A Girl Called Summer

by Lucy Lord

  Peter O’Flanagan, eyes glittering and mean with booze, pushed his way in.

  ‘Hullo, darling.’ He slammed the flimsy door behind him and Tamara instantly felt scared.

  ‘Hey, Peter. Uh – I’d just gone to bed?’

  Peter laughed nastily.

  ‘Oh yeah? And what were you doing, in that tiny bed of yours?’

  ‘I was trying to sleep? Until you barged in!’ Tamara faced him bravely.

  ‘Yes, of course you were.’ Peter smirked.

  ‘Please, Peter, you’re making me feel uncomfortable. Can we talk about this in the morning?’ Tamara was doing her best to be as grown up as she possibly could, considering all the booze and emotional turmoil churning through her veins.

  ‘Talk about what? Your little problem? OUR little problem? Takes one to know one, Tammy.’ As he said this, breathing into Tamara’s face, his breath significantly fouler than hers, Peter pushed her down onto her camp-bed. ‘I could smell the booze on you earlier. I can smell it now.’ Roughly he tore her robe apart, starting to breathe more heavily as it revealed her large round breasts, still glistening with ylang-ylang oil.

  ‘Please, Peter – don’t . . .’ Both his legs were between hers, now, prising them apart. His greasy grey hair was dangling in her face, and – whatever anybody might ever think about her – she really, really, really didn’t want this.

  ‘Oh, come on, darling. You’re the one with the sex addiction. I’m doing you a favour, aren’t I? Oh yes, you slut. You fucking disgusting little whore. You love that, don’t you?’

  Tamara had always assumed that if anybody had tried to rape her she’d fight them off, but what she hadn’t reckoned with was the sheer, superior strength of a man. However much she struggled to push him away, he was always one step ahead, laughing at her pathetic attempts to defend herself, shoving his sweaty hand over her mouth when she tried to scream. Eventually, it was easier just to give in, however much she hated herself for it, and however many tears trickled down her cheeks into her hair as she lay there, defenceless and letting him do what he wanted to do.

  Peter got off her with a self-satisfied groan, wiping himself on her beautiful emerald silk robe.

  ‘Nice tits,’ he said. ‘But for a sex addict, you could have done better. Nul points, I’d say, for enthusiasm.’

  ‘Fuck off, Peter,’ Tamara whispered, barely able to move her head from the pillow. ‘Just fuck off out of my life for good.’

  ‘Easier said than done, my angel! I’ll be seeing you bright and breezy on set tomorrow, oh darling daughter of mine.’ Peter winked, making Tamara feel even sicker. Once he’d left her in relative peace again, she whispered,

  ‘That’s what you think.’

  *

  ‘Where the fuck is she?’ Judd Mason, the handsome young actor playing Tamara’s teenage brother, was starting to get pissed off. Having got up at the crack of dawn to get ready for today’s filming, the whole cast and crew had now been kept waiting for nearly an hour by Tamara’s failure to show. Miles wouldn’t have put up with that kind of behaviour from anybody else, and people were starting to make resentful murmurs about what they perceived as the leading lady’s preferential treatment.

  ‘I’ll go and see what’s keeping her,’ Miles said eventually, his heart sinking. He hoped she was OK. He’d felt desperately sorry for her yesterday as she’d sobbed her heart out in her trailer.

  Peter, who was hungover as hell, was starting to feel extremely uncomfortable. He guessed that maybe he’d been a bit rough with Tamara last night, and hoped that she wouldn’t kick up a fuss. Still, he consoled himself, it was her word against his, the word of a known junkie and sex addict against that of a thrice Oscar-winning Shakespearean actor – who would believe her if she started bleating that the sex hadn’t been entirely consensual?

  ‘Tamara!’ Miles rapped loudly on her trailer door. ‘Are you OK in there? We really need to get going . . .’

  No answer.

  ‘Tamara!’ He shouted more loudly, growing more worried by the minute. ‘Are you OK?’ He rattled the handle, expecting it to be locked from the inside, but to his surprise the door swung open – revealing an empty trailer. His heart thudding, Miles took a quick look around. Most of her clothes were still hanging from the rail that acted as a makeshift wardrobe, and an untidy jumble of shoes cluttered up one corner. But her toiletries had all gone, her dressing table was empty save for an envelope addressed to him, in rounded, girly writing. Frantically, Miles tore it open.

