Chapter 19
‘He’s never going to speak to me ever again,’ I moan the next morning, padding through to the main house in search of paracetamol. My brain is clanging like a set of church bells. They’ve been ringing incessantly from the moment I awoke.
‘No, he probably won’t,’ agrees Cherry. ‘What in the name of fuck were you thinking?’
What was I thinking? I was thinking , You would have killed me if I didn’t get up and dance on the table, you scary witch . That’s what I was thinking.
Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
I tossed and turned all night, tormented by images of Matteo and my strappy gladiator stiletto karate-chopping him in the face.
Then, rather disturbingly, I was plagued by erotic imaginings of what would have happened had I not high-kicked him but instead had, as planned, performed a sexy, hypnotic dance to draw him captivatingly in.
I may have accidentally altered the true course of destiny.
What if fate is doggedly trying to throw me and Matteo together and I, in some warped feat of self-sabotage, am getting in my own way? What if I am to blame? This needs to be debated immediately. I flinch at the sheer pain of thinking.
‘What if he’s the love of my?—’
‘Never mind that. I think I might ask Sister Kevin to marry me,’ Tash says, interrupting me as she wanders in with a dreamy expression on her face. ‘It’s the beard. It does things to me.’
‘ Yes . You should do it on stage at the festival, in front of thousands of people,’ says Cherry. ‘That way the proposal is both incredibly romantic and legally binding.’
And just like that, my mammoth philosophical predicament is usurped as the Dollz find this new turn of events extremely exciting but also, it would appear, extremely tiring.
They trot out of the kitchen to discuss marriage proposals and how best to capitalise on them on social media, from the comfort of a sunlounger.
I’m restless.
Too restless to be left alone with only my thoughts. Flashbacks are haunting me: Matteo’s lips, his eyes, his biceps, and of course his quick and intelligent mind and his flair for business. I’m not one of those shallow types who is only interested in someone for their looks or their wealth.
As I follow the girls outside, my phone pings. We all stop dead in our tracks.
‘Is it Nancy?’ Big Sue hisses, her eyes darting around as though Nancy may have installed CCTV in the pool area.
‘No,’ I say, disappointed it isn’t Matteo. ‘It’s Nacho.’
‘Who?’
‘Enreeky. He wants to know if we are up for going jet-skiing this morning?’
The girls are now lying flat out on the beds, eyes closed, expensive sunflower oil dripping everywhere.
‘We have a marriage proposal to organise,’ Tash bellows from her lounger before slipping her glasses back up.
‘We probably don’t have time to go anyway. We should start rehearsing soon,’ I say.
There’s a collective groan.
‘Connie, you should go and represent us. Let him know we are still definitely interested . Just be back two hours before the festival and bring some lemons with you, babes.’
This is just the sort of distraction I need to take my mind off Matteo and the humiliation of last night.
I will also be able to drill Nacho for information as to what happened to Matteo afterwards and whether his eyesight is still intact.
Another wave of shame sweeps through me.
I will text him to see if he is all right.
I tap out a short message and press send.
I make my way down to the marina to see Nacho and the cliff divers hanging about in a large group.
I am warmly welcomed with much chuckling and mimes of karate chops and high kicks.
Nothing I don’t deserve so I laugh along with them and assure them they are all safe as long as they stay at least two metres away from me.
‘How is Matteo?’ I ask. ‘Have you seen him today?’
‘Yes. He is good. No worries. We can hire a jet ski each from the kiosk and go out to the caves just along the coast because the water is beautiful there and crystal clear,’ Nacho tells me in Spanish as we troop over to the tiny cabin to strip down to our swimsuits.
I pay my money and get fitted with a life jacket.
We leave our clothes and bags in a big heap and are all shown down to the jetty and given jet skis.
Nacho takes a selfie of us all smiling and waving in our life jackets.
I take one too and send it to Ged and Liam or they’ll never believe it.
Ged responds:
Cliff diving. Pole dancing. Jet skiing. Who even are you?
I glow with pride. He’s right. I would never have thought it possible last week and yet look at me.
The group are obviously used to hiring the jet skis and jump straight on them. They do circles and fancy tricks in the marina while they wait for me. The instructor takes me over to a demo jet ski and tells me how simple they are to use, in both Spanish and English.
