Chapter 4
Mr Window Seat speaks Spanish to the cabin crew and disappears down the steps.
I have clearly lost the ability to talk to men.
Especially tall, ripped, attractive men on the receiving end of my clumsiness.
When Cherry clocks my swollen eye, she recommends I sue the pilot, just as the pilot himself emerges from the cockpit.
‘I’m a paralegal, love. I know about these things. You’ll need to press charges against the airline. I mean, you can’t go on stage looking like that, can you? You’ll need compensation from someone.’
The pilot’s face becomes thunderous, and I quickly tell him no one is suing anyone. As we hurriedly pass by the cabin crew with their plastered-on professional smiles, something is said in rapid Spanish and the ground crew can’t get us out of there fast enough.
Again, the upside to being a group of drunk women wearing denim G-strings and having a wheelchair user with us is that we are whizzed through passport control at the Spanish end with no fuss.
The guards take one disappointed look at the riff-raff entering their beautiful country and barely check our passports.
I hear disgruntled comments from the rest of the passengers joining the huge queue.
The girls invite the crowd to hear them singing in Benidorm as they click-clack past. Trailing behind the rest of the group, I nurse my sore eye as I doggedly drag my case along.
I catch a glimpse of Mr Window Seat on my way to the exit. His face gives nothing away.
There’s a lot for him to process, I guess.
After all, I did practically save his life.
And the truth of the matter is, it’s not every day that two people share such an intense connection.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like I should write a song or maybe a short haiku about the experience.
That way, the memory of our deeply profound shared encounter will linger on in written form for the rest of time.
I’d like to think I’ve made him a tiny bit better, more humble, more compassionate.
I give him a half smile and a wave, but he doesn’t return it.
Horrible man.
We are wheeled straight through to the exit, stopping briefly at the Alicante arrivals duty-free shop to purchase a few bottles of tequila from the rows upon rows of colourful bottles of booze.
For the love of God, why? Why do we need more drink?
‘For the journey,’ Tash says, as if reading my mind. ‘It could take up to forty minutes.’
We all crowd through the sliding doors to meet our minibus driver, who we immediately spot waiting for us at the far end.
He is holding up a huge sign with ‘The Dollz and Ted Sheeran’ on it.
As we make our way over, his eyes look about to burst from their sockets right out of his face and across the tarmac.
It takes Jorge, or Hoargghhhay as he pronounces it, a few minutes to remember who he is and what he does for a living while we wait for Big Mand who thinks she has lost her passport and has retraced her steps to the duty-free.
Cherry and Big Sue take the opportunity to smoke three back-to-back cigarettes each and, finally, Tash hobbles on to the minibus with an ankle the size of Gibraltar to sit next to Liberty, who is in a dead sleep next to her, having taken her travel sickness tablets too late.
Her huge lips are vibrating softly like a pair of pink inflatable lilos.
We all look battered. It is barely ten in the morning and instead of feeling fresh and wholesome with the whole trip yet ahead of us, we could be returning from a year volunteering in a war zone.
Jorge takes the opportunity to smoke a cigarette himself and admire the girls’ boobs.
He lets us know he is available for hire if we need him during our stay.
He says if we need him for anything at all, just call.
He gives us a lascivious wink. His meaning is very clear.
We choose to strategically ignore him until he puts out his cigarette and sheepishly climbs on to the bus.
‘We get that a lot,’ explains Cherry, tutting.
‘Except me,’ laughs Big Sue.
‘Are you a couple?’ I ask her and Big Mand politely, noticing how close they are standing to each other. They both instantly flame red, and I am met with a torrent of denials. ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. You just seem very close, that’s all.’
Cherry reminds me not to be so judgemental and sexist. ‘Or homophobic or whatever it is you’re being,’ she adds.
If anything, I have nothing but respect for same-sex couples and their struggles for equality and what have you, but I’m denied the chance to defend myself as Big Mand and Big Sue turn huffily away from me.
Eventually, Jorge drives us up the coast, where we are rewarded with a beautiful, twinkling Mediterranean Sea, bright sunshine, and picturesque mountains dotted with white villas and bright blue swimming pools.
My thoughts drift back to the flight and Mr Window Seat, his wet crotch and furious face and those dark moody eyes.
After half an hour, the natural landscape gives way to the infamous tower blocks that mark our arrival into Benidorm.