  I’m so sorry for letting you down, but I can’t do this any more. Please don’t think too badly of me. Tamara x

  Miles sat down on the camp-bed with a groan and put his head in his hands. What the fuck was he going to do now?

  *

  Hiding behind an enormous pair of Chanel shades, with a Pucci silk scarf wrapped turban-style around her glossy brown hair, Tamara channelled her inner Liz Taylor and defiantly ignored the discreet stares of the other first-class passengers as she got stuck into her second bottle of Dom Perignon.

  She felt dreadful about abandoning Miles (and probably her last chance of a proper career), but all she had to do was recall Peter’s loathsome voice sneering, ‘I’m doing you a favour, aren’t I, you fucking disgusting whore,’ as he jabbed his horrible cock inside her, for any such regrets to vanish.

  They all think I’m a whore, a total screw-up, anyway, she thought bitterly. I might as well have some fun living up to my reputation.

  She took out her iPad and looked again at her Twitter feed. It cheered her up, a bit.

  Tamara may have become somebody to be mocked in conventional, boring society, but her stock was high, it seemed, in the LGBT community. She was up there with proper gay icons like Judy Garland, Barbra Streisand, Liza Minnelli and – yes! – Elizabeth T herself.

  But where is my Richard? she asked herself, slightly self-pityingly, as she swigged some more of the expensive champagne and tweeted back to one of her biggest transvestite fans:

  @IbizaDusty. On my way, honey. I only wanna be with you xxx

  *

  Lars and Summer were sitting outside the Rock Bar in Ibiza Town, just behind the waterfront. The bar, a favourite with the hedonistic international clubbing crowd, was packed with scarily cool people; it was taking for ever to catch the waitress’s eye to replenish their vodka limons.

  Although Bella’s attempt at matchmaking had failed, Lars and Summer had become firm friends over the last few weeks, meeting for drinks or dinner after Lars had finished his daily rounds of meetings with surveyors, lawyers and local environment officers. Bella and Andy met him for lunch whenever they could, but weren’t so flexible in the evenings due to Daisy.

  It was great for Lars to have some company on the island, and his friendship was helping to take Summer’s mind off Jack, if only for a few hours a time. Thanks to Jorge, things were gradually improving for her. She no longer thought that people were sniggering at her behind her back, and at long last felt able to show her face in public again.

  Tonight Lars had taken her out for dinner at El Olivo, a fantastic (and very expensive) restaurant with a beautiful outdoor terrace situated high up in the Old Town.

  ‘You can take me out when you have another job,’ he had said, and Summer had gratefully accepted his generosity, happy to enjoy a bit of luxury after the misery of the past couple of months. The post-dinner drinks at the Rock Bar were on her.

  ‘So you’re really not going to go through with it?’ Summer couldn’t disguise the disappointment in her voice. She had grown used to Lars’s company and had taken it as a given that he would be a more or less permanent fixture on the island for some time.

  Lars shook his head slowly.

  ‘I am afraid that after a lot – a hell of a lot – of consideration, it just won’t be cost-effective. I’m sad about it – the location is so beautiful, and already I have been seduced by the magic of Ibiza . . .’

  ‘It does get to you, doesn’t it?’ Summer smiled
.

  ‘Uh-huh. But the costs are simply too high – the site needs much more work than I initially thought – and remember, I am used to Central and South American prices.’

  ‘What a waste of your time and money over the last few weeks.’

  ‘The money is factored in. It’s important to do a proper investigation before starting any new project, and sometimes the projects don’t prove viable. And it certainly hasn’t been a waste of my time.’ Lars smiled at Summer affectionately. ‘It’s been great catching up with Bella and Andy again, getting to know the island . . .’ He paused and Summer raised her eyebrows. ‘And getting to know you, of course.’

  Summer leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

  ‘Hey, look over there,’ he added, pointing towards a fabulous procession of models in bikinis and bewigged transvestites, some on stilts, handing out flyers for one of the clubs. ‘Quite a spectacle!’

