Sun, Sea and Sangria

by Victoria Cooke

  ‘Read the rest of it,’ Paul prompts.

  Over a decade after the success of The Full Monty, British women still can’t get enough of male strippers. Women have been flocking in droves to the Canary Islands to see the British strip act, the Heavenly Hunks, for years. Local businessman Julio (not his real name) said that ‘sex sells’ in the resort of Playa de las Americas. Julio, who runs an erotic bar in the resort, said British men are by far his biggest market, so he’s not surprised that British women are also lapping up the lads. We asked local mayor, Santiago Barolo, if he thought these sex businesses were a problem for the area. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘This is a nice, family place and these acts and bars are giving us a bad reputation. The women at these events become inebriated and cause problems in the local area. The people here want tourists to respect our beautiful towns. A holiday should not be about sex, it should be about experiencing the local culture and seeing the beauty of somewhere new.’

  Local hoteliers who have in the past hosted Heavenly Hunk events are starting to look for more wholesome family entertainment.

  A smaller picture is embedded in the text. It’s a woman throwing her bra at some male strippers who are most definitely not mine.

  ‘That’s quite the attack,’ I say swallowing hard.

  ‘I know. It’s rotten, isn’t it? It doesn’t paint us in the right light at all.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Paul. Today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s chip wrapper.’

  ‘I know, but bookings have dropped. What if this is the beginning of the end for us?’

  I put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s just a coincidence. The press are just catching up with our success. This is what they do – jump on something that emerges in the public eye and manipulate some salacious story just to sell papers. Tomorrow they’ll be slagging off the next big reality TV star.’

  ‘So, you don’t think this will turn people off us?’

  ‘Not at all.’ I force a smile and roll out another cliché from my ‘it will be okay’ bank: ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity.’

  ‘I’m glad we’ve got you, Kat.’ He smiles reluctantly back. ‘You can keep the paper, by the way.’

  Throughout the day, the guys come to me in dribs and drabs worried about the article. I try to stay positive, but when Marcus appears with a grave expression, I know that’s not going to keep me going for much longer.

  ‘What is it?’ I say as he sits on the edge of the pool beside me. The sun is hot and the cool water on my legs is just what I needed.

  ‘Have you been on Twitter?’

  ‘What? No! Why?’

  He hands me his smartphone.

  #saynotosunandsex is trending.

  ‘This isn’t …?’

  Marcus nods. ‘It’s not just about us though, it’s about other resorts with exotic dancers and party holidays, stag and hen dos and so on. They’re attacking everyone.’

  ‘That’s nothing new – the press have been slamming party resorts for years.’ I scroll the hashtag, where a barrage of people have shared the article and commented, with the general consensus being that we’ve turned the whole of the Canary Islands into Costa del Blackpool.

  ‘Oh God, that nasty Barry Peters has jumped on the bandwagon,’ I say, scrolling the page. Barry is an opinionated arse who unfortunately has his own TV and radio show.

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’ Marcus says. ‘Go on, what’s he have to say?’

  For years men have been lambasted for visiting strip clubs to the point it’s become a taboo. Only fair that women are held to the same scrutiny. Why is it okay for women to objectify us men? #equality

  ‘Eugh.’ I shudder. That man makes my skin crawl. I’ve never once considered the show to be more than a bit of fun. I scan the thread.

  @RealBarryPeters hear hear!

  @RealBarryPeters if they want equality, they can have it! Got to deal with the bad as well as the good.

  @RealBarryPeters First decent thing you’ve ever said!

  @RealBarryPeters Difference is, the show is a bit of fun and the blokes have clothes on most of the time.

  @RealBarryPeters Well said!

  @RealBarryPeters I doubt anyone’s ever objectified you, you crusty old git!

  ‘Typical Twitter. It’ll blow over soon.’ I hand back his phone whilst trying to ignore the gnawing sickness in my stomach. Don’t people get it? Female strippers have been degraded in the past, treated poorly and sometimes made to do things they don’t want to do. There are many safe places to work as a female stripper now but there’s a history. Nobody is treating these men with disrespect.

