Revelry. Lucy Lord

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      Chapter 3

      It’s ten to midnight and Ibiza Town is heaving. We amble slowly through the harbour, taking in the bustling bars and restaurants to our right, the Old Town climbing up the hill behind them, crowned by its ancient stone fortress. To our left, yachts sit imperiously on the inky calm sea, their polished wood and gleaming white bodywork a constant taunt to those yet to make a billion dollars. Palm trees line the water’s edge, and everywhere you look is a seething mass of humanity, determined to get its money’s worth of fun. Immaculate, gesticulating Italians in faded jeans and shades; evidently Scandinavian blondes with deep golden tans and suspect neon fashion sense; less attractive but edgier Brits. Every European cliché is covered here.

      We are overtaken by a procession on stilts – models in bikinis and fabulously bewigged transvestites in full evening dress; it’s hard to say which are the most gorgeous. They are promoting Manumission at Amnesia, which won’t really get going for at least a couple more hours. We pass stalls selling silver and turquoise jewellery, batik sarongs and limited edition CDs. Finally we reach the Rock Bar, with its too-cool-for-school clientele and waterfront tables and chairs. As luck would have it, a large group of Americans is leaving as we arrive, so we quickly nab their table, to the evident disgruntlement of some unfeasibly attractive French girls just behind us. Ben flashes them his most gorgeous smile, and their disdainful Gallic shrugs melt into coy giggles.

      As there aren’t enough chairs to go around, Mark, Ben and Andy make a big show of looking for empty ones. Poppy nudges Damian.

      ‘Go on, you lazy bugger. Make yourself useful.’

      ‘Why bother?’ asks Damian idly. ‘Mark and Ben just want to flirt with some randoms and Andy loves to do a good turn.’ There is a slight edge to his voice when he gets to the last bit. Perhaps Poppy’s comments about Andy being a ‘proper journalist’ have been a little too close for comfort. He plonks himself down onto one of the free chairs and pulls Poppy onto his lap. ‘Just sit down and shut up, beautiful.’

      ‘Good idea, that man,’ says Charlie in his public school way, pulling up a chair and beckoning Plump Alison to sit on top of him. Skinny Alison helps herself to a chair, leaving two left, between my father, Kim and me.

      ‘Ladies,’ he starts, but Kim is having none of it, insisting that he take the chair, while she perches on his lap like a great ginger giraffe. I sink into the final chair gratefully, my decision to wear my Terry de Havilland platform wedges not having been the best of the holiday so far.

      The three men return from their search empty-handed, which is not surprising at this time of night. At the sight of us all, with the exception of yours truly, sitting on one another’s laps, Andy approaches Alison with a rueful grin, saying, ‘Go on darling, indulge me.’

      ‘If I must,’ she huffs. ‘But we all look bloody silly.’

      Ben takes one look at Kimberly sitting on Dad’s lap and slopes off to flirt some more with the French girls, which leaves – oh shit – Man-Mountain Mark.

      ‘Babe?’ he asks me, arms stretched out, pleading. He looks so silly in his little shorts and offensive T-shirt that it’s hard not to laugh out loud, but he’s also extremely fit and muscly and I reckon if anyone can withstand me using them as a chair it’s him. I stand up to let him sit down, then settle down comfortably on his enormous lap. He casually puts his arms around me and I get a pleasing tingle, despite myself. There is something about Mark’s overt maleness that is both reassuring and arousing at such close quarters.

      ‘I’m not squashing you, am I?’ I ask stupidly, and he laughs.

      ‘Light as a feather, babe.’

      Perhaps it’s the hefty post-prandial line we all found so essential, perhaps it’s the booze, perhaps it’s the balmy evening, but his response turns me on way more than it should. I hope I don’t slide off his lap. Remembering my similar reaction to Ben earlier in the evening (and to Randy last night, for that matter), there is a brief moment during which I wonder at my fickleness before thinking, fuck it. I snuggle closer back into his chest.

      The highly camp waiter comes to take our order and we plump for vodka limóns all round. It’s not something any of us would order at home – in fact it’s not something any of us could order at home as the limón in question is a lemon Fanta, neither as sweet nor bitter, respectively, as lemonade or bitter lemon, but wonderfully tangy and refreshing in the heat. The generous Spanish spirit measures help too, of course.

      ‘Well, this is all very cosy, isn’t it?’ says Charlie, who’s sweating slightly in his chinos and polo shirt. Plump Alison, who has caught too much sun and looks pink and sore, shifts uncomfortably on his lap and he tightens his arms around her. Those shorts really weren’t a wise choice, I find myself thinking meanly, then pull myself up. Stop being such a bitch, Bella.

      As if she’d read my mind, Skinny Alison suddenly says, ‘I hope you’re planning to lose some weight before the wedding, Alison. I don’t want you bursting the seams of your dress.’ Alison, it transpires, is to be Alison’s bridesmaid, which seems odd as they only know each other through their respective other halves. Clearly Skinny Alison is not one for extensive female bonding.

      ‘I’ve got a great detox programme I can recommend?’ says Kimberly, leaning forward with deep faux-sincerity. ‘I always follow it for a week before the Victoria’s Secret show and it really makes a difference.’

      As everybody now has a clear mental image of lean, lithe Kim in her exotic underwear, compared to poor Alison in her ill-fitting shorts, I suddenly snap, ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, leave the girl alone. We’re meant to be on holiday.’

      ‘Well,’ СКАЧАТЬ