.’

Seven days!

Even though it is now only 5.30a.m., we’re at the departure lounge bar as Tash, in her newly acquired wheelchair and bandaged ankle, is greeted like a returning war hero. She immediately downs a bottle of fizz, saying she’ll be up and twerking in no time.

‘Remember, girls, chicks before dicks! Sisters before misters! Hoes before bros!’

A glass is quickly thrust into my hand for the toast. I stare at the bubbling liquid dubiously, already exhausted from the effort of keeping up with them. Tash spins her wheelchair round with an alarmed expression.

‘Connie! Why aren’t you drinking? You’re not…’ She squints up at me and then down to my drink. ‘You’re not one ofthem, are you?’

One of them?

‘You know, someone who refuses to enjoy alcohol?’

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