Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes (18 page)

For the next couple of days, Lizzie and I swam and read and chatted and applied sun cream. I’d have a light salad for lunch and Lizzie would have several Marlboros, half a bottle of Merlot and a couple of vodkas. “Hair of the dog,” she’d announce huskily, like it was somehow medicinal and therefore OK to drink a bucket of spirits at noon. We found a couple of nice bars in the evenings that weren’t
too
young and trendy where we sampled the local vino under the stars and watched the perfect party people go by.

“It’s hard to think we were once like that,” mused Lizzie one evening as we watched the slim-hipped girls trip by in next to nothing. We were on our third glass of wine and both waxing lyrical.

“It seems like yesterday,” I said, “and I still feel as young as they are. I don’t feel older than eighteen really.”

We both laughed and Lizzie (who by now was very tipsy) suddenly looked straight at me and said, “Amnesia?”

This sobered me up like a slap in the face. “You mean the nightclub?” I whispered, hoping against hope she was talking about an inability to recall past events.

Before I knew it, I was being led in the direction of Amnesia and its ice-cannon. When we reached its hallowed portals I couldn’t believe it – we had to wait in a queue! This added insult to injury for me; not only was it the last place on Earth I wanted to enter, I had to queue up to get in. I kept telling myself it would all be fine because Lizzie and I were together and we were both old. We would have one drink and then go – that’s what she’d said, hadn’t she? I comforted myself with the thought that it would be interesting to see what it looked like inside and experience some of this, even if only for about 45 seconds and a quick glass of Pinot while ducking the ice-cannon.

Slowly the queue of tight young things moved forward. Screaming girls in tiny shorts and young, shaven-headed tattooed men jostled in the crowd, all dying to get inside. I prayed the club would be full by the time we reached the door. However the friendly bouncer reassured everyone (and upset me) by saying we’d all get in and ‘no need to push’. Who was pushing?

Eventually we were pressed up against the door and after a few very uncomfortable minutes it was suddenly opened and twenty of us were counted in, like schoolchildren. With everyone’s impatience to get into this hellhole, people were surging from the back and thrusting us forward at a breakneck speed. I lost Lizzie in the scrum and, barely able to stay on my feet, I staggered forward into thick, techno-trance-blackness. I heard someone shout ‘Stella’ and as I looked down I saw Lizzie sprawled on the floor. I leaned towards her trying to grab her arm but couldn’t see properly and flailing around on the beery-wetness I slipped and ended up on top of her. We started laughing and were soon in a hysterical heap, unable to move as people fell over us in the darkness. Terrified that this was some form of lesbian floor show/middle-aged mud-wrestling scenario a bouncer stepped in and helped us back to our feet.

“Woohoo!” yelped Lizzie as she straightened her unforgiving lycra vest and ran her hands over her shiny bob. “What an entrance!”

Our eyes now used to the darkness, we wobbled over to the bar, where Lizzie ordered four bottles of Smirnoff Ice. I didn’t argue – it’s what everyone else was drinking.
When in Rome...
I thought, knocking back the sharp, chilled sweetness, longing for a cold Pinot and desperately trying to work out where the ice-cannon was hiding.

I gazed across the collective madness, the whole dancefloor crowd was moving together in a trance-like state. My plan was to stay safe by the bar hugging my drink, observe, placate Lizzie and then leave. However, it wasn’t meant to be. To my horror, Lizzie picked up her two bottles and one in each hand, began wiggling her hips and semi-dancing into the throbbing cloud of zombie people. Why was I surprised? Lizzie was drinking and her alter-ego was now out there in a skimpy vest with a trick pelvis. I suddenly felt very alone and very uneasy in the middle of the sweating, snogging and thumping music.