  ‘Look, #sayyestosunandstrippers is trending too. There are some very sensible points of view.’ I show Marcus the phone to make him feel better. I’m hardened to how cruel the press and gossip magazines are, but the younger guys are not used to how nasty people like Barry Peters can be. I need to keep an eye on their wellbeing until it’s blown over. Marcus reads a few tweets out.

  Grown adults can do what they want in a safe environment.

  As long as people are happy to do the job and they’re treated with respect, who cares?

  If you don’t like it, don’t go! #itssimple

  ‘See, plenty of people who see our point of view too. We can’t be in the public eye and not expect a bit of stick now and again.’

  ‘I guess you’re right.’

  ‘Look, it’s only because we had a bit of publicity a few weeks ago. It will be forgotten about in no time.’

  ‘Hey, Kat.’ As Marcus leaves, Jay comes over. ‘I heard about the article. How are you doing?’

  It’s quite nice to be asked how I feel about it. Everyone else has approached me either in a blind panic, or seeking reassurance (or both). ‘It’s fine, some of the guys are panicking as they’ve not dealt with bad press before.’

  ‘Everyone will be talking about something else tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I know you can handle it, I just feel bad for the other lads. You all put your heart and souls into your performances, and then there’s all the gym training and keeping up your fitness levels. It’s bloody hard work, and people dismiss the act as some seedy tat.’ I realise I’m ranting, but what surprises me more is that Jay is letting me. He glances behind him and when he realises nobody is there, leans in and kisses me on the cheek. The feeling lingers even when he’s pulled away.

  ‘It will blow over. Barry bloody Peters will have his nose in some other business by tonight. And if you think our lads will listen to him, you’re not giving them enough credit.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m protective of you all, that’s all.’

  ‘Anyway, I’m off to have a shower. I’ve got a hot date later.’ He winks and walks away.

  ***

  There’s a stampede of ants in my stomach. I’ve made an effort with my make-up, which sits somewhere between full-on stage face and none at all. I bought a new red sundress that fits me properly and doesn’t make me look like a sausage. I think I look okay, but I sent a selfie to Andrea, just to make sure, and she said she thought I looked stunning and Andrea doesn’t sugar-coat anything. So panicking over how I look is off the list of things to worry over, but there’s still so much to think about. Lipstick on my teeth, saying the wrong thing, not having anything to say at all, snort-laughing at his jokes, accidentally breaking wind when I lean over to get the sauce. I need a paper bag.

  I sit on the bed and take a deep breath. I’m worrying over nothing.

  ‘This is Jay, my friend.’ I throw my head into my hands. If this goes wrong, I lose one hell of a dancer, and the one person I’ve grown incredibly close to.

  There’s a knock on the door, and an anvil crashes to the pit of my stomach. For a split second, I eye up the bathroom window, wondering if I could a) squeeze through it and b) survive the two-storey drop. The door creaks open slowly. Damn, I didn’t lock it. Sammy called in earlier to borrow my sun cream as he and the rest of the guys are heading to the wa
terpark for the afternoon. Bugger the two-storey drop – what’s a broken ankle in the grand scheme of things?

  ‘Kat?’ Jay pokes his head around the door. He’s covering his eyes with his hand. ‘Are you decent?’

  I glance at the window once more. ‘Yes, come in.’

  He steps around the door and my breath is stolen in an instant. I’ve never really seen him make an effort like this before. He’s been for a haircut. It’s shorter at the sides but left longer on top and styled with something non-gooey. He’s wearing a white shirt with the long sleeves rolled up. The buttons don’t gape, but it’s obvious they can only just contain his chest. He’s left the top two open and the white fabric sets his tan off spectacularly. His faded black jeans are tight on his thighs but not too tight in a skinny-jeans sort of way, and he smells delicious – I’m getting hints of bergamot, basil and lime.

  I stand up and smooth down my dress.

  ‘You look beautiful, Kat,’ he says as his eyes wash over me.

  ‘You’ve turned out pretty well yourself,’ I manage.

  ‘Shall we?’ He holds out his elbow for me to take, so I grab my handbag and link my arm through his. He’s making this surprisingly easy.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask as we leave the complex.

  ‘It’s a surprise.’ He presses a car key and a black convertible Mini by the kerb bleeps. ‘Hop in.’

