The Time of Our Lives

by Jane Costello

  I hate the idea of makeovers. The last one I undertook was in 1988 on a Girls’ World styling head whose bonce I painted blue, then styled with my dad’s Remington nasal hair trimmer. So when the tables are turned on me, it’s not an experience I enjoy. I am waxed. I am plucked. I am manicured. I am concealed (at least, my black eye is). I am fake-tanned (required, because all today’s hour in the sun achieved was to puff up my ankles). My hair is blow dried, then curled, then sprayed with so much Elnett I’m tempted to don a gas mask and commando crawl to the loo under the cover of its toxic clouds to escape. Meredith has a travel version of everything: miniature beauty gadgets that, despite the candy colours and glossy images on their boxes, have but one objective: attack, attack, attack.

  Just when I think my hair follicles might be about to shrivel up and beg for mercy, Nicola knocks on the door.

  ‘Wow, you look amazing,’ she says almost convincingly.

  She’s been investigating the event Harry was talking about at breakfast and it turns out it’s some big VIP night on the sun deck to celebrate the hotel’s first birthday.

  ‘That’s that, then – we’re not VIPs,’ I say.

  ‘Of course we are, we’re residents,’ Meredith tells me.

  ‘Everyone looks extremely glammed up,’ Nicola adds, uneasily. ‘And there’s a rumour that James Franco’s going to be there.’

  Meredith’s eyes light up like the headlights on a 1985 Audi Quattro. ‘This gets better and better.’

  ‘But we won’t be allowed in!’ I argue.

  ‘Oh, Imogen, we just need to look the part,’ Meredith says. ‘Believe me, I’ve done this loads of times, it won’t be a problem. Especially in that pink top.’

  She picks it up and throws it to me.

  As it flies through the air, I’m overcome by a quasi-superstitious notion and it’s this: if I catch it, I have to wear it. I have absolutely no choice in the matter.

  The next thing I know, I’m clutching the top.

  ‘Why do you look so worried?’ Nicola asks.

  ‘No reason,’ I reply, heading to the bathroom to pull it on.

  A minute of so later, I take several deep breaths as I check my appearance, turning side on and running my hands down my jeans.

  The top isn’t really slutty. Just a little sassier, more revealing than I’d usually go for.

  Who am I kidding? I am completely out of my comfort zone. Which brings me to one conclusion: Meredith could be right, it’s probably perfect.

  Chapter 21

  When we arrive downstairs in the lobby, my stomach is swirling with nervous energy and Harry is at the front of my thoughts.

  The whole of Barcelona – at least anyone who’s anyone – appears to have turned up here tonight.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ Meredith enthuses, taking my hand and tugging me on.

  I’m not entirely sure I believe her, but the reassurance is welcome given how uneasy I feel about every single item on my body. There are the jeans, giving me that classic finishing-school walk, a bit like I have osteoarthritis. Then there are the shoes – borrowed from Meredith – so high they virtually qualify as gymnastics apparatus. And that’s before we get onto the top. Which is definitely, unquestionably, a mistake.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong,’ Nicola says. ‘That top might not be what you’re used to, but you look really elegant and sexy.’

  ‘I would tell you if you looked tarty,’ adds Meredith, with her usual sledgehammer candour. ‘And you don’t. Just do as Anastasia Steele in Fifty Shades would, and unleash your inner goddess.’

  I only got forty pages into that book, and wanted to spank her inner goddess myself, for entirely different reasons than the hero.

  We approach the glass doors as Meredith releases my hand and flicks back her hair. My heart clenches.

  It’s the start of the evening, but this already represents the hottest ticket in town. Endless-legged girls in glittering dresses flirt and laugh as expensively dressed men with dark eyes sip martinis like twenty-first-century Gatsbys. Music throbs in the dying heat of the day as fairy lights begin to shimmer on the infinity pool, and the deck fizzes with potential.

  Meredith’s eyes are glinting with mischief. ‘Let’s go and have an amazing night,’ she announces, placing a firm hand on the glass door to step out.

  At least that’s the theory. A theory brought to an abrupt halt as an arm falls across her path. It belongs to a bouncer who could have a Saturday job as a double-decker bus.

  Meredith responds with a saccharine pout. ‘Excuse me,’ she says politely, at which point, his arm grows rigid.