Lizzie had been swallowed up into the dancefloor, so I decided to wait and take refuge against the wall. It was bare brick and felt cool on my hot, wet back. Two girls were arguing by the cigarette machine and I could see from where I stood it was getting quite heated. Couples everywhere were kissing, someone was being sick and a group of guys were hurling themselves into the dancing area, just landing on people and roaring like wild animals. I felt completely out of place. I knew Lizzie was more used to this kind of thing because she’d been single most of her grown-up life, but I wanted Tom again and I felt that urgent need to be at home with Grace watching TV.

As the music became more frenzied, the whistles started up and the club became hotter.
I’ll find Lizzie and we’ll go back now
, I thought. I looked for her everywhere and after too long in the heat and the mist I finally spotted her through bobbing heads and dry ice. Lizzie was talking to someone. I screwed up my eyes and got closer. It was a man and they were very, very close. I had that old feeling I used to get at school discos. My friend had met someone and I was the wallflower, dumped on the side. I was seventeen again – and not in a good way.

I had to get out. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I fought my way into the dancing mass and reached Lizzie’s bare arm. I patted it to get her attention but she was oblivious so I tugged gently at her vest top and shouted over the pulsing thud that I needed some air and would see her back at the apartment. She was sober enough to feel that ‘friend responsibility’ that girls did with each other. “I’ll come with you,” she offered half-heartedly, but I insisted she stay. We were both grown women and I didn’t want to spoil Lizzie’s fun. I also had a desperate need to be on my own, to have some space to think. As I left, I could see that she and the guy were now dancing very close, albeit to a strange, spacey sounding beat which meant they were bobbing up and down a bit. Through the mist, I could tell they were about to kiss – and the ice cannon was about to blow.

I walked back to the apartment slowly, the cobbles hard under my flip-flops, the hot night air giving little relief from the sweating, pulsating insides of Amnesia. As I heard the cannon roar and ten thousand muffled screams of delight coming from the club I thought that maybe it had all been too much too soon and that I wasn’t ready to move on after all.

To reach our apartment I had to pass the poolside bar. It was only about 11pm and there were one or two people sitting around drinking. Time was different on this planet; some people were having a drink at this hour
before
going out.

Walking along the pool, I glanced across and caught sight of a dark-haired guy, dangling his legs in the pool. Our eyes met so I feigned nonchalance and tried to walk like I was in heels (flip-flops are so unflattering for short legs like mine). I kept walking, holding my stomach in and raising my head so I might lose a couple of chins or pounds should he care to glance in my direction again. I had to walk right past him and was taking a discreet peek when he looked up and smiled.
Wow! Twinkly brown eyes
. I felt a very slight flutter in my chest, a feeling I’d almost forgotten about.

“Hi,” he said, as I stumbled past. “Having an early night?”

I looked round first to check he was talking to me. “Amnesia,” I said casually, like I went there every night. He nodded and looked back into the navy-blue water, lit by the fairy lights from the pool bar.

“D’ya fancy a last drink before bedtime then?” he asked, in an irresistible Irish accent. My gut response was to say no, to make some excuse and head back to the travel kettle, but in a moment of daring I changed my mind.

I couldn’t believe this was me walking to the pool bar with this gorgeous stranger. He ordered a bottle of wine and we went back to the side of the pool with it and two glasses. He told me his name was Alex and he was from Dublin.

An hour later, another bottle arrived and I heard this new Stella say, “OK, just one more glass.” Alex was a few years younger than me but he didn’t seem to mind and I certainly didn’t. Apparently his friend had also met someone and Alex was now alone that night too. I didn’t care who he was or why he was there, I just melted into those chocolate brown eyes and basked in the soft, Irish brogue. He told me he’d been divorced after only three years of marriage and had no children. I could tell that it still hurt, but again like me he was looking for something new and a way to move forward. We talked and talked – and at about 2.30am he gently took my glass from my hand, placed it on the table – and kissed me.

It was amazing and hard to describe the fireworks that were going off inside my chest when his lips pushed against mine and his tongue forced its way into my mouth. My stomach exploded with forgotten feelings of lust and joy and the combination of kissing and wine began to make me feel slightly out of control: this wasn’t Stella kissing a man she’d just met. It was as though there were two of me and one was behaving in a completely outrageous way, while the other looked on in shock.