‘We have only this two-seater left,’ he apologises, pointing to a massive tank-like beast of a machine. He clocks my eyes popping in terror. ‘But you share, so is okay. No worries.’
‘Share? Who with?’ I ask.
He points to the cabin just as Matteo emerges with his life jacket on. He stops suddenly when he sees me standing with the instructor.
My heart skips a beat. Maybe exceptionally good-looking men tend to stick together for safety reasons.
‘Connie, what are you doing here?’ he says, rattled. ‘Are the Dollz here too?’
I point to Nacho, who is showing off on his jet ski by balancing on one leg and steering with his foot. I swallow a huge lump in my throat. ‘No, they’re not. Nacho invited me.’
‘Yes. Of course he did.’
‘He didn’t tell you? Aren’t you friends?’
‘I’ll let him explain.’
The mystery simply adds to the charm.
I take in the wad of bandage stuck above his eyebrow and the black eye still at the purple and green stage and wince.
‘How’s your eye?’
‘About as good as your pole dancing.’
‘Yes, I’m so sorry about that. Did you get my message?’
Jesus. Has there been a time when I haven’t started a sentence to him with an apology?
‘Forget it. It was an accident.’ Matteo shrugs.
‘At least I hope it was.’ He looks sternly at me like I’m a naughty schoolgirl.
Or maybe I’m imagining that. Tiredness seeps through my veins as I stifle a yawn.
‘Big night, was it?’ he says, unimpressed.
He’s probably thinking ahead to me being half-asleep on stage at the festival.
‘Looks like I’ll have to drive the jet ski then. ’
‘Presumptuous of you.’
I am not loving my tit-for-tat tone one bit, but I’ll be buggered if I admit to going to bed pissed at four this morning.
Matteo blows out his cheeks. He doesn’t seem overly keen on the alternative. Come to think of it, neither am I, but I’ve made the point, so I best stick with it.
‘No offence,’ I say, ‘but I’ve seen your driving and it doesn’t always end well for me.’
Matteo seems put out for a moment before he starts to laugh, holding up his hands. ‘Fair point. You drive.’
Two seconds later, as we float slowly towards the others, I realise I have not thought this through.
The jet ski is supremely powerful, and I have not yet built up the courage to give it some throttle.
Worse still, Matteo is sitting behind me so once we start going faster, he will have to put his hands around my waist. My actual body.
My bare skin. I have gone to pieces, and it is greatly affecting my command of this whopping, great machine.
My thighs are splayed either side of it, and I’m leaning forward as far as I can to reach the handlebars.
I try not to picture my buttocks poking towards him in an inviting manner, rather like a baboon in the wild, presenting her bloated, vibrant red backside ready for mating.
Matteo is sitting patiently as I glance over my shoulder. While I’m relieved that he has grabbed on to the two side handles for support rather than my waist, I do feel his eyes are saying, Connie, for fuck’s sake, we won’t even get out into open sea at this rate .
So far, we’ve managed to share many monumental experiences in the last week, giving each other matching black eyes, smashing each other’s phone screens and all but ruining each other’s livelihoods, which is bizarre enough without ending up on a jet ski together.
‘I’ll turn this handle, shall I?’
He nods encouragingly as I give it a twist. The jet ski roars to life and almost throws us off as we speed out of the marina at a lightning pace. I get a rush of adrenaline straight to the head as the wind whips up my hair and seawater sprays out to the sides.
It is thrilling! I love it. I could squeal with excitement, but I should try to play it cool. I’d like to appear as though this isn’t the most exhilarating thing I’ve done in my entire life, even though it absolutely is.
‘This is so amazing, isn’t it?’ I yell over the roar of the engine.
Matteo says nothing.
He’s either sulking or incredibly blasé, perhaps because he does this every day of the week.
Unless he isn’t and he can’t hear for the noise?
I slow down for fear of going too fast and crashing into one of the other jet skis and become immediately conscious of not being able to see Matteo’s hands on the side handles.
I swivel round and eye the empty seat behind me with dismay.
Sweet baby Jesus.
I frantically scan the immediate vicinity.
I can’t see him bobbing in the water nearby.
I retrace my steps as it were, back into the marina, and spot his head bobbing up and down metres from the departure point.
I reach him just as he climbs wearily out and up the ramp.
He stands with his hands on his hips, his head tipped accusingly to one side.