As we pass a quaint pedestrianised avenue lined with colourful flags, criss-crossing from rooftop to rooftop across the cobbled boulevard, home to one bar after another all the way down to the beach and its palm-tree-lined promenade, Tash shouts to Jorge, ‘It’s The Strip! The Strip ! Stop the bus!’
I imagine the girls will want to take selfies at such an iconic tourist landmark.
‘Stop the bus right now!’
Jorge turns to the girls. ‘No stop here. Villa just two more minoots.’
‘Hoargghhhay! Stop the friggin’ bus! I’ve just seen a “four cocktails for the price of one” offer!’
‘Laydeez, is only two minoots to villa. I have important job to do after,’ he says, admirably sticking to his guns.
‘Five friggin’ minutes. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you, Hoargghhhay?’
The bus screeches to an immediate halt and the moment I step off, I question my life choices.
I try to keep up with the Dollz as they march down The Strip.
The street that appeared quaint and colourful from the bus has turned out to be home to several bars featuring live sex shows, a baffling variety of tribute acts and topless, pole-dancing bar staff. This is my home for the next week.
‘Here it is,’ yells Tash. ‘The Knee Trembler. It’s our favourite bar. Free tequila shots with every drink.’
We pile into the bar, which has only just opened up for cleaning purposes, following what I presume was a night of throwing drinks and wet napkins around. It stinks of ripe cheese and vinegar. This feels like a new professional low.
The girls order the poor beanpole teenage cleaner, now barman, to get them four Skanky Lady cocktails each, as per the special offer on the sign outside.
‘They’re named after us,’ Tash tells me, insisting I have at least one.
My drink comes in a hollowed-out pineapple with a sorry-looking cocktail stick full of limp bits of fruit jutting out of the top.
It tastes of melted ice lolly mixed with Haribo and a dash of diabetes.
I drink it very warily, unsure if now is the right time to reveal that, for the sake of not losing a leg, I would very much like to go teetotal.
‘I can’t bear these people who are afraid of a bit of sugar,’ Tash is saying to the other Dollz, which makes up my mind to keep quiet, although none of the toxic drinks appear sanitary as the barman pours them into an assortment of jam jars, coconuts and obscure medical bric-a-brac to give the impression that, here in Benidorm, a simple clean glass will not do.
I watch Cherry sucking hard on her colostomy bag while Liberty’s has come in a roller skate.
Even Jorge resigns himself to a few small beers, about forty cigarettes and a plate of something long and fried that could well have been a bicycle tyre the way he’s chewing on it.
As the second round of cocktails are being whizzed up in blenders, a group of nuns stagger past the bar. I can’t help but notice they are all wearing trainers and have unusually large feet. The tallest of the nuns turns abruptly towards us, stroking his beard.
‘Holy shit! Mother of God Almighty! Lads, would you just look at these stunners,’ he says, sweeping his bulging gaze over us. As they stop in their tracks, Tash bats her lashes and casually asks the beefy, bearded nuns where they are off to.
‘Church,’ one of them, with an elaborate head tattoo and a huge murderer’s moustache, is quick to say. ‘But first, would you mind if we, women of the cloth, join you ladies for a drink?’
Tash nods her head, giggling.
‘I’m the Mother Superior. This is Sister Kevin and Sister Hugh Huge Ones,’ he says, holding his hand against his heart while he introduces us to the rest. I take in their wrecked faces and wonder how many days they’ve been here.
Too many, by the looks of things. Sister Kevin has red eyes and a bewildered look about him.
I can’t help but worry if we’ll end up in the same sorry state after our own tequila-soaked visit.
‘Been here long?’ Tash asks.
‘Flew in last night.’
Dear God.
‘Shame you’re leaving,’ he says, nodding towards our driver. ‘Looks like you’ve had a messy one though. You can tell us where best to go.’
‘Literally just arrived,’ Tash says defensively.
‘Fuck me,’ Sister Kevin says in surprise. I try to take great offence, but I am simply too pissed to care.
‘Now, have you gorgeous beauties anything to confess?’ the Mother Superior asks cheekily.
‘Not yet, but hopefully we will later,’ promises Liberty with a suggestive cackle.
‘Ah’ – the nun nods thoughtfully – ‘but are we not all martyrs to the sins of the flesh?’
