A Girl Called Summer

by Lucy Lord

  ‘Thanks,’ said Shane, who had liked Natalia when he’d met her at Bella’s pool party; he recognized a fellow grafter. ‘Hey, Ben.’ He had a slight crush on Ben, who was exactly his type, but his gaydar told him not to go there. It was a shame, but it couldn’t be helped.

  ‘Hey, Shane,’ said Ben, liking the chap, and all too aware that Shane fancied him. Gay men tended to go for him even more than straight women did, which was saying something. He didn’t mind, of course – the pink pound contributed hugely to the box office – but Nat occasionally got a tad arsey about it. ‘This is—’

  ‘Look, look, look!’ interrupted Poppy, pointing down at the water.

  A state-of-the-art speedboat was hurtling across the wine-dark sea towards them. Poppy nudged Shane, winking complicity. He had excelled himself, publicity-wise.

  Filthy was standing on the stern, acoustic guitar in hand, singing not, for once ‘Sexy Green-Eyed Woman’, but his second-most famous hit, a cheesy ballad that was played ad nauseam on Radio 2 at Christmas, ‘Best Friends and Lovers’.

  Behind him, Jack and Tamara were sitting with their arms around one another’s waists, Tamara’s head resting on Jack’s shoulder, soppy smiles plastered across both their faces.

  *

  ‘So you’ve got the leading role in Dust Bowl?’ said Bella, unable to take her eyes off the charismatic young beauty sitting the other side of Andy. Despite what Poppy and Damian had told her, she found Tamara utterly charming.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ said Tamara, in her element. ‘I brushed up on my Steinbeck.’

  Andy, clearly also under her thrall, smiled at her. ‘The Grapes of Wrath?’

  ‘Uh-huh. And East of Eden and Cannery Row.’

  ‘What – in three days?’ asked Bella.

  ‘I’m not as stupid as I look, y’know.’

  Bella and Andy both laughed.

  ‘You don’t look stupid,’ they said in unison.

  ‘Oh wow! You two are like sooo cool. I wish Jack and I talked like that,’ said Tamara.

  ‘It takes years, and probably a baby,’ smiled Bella.

  ‘You got a baby? Boy or girl?’

  ‘A little girl. Her name’s Daisy,’ said Andy.

  ‘You got photos?’ Tamara seemed to be genuinely interested, so Bella took her phone out of her handbag and showed her a couple of the thousands of Daisy photos she had stored.

  ‘Omigod! She is adorable. Look at her little round cheeks! She is so lucky to have you two as parents.’ Tamara’s voice went small. ‘I wish you were my parents.’

  ‘We’re not that bloody old,’ said Bella, laughing. Andy kicked her under the table.

  ‘Oh no, I didn’t mean that . . .’ Tamara looked mortified.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Andy. ‘I remember being in my early twenties. Everybody over thirty seemed ancient to me.’

  ‘Well, that’s not entirely accurate in my case,’ said Tamara. ‘I am engaged to Jack. No, I was just being an idiot. It was a comment on my own parents rather than anything to do with your age.’ She seemed so sad for a couple of seconds that Bella wanted to give her a hug.

  Tamara had made even more of an effort than usual this evening, dressing up in a figure-hugging, buttock-skimming, strapless dress made entirely of emerald-green sequins. A ton of smoky-eye make-up set off her deepest green contacts, and her shiny dark hair fell in a sleek curtain to her waist. She looked exotic, feline and sexy as hell.

  ‘Looking like that, darlin’, you can say anything you like,’ said Bella’s father, who was sitting the other side of her. Bella felt a brief stab of irritation at his disloyalty. He could be such a dirty old man sometimes.

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ Tamara flashed him her most gorgeous smile, enjoying herself again.

  Further around the table, Poppy was monopolizing Filthy.

  ‘So you’re playing Ibiza Rocks, Filth?’ she asked. ‘That’s sooo cool. You know I’m your biggest fan.’ She looked up at him with big, innocent eyes and Filthy laughed.

  ‘Yeah, sure, I’ll sort out VIP tickets and backstage passes. Don’t I always?’

  ‘Yippee! Thanks so much!’ Poppy grinned, completely unabashed, and shouted across the table: ‘VIP tickets and backstage passes to Ibiza Rocks on Friday night, everyone!’