“Would you like to take a walk on the beach?” he asked.

“Yes” she answered, in a voice croaky with lust.

Stella knew what was happening, but the wine and the warmth and the fact she hadn’t been with a man for a long time conspired to render her helpless. Her legs were shaky as they stood to leave and she leaned on him in a way the old Stella wouldn’t have dared as they walked slowly across the cobbles to the beach.

Lit by the moon, the sea looked on as couples murmured in the sand. Walking along the water’s edge, they were part of a different world where there were no rules in the moonlit darkness. She could make out the silhouettes of lovers lying on the sand, a head appearing from behind a dune then being gently pulled back down by an urgent partner wanting more.

They paddled as they walked along, holding hands. Drinking him into her alcoholic, lust-fuelled stupor Stella pushed away the feeling that Alex had been this way before. He had a destination in mind, and when they slowed down and walked towards a closed ice-cream shack she knew exactly what was on the agenda...and it wasn’t a Cornetto.

 “I don’t normally do things like this” she slurred. Wordlessly, he pulled her behind the small brick building plastered with posters offering all flavours of ice cream and hundreds of different lollies in Spanish that she could barely see in the dark. She knew she shouldn’t be doing this on a strange beach with a man whose surname she didn’t know. Yet she wanted him so badly.

He lowered her onto the cool sand and they rolled around on the floor kissing for a long time. Tearing off each other’s clothes, they had wild uncomplicated sex. And for the first time in her life, Stella had an orgasm on the beach.

So that’s how it was,
almost
like in the movies. Had there been any white-capped waves we’d have rolled around in those for a bit, like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr, but you have to work with what you’ve got and an ice cream shack sufficed.

 “You’re special Stella,” he said, kissing me as we walked back to the hotel, hand in hand.

“Go for it girl,” Lizzie encouraged when I told her about Alex as she crawled back into the room at dawn.

“Lizzie, I met someone,” I heard myself say into the darkness.

“Christ Stel, you made me jump,” she squealed, still buzzing from Amnesia’s Smirnoffs and ice-cannon.

“I met someone too. His name’s Joe and I reckon he’s at least ten years younger than me. I should be ashamed,” she giggled.

“He looked nice. I saw you with him when I left Amnesia,” I said, feeling like I was back at college, comparing boy-notes.

“Oh no, that wasn’t Joe,” she laughed. “Joe arrived about three men later.”

I told her about Alex, but missed out the bit about the ice cream shack. I couldn’t even admit that to myself yet.

Next morning Lizzie and I went down to the pool and I was incredibly nervous. Alex had said he’d see me down there, but I had a feeling he might not turn up, after all, I hadn’t exactly played hard to get. So while Lizzie slapped on sun cream and sucked on ciggies, I lay on the sun-lounger in a way that made my stomach look slightly flat. Unfortunately the sacrifice for this was that I would need to remain horizontal all day, on the off-chance that he appeared.

“What are you doin’ Stel?” Lizzie asked, knowing full well what I was doing. “Don’t you think he’ll be a bit surprised when he rushes over and you just lie there like you’re dead?” she asked with a smile.

“No, because I’m pretending he’s caught me by surprise and I’ll reach for sarong if I have to sit up, that should cover it.”

I spent three hours on my back that morning – and not in a sexual way. As Lizzie puffed away and devoured the latest Marian Keyes I lay in turquoise waiting for Alex, but was filled with that familiar, sinking feeling.

By noon I was fed up and hungry. “Let’s get chips, Lizzie,” I said, gathering myself together, slipping into flip-flops and trudging across to the pool snack bar. Once there, we clambered onto stools and ordered two Diet Cokes and two cones of chips covered in ketchup.

“Well, this is new and different,” I said filling my mouth with soft-yet-crispy hot chip, laced with salt and tangy tomato sauce. “Stella’s disappointed with life – so she eats.”