Page 9 of Girls Just Want to Have Sun

Yes. Good question.

‘I didn’t mean to touch your…’ I frantically search for a non-sexual word to describe his wet bulge. ‘Your privates. I just wanted to help dab them dry.’

He gives me an outraged look.

Dab them dry? DAB THEM DRY?We have crossed the Channel and thanks to Brexit I have no safety buffer. This is most definitely harassment, no matter how sexually free and easy we may believe the French to be.

He stands up, and Mrs Aisle Seat huffs and puffs as we both get up to let him through. There’s an uncomfortable moment where we are squashed together in the aisle, and I appreciate just how tall he is. He’s very tanned with an attractive amount of stubble. He shakes his dark glossy hair out of his eyes and pulls his wet, tight-fitting top down over his taut stomach, which I am going to ignore completely because I’m not one of thosepredatory types, although I do catch his woody, soapy, fresh-man scent before he barges roughly past me towards the toilet.

When he eventually returns, my eyes are drawn back to the patch. It is dry now, but where there was once a huge dark wet patch surrounding his crotch, there is now a dry yellow stain. I don’t know how but this seems even worse. He is so apoplectic with rage, he can barely look at me. I lower my gaze and move to let him through. We still have an hour to go before we land in Alicante so, to avoid any further upset, I slump down in my seat and close my eyes. I am shattered. The last thing I hear is the cabin crew murmuring something about turning the heat up to make us fall asleep.

A loud tannoy announcement startles me. Something about scratch cards before we land and sunshine and glorious temperatures. My still-heavy eyes refuse to open. Instead, I snuggle back into my comfy warm pillow and throw my arm across it. I twist sideways, crossing my legs for comfort, and nod straight off again. Moments later, a second rude announcement penetrates my sleepy brain.

Ping.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be arriving in Alicante. The crew will now pass through the cabin, so please ensure your big lips and heavy eyebrows are securely fastened, your eyelashes are stowed in the upright position, and your leg tattoos are clearly visible for landing.’

This is swiftly followed by the ping of the seat-belt sign reminding us to fasten them up again. There’s simply too much pinging going on. I reluctantly open my eyes and adjust to the harsh bright light pouring in. I see a heavenly blue skyand feathery clouds. For a moment I forget I’m on my way to Benidorm and professional humiliation. I gaze out of the window, my head still lying in its warm resting place.

Wait, warm what now?

Suddenly I jerk fully awake, realising with dismay the position I am currently in. My head is snuggled into Mr Window Seat’s taut chest. I’ve never in my life felt a pec like it. It’s rock solid against my cheek. My arm is resting across his firm tummy area. This too feels like some kind of body armour. My leg is casually slung over one of his.

Fucking hell. I’m all but dry-humping him. And no more international waters!

I carefully peel myself away from his body. I have left a near-perfect imprint of eyebrows, red lipstick and a suspicious brown streak across his white shirt.

Where to begin with the apologising?

I sneak a glance at his face. It is a stony, rigid mask. We are so close I can see an angry tic in his cheekbone, suggesting that I have maybe prevented him from sleeping or moving or working for the remainder of the flight. He is staring hard at the headrest in front of him.

How embarrassing.

‘I’m so, so sorry.’

He rudely holds up his hand to block my apology. I should remind him that manners maketh the man but, to be fair, he has been through quite a lot.

As Alicante comes into view, the plane hits an air pocket and unexpectedly sends everyone bouncing up from their seats. Then we hit another, this time much stronger, and we are all shaken about for a good minute or so before it calms down and the pilot comes over the tannoy to explain that it is going to be a bumpy landing due to ourlatedeparture, which he reminds us,was due to thelatepassengers boarding and refusing to be quiet during the safety demonstration.

The aircraft properly sounds like it is falling apart. The rattling is deafening and, as if on cue, a baby starts wailing. The atmosphere changes dramatically as panic sweeps through the cabin. The captain announces in a cheery voice that although it does indeed sound like the plane is falling apart, he would like to take this opportunity to reassure all the passengers that this is indeed highly unlikely, that the plane is indeed built to withstand air pressure like this and on behalf of himself, his co-pilot, the cabin crew and the airline he would indeed like to wish us a pleasant onward journey and indeed thank us very much for flying with them today,bing bong.

We hit another massive bump of turbulence that sends everyone, despite the seat belts, crashing into the people next to them. Try as I might, there’s no hope of me not touching my neighbour as he’s gripping the armrest between us like a vice, his eyes wide and unblinking. My first hope is that he’s simply meditating very, very deeply and hasn’t had the heart attack that he appears to have had. He’s definitelynotokay. He’s gone very pale. Instinctively, I grab his wrist and feel for a pulse.

Nothing!

I jab at the call button above me and quickly lay the palm of my hand on his pec to feel his heart. His skin is cold. We’re going to need a defibrillator and the ground crew on standby.

‘Leave me alone!’ he bellows, peering sideways at me, scaring me half to death, as if the pilot wasn’t already doing a good enough job of it. ‘You are making this flight much worse than it needs to be!’

‘I thought you’d had a cardiac arrest. I was doing advanced first-aid checks on you!’ I shout back defensively over the roar of the engines and the flap of the wings being adjusted.

‘By groping me?’

Oh God, he’s going to have me arrested, and I’ll spend the rest of the week in jail. Nancy will kill me. And I have only myself to blame. Well, actually, Liam and Ged can share some of the blame for encouraging me to come on this trip in the first place. I knew it would end in disaster.

‘I’d hate to know which medical school you graduated from,’ he adds sarcastically as the plane hits another bump, throwing us all forward. He puts his arm up to protect himself and his elbow whacks my eye. ‘Sorry,’ he yells at me while I’m doubled over in pain.

In-fucking-credible. I try to save his life and this is the thanks I get?

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