  As they all raised their glasses and cheered, Jack felt extraordinarily weary. He’d been getting VIP tickets and backstage passes to his dad’s gigs his entire life, and now wanted nothing more than to abandon the non-stop party ship. He thought longingly of his and Summer’s deserted beach. He missed her so much. What was she doing right this minute, he wondered.

  *

  Summer was walking up the Calle de la Virgen, Ibiza’s main gay street, stopping to chat to the guys running the shops and bars, most of whom she had known for years. The ancient winding street was narrow and heaving with people, all out to have a good time. Handsome, ripped guys with caramel tans in skin-tight T-shirts rubbed shoulders with fabulously made-up transvestites, some very camp old queens and plenty of tourists of myriad nationalities who were simply there to gawp. The atmosphere was raucous and jolly, and Summer was cheering up by the second as she high-fived yet another bar owner in a bicep-revealing racer-back vest.

  ‘Hey, Summer!’

  ‘Hey Jürgen!’

  Jürgen had come to Ibiza on holiday from his native Hamburg ten years ago, and never gone back.

  ‘Wow, are you looking fabuloso tonight!’ He gestured flamboyantly, his hands making hourglass shapes in the air.

  ‘Thanks. Thought I’d make a bit of an effort for once. I’m hitting Pacha later.’

  She was looking particularly stunning, and totally Ibiza-chic, in her white denim cut-offs paired with a white crochet string bikini top, and simple brown leather flip-flops on her feet. Her hair flowed, loose, straight and streaky blonde over her slim shoulders, and she wore no jewellery save for a delicate silver anklet. After her day frolicking naked on the beach with Jack, she was more deeply tanned than ever, and looked as though she’d walked straight out of a beach fashion shoot for Vogue, circa 1967. Every head – male, female, gay and straight – had turned as she walked by.

  ‘Well, it certainly paid off. You are simply radiant, darling. You stopping for a drink?’

  Summer smiled, ‘Yeah, why not?’ and perched herself on one of the high stools surrounding a small round table directly to the right of the bar’s cavernous entrance. She had plenty of time to kill before Pacha got going. Nobody bothered hitting the clubs until way past midnight.

  ‘So what can I get you?’

  ‘A vodka limon would be great, thanks.’

  As Jürgen went inside to get her drink, Summer took in the scene around her, watching the colourful promenade. Much as she adored Ibiza’s natural beauty, its beaches and olive and pine groves, she did love this aspect of the island too. The nightlife was so exciting and vibrant and cosmopolitan. On an evening like this, the sheer buzz of the place coursed through your veins like a drug.

  ‘So who’s the lucky guy?’ asked Jürgen as he returned with her drink. She reached into her brown leather shoulder bag to pay, but Jürgen was having none of it. ‘No, no – this is on the house. You haven’t been out on the scene for ages.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Summer smiled and took a sip of her drink. ‘What do you mean – lucky guy?’ Was it that obvious?

  ‘You have the glow of somebody who has been shagged senseless in the last twenty-four hours,’ said Jürgen. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it.’

  ‘I wish,’ Summer laughed, her heart pounding furiously.

  ‘Oh bless, she’s blushing. It’s OK, sweetheart – if you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t want to talk about it. Uncle Jürgen knows the score.’ He tapped the side of his nose and Summer laughed again.

  ‘OK, so what have I been missing?’ she said, changing the subject. ‘What’s the latest gossip?’

  ‘Well,’ said Jürgen, pulling up a stool and settling in for a good old natter. ‘In the l
ast week or so, this island has become celebrity central.’

  ‘Hey, nothing new about that.’ Summer cursed herself for asking about gossip. At this time of year it always revolved around who’d seen which celebs, where. ‘So who’s spotted who? Kate Moss, I guess?’

  ‘Oh yes, Kate’s been very visible. Salinas, DC-10 . . . And rumour has it there was a party at her villa that lasted for three days!’

  ‘Good old Kate, she never disappoints.’

  ‘P Diddy’s yacht was spotted somewhere near Formentera . . .’

  ‘That hardly counts,’ snorted Summer. ‘He gets everywhere. You can do better than that.’ What the fuck was she doing? Her mouth was running away with her and she felt as though she had no control over what came out of it.

  Jürgen sniffed huffily. ‘The boys at El Olivo served dinner to King Juan Carlos the night before last. He didn’t leave a tip or say please or thank you once.’

  ‘That’s a bit more like it,’ smiled Summer.

