Page 8 of Girls Just Want to Have Sun

I spin around, immediately copying their moves as though I simply had no choice. I’m sure she doesn’t mean to sound so menacing. She stands with her hands on her sharp hips, watching my panicked attempt to dance before there’s a huge, exasperated sigh from the captain over the tannoy for us to stop messing about and to sit down so that he can give the weary crew the instruction to close the doors and get ready for take-off.

Luckily, I’m right by my row so I leap into my seat in the middle, climbing easily over the old lady in the aisle seat thanks to my long, yellow-streaked legs, my many years of jogging and my recent consumption of alcohol. I notice the man in the window seat is shaking his head at me and realise instantly that he is incredibly good-looking with his Mediterranean features and overgrown, dark glossy hair. This is embarrassing enough without being judged by someone of such superior genetics. His eyes pop at the full force of my heavily made-up face and freakishly surprised eyebrows before he turns quickly towards the window.

The girls are asked several times to be quiet during the safety instruction demo. The cabin crew team leader eventually announces over the tannoy that while, yes, she agrees that the make-or-break relationships of celebrities and their many baby daddies are terribly important, and yes indeed, they should not be giving their poor children such ridiculous names as Bear and Nest, could we please save our empty speculation until afterthe demo, and also keep that discussion between ourselves if we wouldn’t mind, and not assume that the entire plane-full of passengers holds celebrities in the same regard, thank you kindly.

I quickly buckle myself in, but as the plane lurches forward, building up speed, I grab the armrest for support, only to find the man in the window seat got there first. We both glance down at my hand clamped round his forearm, then when I take my bronzed palm away, we gawp at the perfect fake-tan handprint I leave on his pristine long-sleeved white T-shirt. I’m immediately even more embarrassed because that ‘Ultra Dark Tan’ stain is the sort to never, ever come out. I’d be so annoyed if I were him.

‘Typical,’ he says, rolling his eyes at me before I can apologise.

He’s understandably patronising as well as judgemental.

Trust me to sit next to a total smokeshow while I look like such a clown with all this make-up on and Prosecco swilling inside me. I give him a sympathetic shrug.

‘Why do you look so surprised?’ he shouts above the reverberation of the engine as we hurtle off the safe, solid ground into thin, flimsy air.

Why do you look so handsome and well-groomed?I inwardly panic. I seem to have lost the ability to use words to express myself.

‘I’m not surprised,’ I eventually yell back. ‘It’s my eyebrows.’

‘Your what?’ he bellows over the deafening rattle of the wings and engine combined.

‘My eyebrows! They’re supposed to be strong, not surprised!’ I holler, just as the pilot takes the opportunity to switch off the ear-splitting roar.

My words hang in the air as I smile at him awkwardly. Maybe it’s the Prosecco, but he’s the first attractive man I’ve noticed in years. I surreptitiously glance down to see his fingers are ring-free as he drums them impatiently against the armrest before swiping up his bottle of designer water from the tray table. He’s got incredibly attractive hands. Perhaps Ged and Liam were right about me deliberately not giving anyone a chance. Maybe some light chit-chat about stain removers might ease me back into being sociable. Who knows, he might see past the hideous make-up and be interested in my opinions on the big questions of the day. While I build up the courage to talk to him, the seat-belt sign is switched off, and like lightning, the Dollz scramble to the toilets. Two go marching to the back and the other three to the front in perfect formation when Cherry suddenly shouts, ‘HAIR WHIP!’ and points immediately to me.

Sweet baby Jesus.

I leap up obediently and hurl my head around in all directions until, what seems like an age later, Cherry finally breaks eye contact with me. I thump back into my seat as though recovering from an exhausting spin class or a five-mile reverse run. This is all very tense.

Mr Window Seat is agog. He is also covered in water. It is dripping down his face, and his top is soaked. My eye is drawn to his magazine on the tray table. That, too, is drenched. I notice his iPhone on the table is also dripping wet. He sits there, unable to speak, as water droplets hang off his chin and drip onto his already saturated lap. My eyes travel slowly down to his crotch. It looks like he’s wet himself. He glares angrily at me before the penny drops.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ I say, full of apology. ‘Did I by any chance have anything to do with you throwing water over yourself?’

We are so close, our arms and legs are touching. I glance back down at his crotch again. It really is soaked. In a panic, I do the only thing that springs to mind. I grab the magazine and hold it up to the air con. After years of dealing with my mother’sillness, I’m nothing if not reasonably adequate in an emergency situation.

‘I’ll dry it!’ I shout, flustered, twisting all the little white knobs on the panel above our heads. The icy air comes out at full blast. ‘And rice! I’ll ask the cabin crew for some rice. For your phone,’ I explain, flapping. ‘Although they’ve probably only got microwavable Mexican-style rice… with vegetable bits in… but it might still work.’

He exhales loudly in response, gripping his phone tightly. This is why I should not be interacting with members of the opposite sex. I’m too out of practice and they are all too difficult and moody. An almighty roar vibrates through the cabin.

‘Connie! Stop talking and do the mop!’

I peer nervously over the seats to see the entire group energetically swishing imaginary cleaning implements with much gusto down the aisle, dusting people’s faces and ruffling their hair.

I reluctantly leap up again. This is humiliating. I have my bum in Mr Window Seat’s wet face. As if he isn’t angry enough. I’m literally waving my thigh gap an inch from his nose. My only hope now is that we are over international waters, and he can’t sue me for some sort of human rights breach in a European court of law.

‘Connie!’ Cherry booms, drawing attention to me. ‘Why are you so stiff? Bend from the hips. Like this, babes.’

At last, the twerking comes to a natural end and I am left with but a teaspoon of dignity. I put his magazine back down on the table. It’s ruined. I forgot I had it in my hand while I was panic twerking and I’d rolled it up without thinking, so the soaked pages are now twisted and ripped. The poor man. Now he has nothing to read for the whole flight.

When the cabin crew eventually reach our row with their trolley, I order a croissant and a black coffee and, when he ordersthe same, I insist on paying. He objects very loudly, and we end up in a bit of a tussle with me thrusting my card at the cabin crew.

As we drink our coffees, I apologise once again for twerking in his face, spilling his drink, ruining his magazine, possibly breaking his phoneandwetting his crotch. There is no way that will dry before we land. He is craning his body away from me, doing his level best to make sure our arms and legs do not touch. I dare to peek down at his wet patch. I’d be annoyed too, if that was me.

‘Stop looking at my crotch!’ he barks, making me jump with fright, which sends the remains of my coffee leaping from my cup. We both watch in horror as the coffee arcs through the air to land with precision… on his crotch.

I gasp, instinctively lunging towards him with my serviette.

‘Jesus Christ!’ he yells, swiping my hand away from his groin. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

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