  ‘You’ve rented a car?’

  ‘I have.’

  He spends a few minutes trying to figure out how to make the roof go down and then puts up the windows to offer some protection from the wind before setting off. We head towards Guía de Isora.

  ‘It’s been a while since I jumped in a car and headed off down the coast,’ I say, remembering a time when our shows were only on at weekends and I was still living off my small divorce settlement.

  ‘Me too. I know you’re worried about bookings and the newspaper article and everything, but having the night off once in a while ain’t so bad,’ he says, driving with one arm draped over the steering wheel. At this precise moment in time I can’t disagree.

  After about twenty minutes, Jay turns off towards Playa de Abama beach before parking up at the very swanky Ritz Carlton resort hotel. I look at him quizzically.

  ‘I don’t think I’m dressed for this,’ I say, wondering what he’s got planned.

  ‘Oh, we’re not going in there. He nods towards the hotel. ‘We’re going down there.’ He gestures down towards the beach.

  ‘Is that not a private beach?’ I ask, hoping he realises there’s a chance we’ll be turfed off.

  ‘It’s fine. I know the manager here.’

  When we climb out of the car, I work my fingers through the knots in my hair while Jay puts the roof back up. Then he opens the boot and pulls out a picnic basket and cool box. I feel a little flutter of something when I realise how much thought he’s put into the date at such short notice.

  We make our way through the stunning hotel and down the steep, winding steps towards the private beach. It’s fairly quiet now since most of the hotel guests have left to dress for dinner. A few die-hard sunbathers remain, catching the last of the dusky rays, and there’s the odd young couple sipping cocktails, but most of the sun loungers have been packed away for the night. We walk across the sand around a walled corner to the left, which is more sheltered from the breeze and the remaining beach-goers.

  Jay lays out a thick blanket and starts unpacking plastic plates, glasses and various food items from the basket. The sun is low in the sky now and casts its golden shimmer across the calm water. It’s almost too bright to look at. There are rocks in the water that act as breakers, so the water by the shore is calm and inviting. I’d love to be like one of those carefree girls you see in the movies. The kind who’d give in to the lure of the ocean and just run into the water just to feel the freedom of it. I suppose I’m already outside my comfort zone and pushing myself into new things just by being here. Why not tick another box on my bucket list?

  ‘I want to go in,’ I say impulsively.

  ‘Really?’ Jay looks almost as surprised as I am. ‘Before we eat?’

  ‘I don’t know. It looks so gorgeous with the sun bouncing off the water like that; it’s surreal. I just want to get in.’

  ‘I suppose we can have a paddle.’

  ‘A paddle? You softie. I’m going in!’ I slip my dress over my head and stand up in my matching black bra and knickers. Jay looks positively shocked.

  ‘Oh, come on, there’s nobody about. Besides, it just looks like a bikini from afar.’

  He grins, stands up and starts to wriggle out of his jeans. ‘Okay, it’s not like I’m shy.’

  Thankfully, he has boxer shorts on, something the other guys don’t tend to wear, as I’ve discovered an uncomfortable number of times in backstage dressing rooms. He might know the manager here but I think skinny-dipping on his fancy beach could be a bromance-breaker.

  I head towards the shore, walking in, to where the water laps the sand. It’s not as warm as the golden glow suggested it may be, but I can’t back down now, not after I’ve made Jay strip off. I go in deeper and Jay follows.

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s like the North Sea. Are you sure?’

  ‘It’ll be fine once we’re in.’ I laugh, but I want to scream with each step I take as the water rises higher and higher. In the end, I just dive in. It’s exhilarating.

  ‘Bugger,’ I say, popping up. ‘I forgot about my make-up.’ But when I turn around, Jay is nowhere to be seen.

  All of a sudden, there’s a mighty splash next to me as he leaps out of the water.

  ‘You’re right, it’s lovely.’

  I turn onto my back and scull around, enjoying the feeling of weightlessness.

  ‘I needed this,’ I say.

  ‘A swim?’ Jay asks as he catches me up.

  ‘Spontaneity I mean. There’s something so therapeutic about the ocean, isn’t there? It washes away your troubles. Temporarily, of course.’

  ‘You know you live a ten-minute walk from a beach, don’t you?’

