Chapter 11
I race out of the nuns’ villa as though the place is on fire and head straight back to my cottage.
With shaking hands, I wrench open the main gate to our villa.
I can’t fucking believe they’ve done this to me again .
I mean, anything could have happened to me.
Anything . Not to mention I’m going to be horrendously fucking late!
I need to take stock. I will google a taxi number and order one to come immediately.
My lungs are billowing in my chest as I walk towards the pool.
The Dollz are on stage before me, so I might even have time to change out of this ridiculous outfit, and I can take a moment to get into performance mode. I can do this.
Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
I’m just rounding the corner when I see a large figure emerge from the pool.
Our private pool. Our safe haven. I’m at the end of my tether with soaking wet, near-naked men everywhere I go.
His hands are clutching a sandal and a large clump of hair.
Perhaps because I’m in a high state of stress, I let out a blood-curdling scream.
We lock eyes.
I keep screaming.
It’s Nacho. Thank God. I’ve never felt so relieved to see anyone in my life, but he shakes his head disapprovingly. He waves the hair at me, saying in a disappointed tone, ‘You will break the pool if you do things like this.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ I protest, pressing my hand to my chest. ‘It was the Dollz.’ I really don’t need these experiences. I’ve never screamed so much in my entire life as I have over the past two days.
‘I thought you have singing performance tonight,’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I say in a rush. ‘They left me. I need to ring a taxi. I’m late.’ I point to the hair dripping water onto the tiles. ‘I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again.’
Nacho brightens, nodding to my outfit. ‘Very blue, very small.’
After a minute of chit-chat, me explaining that I need to get changed, him insisting that there’s no need, Nacho is adamant on driving me to the venue to catch up with the girls.
‘I’ll just get changed and do hair and shave legs,’ he says, winking at me and waggling an impressively smooth, tanned calf in my direction. ‘I come back in one hour.’
‘That’s so kind, Nacho, but really, I need to get there quickly. I go on in less than twenty minutes.’
I simply don’t have the time or the patience for the Spanish and their lazy manana, manana approach. Not today. I’m in need of some ruthless German-type efficiency. I frantically jab at my phone, searching for a taxi number that isn’t Jorge. I’m not in the mood for his lecherous approach either.
Nacho stands watching me with interest.
‘ Hola, taxi por favor. Immediatemente. Emergencia grande .’ I wait for someone to take a fucking age to reply.
‘ Emergencia? Sì, dos horas .’
‘Two hours!’ I wail. ‘ No, gracias .’
Jorge it is. I dial the number, conscious of the minutes ticking by. Jorge picks up but tells me he is with the Dollz. ‘They are very, very, very excellent. I no go. I wait for end of show.’
Hopeless. Effing hopeless.
I turn my pleading eyes to Nacho, who swiftly grabs my hand, pulls me towards the gate and, before I know it, I’m clutching on to his soaking wet torso as he valiantly kicks up the stand of his moped with his flip-flop and we set off.
‘Don’t worry, I will get you there, Cenicienta!’ he says, laughing like a maniac.
I’m going to die. It’s so unfair. Bits of glitter are flying off me as we pelt round corners at a 45-degree angle and hurtle down a series of narrow backstreets. Not so much as a helmet or knee pad between us.
Jesus Christ. I am genuinely petrified.
‘Naaaachoooo… Caaaaan… you… sloooooow dooooown?’ I yell into the wind, only to immediately regret it as he turns round to face me, taking his eyes off the road for what feels like an eternity.
He is a raving lunatic. I cling on for dear life as he veers across two lanes of beeping traffic, all thoughts of ever fancying him cancelled out by fear.
We suddenly screech to a halt after what could be seconds, minutes or hours.
I get off the moped and stare blankly at Nacho.
His handsome, reckless face breaks into a huge grin.
‘Fun, yes?’
I have no words.
With sweat beading on my forehead and legs wobbling like a newborn calf, I make my way over to The Jolly Roger.
It is a huge, sprawling pub with doormen managing a crowd of people wanting to get in.
It is nestled between two open-plan bars, both of which have topless women twirling on poles where a window might once have been.
They begin to touch their breasts provocatively as soon as they catch sight of Nacho.
I can’t help but notice they have perfect jutting nipples, twinkling as their diamond piercings catch the light.