  ‘And Rihanna was showing off at Blue Marlin, demanding the best table and getting her minders to take photos of her butt in a tiny thong.’

  ‘Better and better . . .’

  ‘I’ve been saving the best till last,’ grinned Jürgen. ‘There are rumours that Jack Meadows has been here for a few days, though nobody’s actually seen him. What we do know is that Tamara arrived today, with – wait for it – Jack’s dad, Filthy!’

  Summer was momentarily nonplussed. ‘Filthy? What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Playing at Ibiza Rocks,’ said Jürgen. ‘You don’t seem too surprised about Jamara though . . .?’

  Summer thought quickly. Word would probably get around that Jack had been at Bella’s party, and it would look weird if she didn’t mention that she’d met him.

  ‘That’s because I met Jack,’ she admitted. ‘He was at my friend Bella’s pool party a few days ago . . .’

  ‘Well, you are a dark horse.’ Jürgen looked at Summer admiringly. ‘Why didn’t you say something when I was blathering on about P Diddy’s yacht?’

  ‘I was saving the best till last,’ she said, and he laughed.

  ‘Touché! So – spill, darling, spill! What’s he like?’

  ‘He was nice.’ Summer took a sip of her drink, willing her body not to betray the emotions flooding through her. ‘He was very nice.’

  *

  The atmosphere around the table at Aqua was mellow and happy. They’d feasted on exquisite fish soup, followed by the restaurant’s signature stuffed sea bass, then nectarines poached in sauternes and filled with the lightest, creamiest zabaglione, all washed down with the best white wines from Shane’s cellar. Now they were drinking hierbas and chatting about how they were going to spend the rest of their holiday.

  ‘You’ve got to go to Formentera,’ said Bella, waving her glass around. ‘The colour of the sea there is like nothing you’ve ever seen before.’

  ‘We’ll take the boat out,’ said Natalia decisively. ‘It’s the only way to see it.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Tamara. ‘Thanks, Nat.’

  Natalia ignored the pang of guilt she felt as Tamara smiled at her. She wished Jack hadn’t unburdened himself to her and Ben. Jack, for his part, wished that Tamara would stop behaving so sweetly. He almost wanted Nightmare Tantrum Tamara back – this version was unnerving him and making him feel extremely guilty. He suspected it was for Filthy’s benefit – Tamara loved the fact that she could wind his dad around her little finger.

  At Shane’s insistence (‘gotta keep things lively’), they’d all swapped places for the pudding, and Filthy was now sitting next to Justin. They were getting on famously, two naughty old boys swapping scandalous anecdotes; it was no surprise to anyone that they shared several acquaintances – to say nothing of a number of old girlfriends.

  Justin, older than Filthy by about five years, was more hippy than rocker, this evening sporting fraying denim cut-offs, long dark-grey hair tied back in a ponytail, a v-necked white linen tunic and the shark’s tooth on a leather thong that he liked to keep, permanently, around his neck.

  ‘If you’d seen her, Filth, you’d understand,’ he’d confided to his new best friend earlier. Filthy had put his arm around Justin’s shoulder, a tear forming in his eye. ‘No need, my buddy, no need. I understand,’ he’d said, and both their minds had drifted back to the young girls they’d squired years ago and still believed themselves in love with, both conveniently forgetting the women they’d loved enough to actually marry.

  Filthy, whose hair was so badly dyed black that there was an entire bitchy column in the Daily Mail devoted to it, had abandoned his leathers in favour of black jeans and a cherry-red waistcoat with nothing underneath (he was still pretty wiry, with all that jumping about on stage). His earlier red-and-white bandana kept some of the black fluff away from his face.

  ‘So what’s the plan for later?’ asked Justin.

  ‘Later?’ said Filth, downing his hierbas in one.

  ‘Yeah, later, mate. Later!’ Justin thumped his hand on the table for emphasis. ‘This is Ibiza and I wanna hit the clubs!’

  ‘Still the oldest swinger in town,’ laughed Bella from across the table. She was on her way to feeling pleasantly pissed. ‘It does sound tempting, though. I haven’t been clubbing for years . . . Andy?’ She looked at him hopefully.

  ‘One of us has to relieve Britta.’ He looked into her happy, sparkling eyes and smiled. ‘It’s OK, Belles, you go out and have fun. I’m cool with calling it a night – I need to get on with the book in the morning anyway.’