‘You what, love?’ asks Cherry, confused.
‘He’s asking if we are all up for a good shagging later,’ barks Tash, and everyone bursts out laughing.
I bristle with alarm as these cross-dressing clergywomen sit down amongst us and much flirting and making of plans to meet up later in the day ‘for confession’ takes place.
Liberty asks them to keep us in their prayers as the Mother Superior lifts his habit, rummages round in his undergarments and pulls out his phone to put in her number.
I’m relieved to head back on to the bus.
I gaze tipsily out of the window as Jorge navigates the one-way system with what he probably thinks is expertise and panache by the way he keeps turning around and nodding expectantly at the Dollz.
He narrowly misses a family of four, clips the mirror of a moped parked up at right angles to the road and laughs as he upends a rubbish bin.
The narrow streets are littered with people absent-mindedly crossing roads whenever the mood takes.
To my untrained eye, every man, woman and child in this town seems totally shit-faced.
I see the bar and kebab-shop-lined streets whizz past as though in a hypnotic daze.
Why am I here? When did my life take such a catastrophic wrong turn?
Moments later, we pull up outside our new home for the next week. It is a spectacular villa with terracotta tiles, palm trees peeping over the huge white walls surrounding it and, I do a double take here, an extremely hot guy standing by the gate.
‘Why is Enreeky Iglesias waiting to let us in?’ Cherry asks, eyes wide with disbelief.
‘No, babes, it’s Justin Bieber. He must own this friggin’ villa,’ Liberty says, bursting with excitement.
There’s a mad scramble to get off the bus while Jorge is left to unload all the bags, gutted that his departure goes totally unnoticed.
Tash is the first to try and communicate with the heart-throb.
He welcomes us in his sexy accent, and she responds with a shriek.
I’m instantly amused to see her go beetroot red and flustered, keen but quite unable to articulate a sentence in this beautiful man’s language.
‘Has anyone else got fanny flutters?’ asks Cherry as he takes us all in.
We are all transfixed. It’s one of those moments where language barriers must be overcome through tone and facial expressions. A respectful silence falls despite the deafening clang of eggs exploding from ovaries. Finally, he introduces himself as Nacho.
‘Nacho?’
‘As in the dips?’
‘Not dips. He means the triangle-shaped crisps, babes.’
‘Doritos?’
After much bickering, Nacho concedes that the ladies can call him Enreeky if they want to. There’s a definite whiff of pheromones in the air to accompany the stronger whiff of stale tequila, and although they barely know him, I suspect he could sleep with any one of them he wants.
‘You’re gorgeous. Totally fucking unbelievably fit. Too fit if anything,’ Tash tells him.
‘I will definitely do you, Enreeky, pet. Just say which,’ says Liberty boldly.
‘Don’t you mean when , love?’ says Big Mand.
‘No.’
‘Cherry, you’re married so that’s you out,’ says Tash, swiftly eliminating the competition.
‘Cheeky cow. Don’t listen to her, Enreeky, pet. I am definitely in .’
‘I am heartbroken, remember?’ says Liberty. ‘I should have first go on him. To get over Mehmet. Then the rest of you can have him.’
Ah yes. Liberty’s harrowing account of her two-week affair with a married barman comes back to me.
‘Pointless. He’ll be ruined after that,’ Cherry declares.
Nacho seems, understandably in my view, a little apprehensive. We make brief eye contact as I hastily introduce us in crude Spanish.
‘Ask him if he’s gorra massive cock. You know, with your A level Spanish and that,’ asks Tash.
There’s no bloody way I’m asking him that. It would demean the both of us and make him feel like a piece of meat. If I’m anything at all, I’m about respect and equality between the sexes.
‘Connie, for eff’s sake! Just ask him!’
I swallow anxiously. Five pairs of eyes bore into me. ‘Erm… perdona, Senor Nacho, tienes un gran… erm … zanahoria ?’
I’ve had to ask if he has a big carrot because we didn’t cover the word for cock or fanny flutters in the A level syllabus. To my relief, he laughs and ignores the question, which seems to keep the girls happy.
For now, that is.
Even I can feel the sexual tension building. Everyone is unreasonably assuming that he has a huge one, or ‘a clit destroyer’ as Liberty is calling it, and he’ll be putting it proudly on display after he has shown us the villa. The group surges forward, keen to get the tour over with.