They swing their hair around like two theatre curtains swishing together, their lips a glossy red to match their skyscraper heels and their tiny red thongs stuffed with euro notes.
Nacho yells over to them in Spanish and they blow him kisses.
Desperate to get in, I squeeze through the crowd. There are hundreds of people here and much excited talk of Ted Sheeran and many posters and life-size cut-outs of the actual Ed Sheeran as though he’s actually performing live on The Strip tonight.
Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
Nacho waves to the doormen, who let us straight through.
As he chatters away next to me, I can barely hear him for the panic coursing through my veins and the ear-splitting sound of the Dollz belting out a rendition of ‘Salute’ by Little Mix.
It’s no surprise to me that none of them noticed that I wasn’t on the minibus, and as Tash and the girls gyrate and execute their moves in perfect synchronicity, all I can do is stare with my jaw hanging open.
They are saluting the crowd, and the crowd are saluting back.
The girls have the entire place eating out of their hands, and the atmosphere is electric.
Nacho distracts me by pointing over to where his large group of friends are all dancing along in their seats.
The Dollz look stunning up on stage with their outlandish costumes, the glitter sparkling against the spotlights.
They exude confidence and a sexiness that I could never attain in my wildest dreams. I glance down at my costume in despair.
Has it shrunk? I pull it down to an inch below my crotch and feel immediately self-conscious and out of place.
I swivel my eyes around for the toilets so that I can get changed and lock eyes with Matteo, propped up against the bar.
He takes a moment to squint at me as though he can’t quite place me.
He seems slightly shocked at my glittery appearance but manages to hide it.
Then he slides his gaze to Nacho hovering next to me and turns back to the barman.
I’m so late I feel sick. To my terror, the Dollz announce to the crowd that it was their last song, and the crowd erupts into enormous applause while the barman who Matteo was talking to grabs a microphone and invites everyone to cheer even more loudly for them as the girls cartwheel and shimmy off stage.
He leans in towards Matteo before they both stare over at me.
My instinct is to bolt for the door. I very much regret ever getting on that bloody plane as a man who I assume is the manager walks towards me with the microphone, weaving in and out of tables packed with drinks and punters out for a good time, and makes a loud announcement.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’
I try not to have a mild stroke as he gets closer. A hush falls. I really want the ground to swallow me up and never let me go.
‘If you think the Dollz were good… then you are in for a real surprise because tonight…’ he says, elaborately sweeping his arm across the crowd towards me as though he were in court, pointing out the accused.
‘Because tonight… ladies and gentlemen…’
It’s all very unnecessary but the crowd seem to be enjoying the build-up as they gawp expectantly at me.
‘…we have one of the top tribute acts in the UK singing for you.’
I do wish he’d not go on.
‘She’s been hailed as even better than Ted Sheeran. Can you believe it? Ladies and gentlemen, please give a huge Benidorm welcome tooooo… Connie Cooper!’
Oh. My. God. I am going to kill Nancy.
Everyone in the entire bar looks at me expectantly while I stave off a catatonic seizure.
I feel my organs ready to shut down one by one.
There’s no time to think so I smile weakly as he thrusts the microphone in my hand and leads me up on to stage.
Feeling sick to my stomach, I quickly bring up my backing track playlist with trembling fingers and give him my broken phone to plug in to the enormous PA system behind a curtain just off to the side of the stage.
‘Erm, hello,’ I say gingerly into the mic.
The crowd erupts into cheers as though I’ve just announced the drinks are on me. There’s much whooping. It’s quite intimidating, made worse by my heart beating three times its normal speed.
‘I think maybe there’s been a slight mix-up.’
The thunderous roar immediately subsides. The mood in the room has deflated like a balloon. Who would have thought one could pop an atmosphere so quickly? The manager is wearing an understandably perplexed expression.
‘I mean, I’m not one of the top acts… near the top maybe…
top thirty perhaps but definitely not better than Ted Sheeran.
I know how much you like him,’ I say in a high, strangulated voice, trying to lighten the hostile vibes I’m getting.
‘But I’m more of a, how should I put it?
I’m more an avant-garde fusion between, let’s say, soul and the great classics. ’
The crowd seems disappointed, which makes me even more nervous. I yank my dress down and signal to the manager to play the first track. It takes forever to load up as my phone goes into constant buffering mode.
Gaaaah!
‘I hope you enjoy the show.’