  ‘Really?! Oh, I love you so much!’ She gave him a huge smacker on the cheek.

  ‘Hey, I’ll come clubbin’ with ya,’ said Filthy. ‘See what all the fuss is about.’

  ‘Me too!’ Tamara cried, her pretty face lighting up. ‘Oh, can we, please, Jack, please?’

  All Jack wanted to do was go back to Natalia’s villa and dream of Summer, but he figured that a night’s clubbing would at least delay the evil moment of having to refuse Tamara’s demands for sex. He forced himself to laugh naturally.

  ‘We’re in Ibiza, right? ’Course we should be going clubbing. Where do you wanna go, honey?’

  ‘Pacha,’ said Tamara decisively. ‘I wanna go to Pacha.’

  Chapter 15

  Summer walked all the way through the Old Town, through the pretty squares with their lit-up restaurants and boutiques and bars, up past the ancient ramparts and down again where the narrow winding lanes opened out into the harbour. It was a warm evening, and she was enjoying the feeling of her hair swishing against her bare back, the fragrant wisps of breeze on her bare arms and legs. At half past one in the morning, Ibiza Town was still heaving, the traffic around the port almost at a standstill. A lot of people were heading in the same direction as Summer, out past the boats in the marina towards Pacha. Tonight was David Guetta’s legendary ‘F*** Me I’m Famous’ night, and excitement levels were bubbling.

  Summer’s shorts and bikini top were by no means inappropriate – there was a hell of a lot of flesh on display as hordes of happy holidaymakers stumbled towards their destination. At last it loomed, a whitewashed, cuboid building with multiple terraces flanked by palm trees, its iconic double-cherry logo enticingly symbolic of the hedonistic delights that lay within.

  Pacha. Clubbing for beautiful people.

  *

  Tamara was enjoying herself enormously. Slinky and gorgeous in her sequinned green dress, she was lapping up adulation from several new admirers (the clientele in Pacha’s VIP area were way too cool to admit to being fans), not to mention the undivided attention of Justin and Filthy. She didn’t care that their joint age was about 510 – not having had a proper father figure, she loved getting attention from older men and never found anything remotely distasteful about it.

  Almost as much as the attention, she loved how cool this place was – way cooler than Les Caves in St Trop, which she now recognized as tawdry Eurotrash. No, Pacha oozed real glamour, from the whit
e leather banquettes in the VIP areas to the fabulous open-air terraces to the incredibly beautiful podium dancers on the main dance floor, visible twenty feet below them.

  There was a bottle of Absolut vodka sitting in an ice bucket on the white stone table in front of them, but Tamara, whose twin poisons, back in the bad old days, had always been Absolut and coke (not cola), was sticking resolutely to her mineral water. A great roar came up from the dance floor as the DJ segued into another crowd-pleaser and they all grinned around the table at each other.

  ‘Right, I’m ready to get down and dirty,’ said Poppy, downing her drink in one and slamming it on the table. ‘This VIP stuff’s all very well, but you really need to be on the dance floor to get the proper Pacha “experience”.’ She did air quotes, taking the piss out of herself, and everybody laughed. ‘Coming, Belles?’

  ‘Hmmm, dunno. It’s awfully comfortable up here. And you can hear yourself think.’

  ‘Just listen to yourself! When did you get so old? Come on, Mrs Fuddy Duddy, let’s go and show those youngsters how it’s done.’

  ‘Oh, all right, twist my arm then,’ replied Bella good-naturedly.

  ‘You coming, Damian?’

  ‘Try keeping me away.’

  So the three of them made their way towards the velvet rope that cordoned the VIP area off from the plebs. As Filthy launched into one of his scandalous accounts of life on the road, Tamara heard Bella cry, ‘Summer! Wow, you look amazing. We’re heading down for a bit of a boogie, but the others are over there – big table in the corner. Why don’t you join them?’

  Tamara turned her head to see who this newcomer was, and watched as the crowds parted, all heads turning, to let through one of the most beautiful girls she had ever seen in her life. Flushed and glowing from her exertions on the dance floor, Summer walked with easy grace towards their table. Her casual sexy ensemble reflected Ibiza’s laid-back, beachy vibe perfectly, and made Tamara feel stupidly overdressed in her sequins and six-inch Louboutins.

  Ben jumped to his feet, holding out his arms.

  ‘Summer! How lovely to see you again. Come and have a seat and a drink. Now, who don’t you know . . .?’