  ‘Ah, the parade,’ said Summer, with the air of somebody who’d seen it all before. ‘Can you see what they’re promoting?’

  As they both looked closer, they became aware of a tiny figure at the heart of the procession, prancing through the streets in a bright violet bikini and brandishing a bottle. Two transvestites minced along behind her, imitating her drunken dancing as she spun and twirled and swigged from the bottle, her bikini becoming ever more wonky, one large, firm breast almost completely exposed by the time that Lars saw who it was.

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Lars? What is it? Shit,’ added Summer. ‘Tamara.’

  They watched in horror as the transvestites, one of whom was dressed like Dusty Springfield, pranced and pulled faces behind Tamara’s back, taking the piss on a massively bitchy scale. Tamara, totally oblivious to the unkind laughter she was drawing from the growing crowd of holidaymakers snapping photos on their phones, continued dancing, swigging and whooping, clearly completely off her head.

  ‘We’ve got to stop her,’ said Lars, without a second thought. Surprising herself, Summer agreed with him – it was horrible to see somebody so hell-bent on self-destruction – although she wasn’t sure why Lars was reacting quite so strongly. As far as she could recall, he had only met Tamara once.

  ‘If you can get her away from those . . . people,’ said Summer, who had known the Dusty drag queen, and her vicious reputation, for years, ‘we can take her to my flat. My friend who’s staying there won’t mind, once I explain the situation.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Lars, smiling briefly at her. ‘Wish me luck,’ he added, before striding purposefully into the fray.

  *

  Summer’s apartment was blissfully quiet and private. Her friend, who was out drinking and clubbing, hadn’t minded them using it at all, as long as she had somewhere to sleep when she was done partying. As Lars planned to take Tamara back to wherever she was staying once he’d managed to sober her up a bit, this wasn’t a problem.

  It had been no mean feat, dragging her away from the trannies, but after Lars had pointed out, bluntly, that ‘these people are not your friends; friends do not encourage you to make a ridiculous fool of yourself, then mock you behind your back,’ whatever had been buoying her up seemed to deflate and she had allowed herself to be led up the winding backstreets to Summer’s flat.

  Summer, guessing that the sight of her wouldn’t help matters, had given Lars directions and her spare set of keys, before going back to her parents’ house. She still didn’t know what Tamara was to Lars, but she knew she couldn’t be in better hands.

  Now that they were safely inside the flat, Lars looked even more upset than he had the time he’d caught her screwing in the toilets in St Tropez, and Tamara, despite the quantity of neat tequila inside her, was feeling just the tiniest bit scared. But she was damned if she was going to show it.

  ‘So,’ she said sarcastically, standing with her hands on her hips as she squared up to him, swaying slightly. ‘My knight in shining armour shows up out of the blue again. What is it with you, Lars? Have you been stalking me?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I have no idea why I have the bad luck to bump into you all over Europe.’ Tamara snorted at this. ‘But I am ONLY TRYING TO HELP YOU!’ He grabbed her narrow wrists and shook them slightly. ‘Don’t you understand, you stupid girl? The way you are acting, anything could happen to you . . .’

  At this all the fight went out of Tamara and she slumped down onto the floor, her head bowed, her body shaking.

  ‘Tamara?’ Lars’s voice was more gentle now, as he knelt down beside her, jack-knifing his enormous frame. ‘Tamara?’ He lifted her chin with his forefinger and was horrified to see tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Shhh, shhh, it’s OK baby, it’s OK. You’re safe with me.’ He cradled her head against his chest, stroking her hair and letting her cry it all out, not asking any questions, just soothing her with his masculine presence.

  After about ten minutes, her sobbing abated, and Lars handed her a tissue. She blew her nose.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I needed that.’

  ‘So,’ said Lars. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’

  ‘I ran away from the set. I thought the transvestites were my friends – they’ve been tweeting me for ages to come join in their processions. They said I was a gay icon, that I should return to Ibiza, where I have this huge cult following. I thought they were my friends,’ she repeated, faltering. ‘What a fucking idiot.’ She looked so sad that Lars would have done anything, at that moment, to make her feel better. ‘I’ve let Miles down. I’ve let everybody down. In fact, I think I’ve completely fucked up my life.’ She put her head in her hands. ‘Jesus. What have I done?’