  ‘I know. I guess you take things for granted when they’re too readily available.’

  ‘Maybe you could make a pact with yourself to visit the beach at least once a week.’

  ‘Maybe I will.’ I dive under and swim out a little bit more. As Jay stands up next to me, I realise the sun has dipped a little lower and the temperature seems to have dropped a few degrees.

  ‘You look cold,’ Jay says, taking in my goose bumps. My teeth start to chatter and my tummy rumbles.

  ‘I think I’m ready for whatever is in your hamper.’

  He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

  ‘That was not a euphemism!’ I splash him, and he dives at me but misses and plunges underwater. It gives me a few seconds head start as I race out of the water. When I land on the shore, my legs feel like lead weights.

  Jay isn’t too far behind me and steps out with much more grace, brushing the water off his golden skin and shaking it from his hair. Diet Coke break, anyone?

  We sit down on the blanket and Jay unpacks some Manchego cheese, Serrano ham, olives and cold tortilla plus a few mini cartons of nondescript white wine.

  ‘Juice boxes for grown-ups? I like it!’ I laugh softly, taking one. ‘Oh, it has a straw and everything.’

  ‘I can’t believe you haven’t seen these before. They sell them everywhere.’

  ‘I haven’t looked, to be honest. I’m an in-grab-the-crisps-out kind of shopper,’ I say, popping the straw through the foil seal. ‘They may be a bit low-brow but they’re blooming convenient.’

  ‘You may think they’re not classy …’ he wags his finger ‘… and you’d be right, but I read somewhere that they were invented to get the young people drinking wine, so you could say we’re being hip.’

  ‘I’ll take that.’

  ‘Besides that, I didn’t have time to find plastic wine glasses.’

  The sky is blue-black now, and so is the
sea. The only reason I can tell them apart is because the moonlight reflects off the water. A slight breeze makes me shiver.

  ‘You’re cold. Here.’ Jay pulls a blanket out of his hamper and wraps it around my shoulders, moving my sticky sea-salt hair out of the way. Then, he wraps his arm around me and pulls me into the bulk of his body. He smells all salty from our swim earlier and his skin is still cold.

  ‘Jay?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d like to do this again.’

  ‘Me too.’ He kisses the top of my head.

  ‘But can we keep it quiet still? I’m not ready to tell the others yet.’

  ‘Whatever you want, Kat.’

  Chapter 21

  ‘God, I’m nervous.’ Sammy is jiggling around like a Nineties raver on acid. We’re at the heavily marbled and incense-infused Grand Palace, Lanzarote, for the quarter-final of the Canaries Act of the Year competition. I managed to squeeze us in two small shows that just covered the cost of travelling here, so I have everything crossed that this won’t be a wasted trip.

  ‘Is it me, or are all the other acts ten times better this time around?’ Pauw asks.

  ‘It’s you,’ Marcus snipes. I sense he’s nervous too, and this is what he does under pressure – he lashes out.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Ant glares at Marcus. ‘Old Lycra Bollocks has splashed out on a new kit – we need to be on top form.’

  ‘Lucky for us, we don’t need our kit,’ Marcus mutters.

  ‘I still think we could have added something else,’ Ant says.

  ‘Just shut up and do your stuff,’ Marcus says.

  ‘Who are you telling to shut up?’ Ant snaps.

  Marcus squares his shoulders, taking a step closer to Ant.

  ‘Lads, calm down. It’s a bit of Lycra for God’s sake. We’re all feeling the pressure, but they’re the same act. They were good last time and so were we. It’s why we were all chosen,’ Jay says. ‘I get that we’re all a little bit on edge but fighting amongst ourselves won’t help. We need to act like a team.’

  Marcus relaxes his shoulders and Sammy slaps him on the back. I’m glad Jay chipped in because I’m busy chewing my fingernails to the quick and don’t think I could have stopped long enough to offer anything helpful. I’ve run all the account projections for the winter season and they’re not looking good. Even with the pie-in-the-sky ten grand from the competition, we’ll struggle to make ends meet, and that’s if the bookings start to roll back in for the summer. If not, we may well have to don Lycra and squeeze ourselves into Perspex boxes.