  ‘Why did you run away, Tamara? Did somebody hurt you?’

  Tamara nodded and took a deep breath.

  ‘He . . . he . . . came to my trailer . . . in the middle of the night . . .’

  ‘Who came to your trailer?’

  ‘Peter O’Flanagan. He’s an actor – one of my co-stars in Dust Bowl. He . . . forced himself on me. I tried to fight him off, but he was too strong for me.’ She looked directly into Lars’s eyes, desperately willing him to believe her. Something in his expression told her that he did. ‘It was awful, Lars. Just horrible. The things he was saying . . .’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

  ‘I think I do want to.’ Tamara’s voice was very small. ‘He said that he was doing me a favour, because . . . because I’m a sex addict, and a disgusting whore, and . . .’

  Lars tightened his arms around her, cradling her head to his chest again so she wouldn’t see the anger in his eyes. He was so furious that he actually felt he could kill Peter O’Flanagan with his bare hands if he walked into the flat right now.

  Tamara was relishing the delicious safety of being in Lars’s strong arms. Despite it being a deeply inconvenient moment, she had a sudden, crazy urge to kiss him. But for once, she let her rational side take over. In Lars, she sensed she had at last found a proper friend, somebody who, for whatever reason, had her best interests at heart. She would not fuck it up with him.

  ‘You know what?’ she said, suddenly determined, and trying to sound sober. ‘I’m sick of being a screw-up. Thank you for looking out for me tonight, Lars. I appreciate it. But now I need to take charge of my life. I’m going to get clean, and this time I’m going to stay clean.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Lars, feeling unaccountably proud as he saw the resolve in her pretty, tearstained face, the stubborn set of her chin. ‘I know exactly the place for you.’

  Chapter 23

  It was pleasantly cool, sitting under the vines on the partially covered terrace of Bar Anita, despite the heat outside. It was also packed to the rafters, with a combination of locals, and tourists dressed for the beach, in kaftans over bikinis, shorts and T-shirts. The waiters were rushed off their feet.

  Bella absolutely loved Anita’s; it had become her new home from home. The lively yet laid-back atmosphere, the friendliness, the mouthwatering home-
cooked food, the sense of Ibicenco history in its whitewashed walls and defunct old phone box – she could happily go there every single day, and frequently did, even if it was only for one drink or a café.

  Today she and Daisy had popped in for lunch after stocking up on some basics in the tiny supermercado next door. Bella’s swordfish steak with garlic and parsley butter, home-made chips and huge mixed salad were exactly what she wanted to eat in this climate, at this time of day; Daisy was devouring her tiny portion of spaghetti Bolognese, chopped up small by one of the good-natured chefs.

  ‘Bella!’

  She looked up from her food to see Jorge, tanned and handsome, standing in front of her, smiling.

  ‘Jorge! How lovely to see you. It’s been ages,’ she said warmly, getting up to kiss him on both cheeks. Since his newfound notoriety, Jorge had become a considerably less conspicuous figure in the local community – spending half his time at glittering celebrity-studded parties in Madrid, if you were to believe the local tabloids.

  He sat down in the empty chair opposite her and smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘Si, si, I have lots to tell you, Bella. My life has changed so much in the last month – thanks to Paloma.’

  Was he actually blushing?

  ‘Oooh, Paloma,’ Bella teased. ‘So, is it serious with her? She’s a stunning girl.’

  ‘Yes, she is,’ Jorge concurred. ‘But also she is smart. Very smart. She thinks I could get my own chat show on her cable network.’ He leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Maybe I do not need to sell drogas for the rest of my life.’

  ‘Oh my God, that’s fantastic news,’ cried Bella, leaning over to give him a hug. ‘Congratulations! So how—’

  ‘Bella?’

  Andy was standing above them, his face like thunder. He’d been in a meeting at the bank and had dropped by Anita’s to grab a sandwich before driving Bella and Daisy back to the finca: his deadline was looming, and stopping for a proper lunch was a luxury too far for the next few weeks.