  ‘Recepción privada,’ he announces, granite-faced.

  Nicola and I slink into the background.

  ‘No, no, no.’ Meredith smiles patiently. ‘We are hotel residents.’ Her tone is a blend of benevolence and threat, implying that if he doesn’t drop this matter, she’ll personally see to it that his balls appear on the hotel menu served deep-fried with a complementary coulis.

  ‘It is not important that you are residents,’ says a female voice behind us. ‘Zis is a private party.’

  Clipboard Barbie hasn’t lost her clipboard, but that’s the only hint that she’s still on duty, judging by the fact that she appears to have been dressed by whomever looks after Beyoncé. Her hair cascades over her shoulders in silken waves and her bronzed legs spill out of hot pants so small and tight they almost qualify as a sex toy.

  She smiles smoulderingly at the bouncer and says something in rapid-fire Spanish before turning and beckoning over the same group that Harry was with yesterday.

  The girl with the wonky red lipstick is first, followed by the other two. Then, trailing behind them, with them but not, is Harry.

  My heart reacts instantly to the sight of him, swishing between fear and excitement as he approaches. He’s on his phone, distracted, but pauses when he sees me. His mouth turns up into a smile that reminds me that I should be far too sensible to be attracted to this clear breaker of hearts. ‘One minute, Ken,’ he mutters into his handset. Then he asks me,

  ‘Are you coming here tonight?’

  The question leaves me flustered. ‘Not sure yet,’ I reply, just as he is swept away in a flurry of hot pants and dark glossy hair, onto the sun deck, where he disappears from view.

  Meredith puts her hands on her hips. ‘That’s settled it. We’ve got to go in.’

  The bouncer has other ideas. He starts telling Meredith something in Spanish as she gazes at him blankly, pretending not to notice it doesn’t sound at all like, ‘Come on in and make yourself at home.’ When she doesn’t move, he begins gesturing for her to move back, in a manner that’s one step short of physically throwing her onto the street.

  ‘Wait,’ Meredith says, wrestling him away. ‘Let me speak.’ She grabs him by the arm and walks him to a corner, before quickly scanning our surroundings. ‘Would you accept . . . this?’ she says, removing a note from her back pocket and handing it over seductively.

  He looks at it and starts shooing her away again.

  ‘WAIT!’ she says again. He frowns. ‘How about . . . this?’ she murmurs, lowering the zip on her top.

  ‘Get out, crazy English,’ he says, and this time Meredith is forced to accept that her charms are lost.

  ‘That’s never failed before,’ she huffs, as we move off.

  ‘You are more than seven months pregnant,’ Nicola points out.

  ‘So?’ Meredith shrugs. ‘I can’t believe he didn’t accept the money either,’ she says, pulling out the note.

  Nicola and I narrow our eyes.

  ‘You do realise you’ve just tried to bribe the bouncer with a prescription for thrush cream?’ Nic points out.

  ‘Oh,’ Meredith replies flatly. ‘I was wondering where that went.’

  Chapter 22

  ‘Meredith, this is a bad idea. A terrible idea. You have never had a worse idea in your entire life.’ And this is a woman who once tried to perm her own eye
lashes.

  I glance at Nicola, who appears even more uncertain than I am. Meredith is poised by the kitchen door, waiting to pounce. She fixes her cleavage and checks her strappy platforms are secure, before scanning the immediate area with Bravo Two Zero eyes.

  A waitress carrying a mountain of expensive crockery marches past and studies us suspiciously, before a glass threatens to topple from its zenith and she is forced to push open the swing door into the kitchen.

  Meredith takes the opportunity to pop up her head and peer through the door’s porthole.

  ‘Ready,’ she hisses, holding up her arm. The arm flies down: ‘GO, GO, GO!’

  ‘Yes, all right, Private Benjami—’ But before Nicola can finish her sentence, Meredith has her by the elbow, I’m stumbling behind and we’re all in the kitchen, squatting behind an oversized steel work surface.

  All is relatively quiet on this side of the kitchen, in sharp contrast to events two workstations away, where three chefs are having a colourful disagreement over a batch of tempura. It is volcanically hot in here and beads of sweat prickle my skin as I nudge Meredith.

  ‘You’re not meant to be overheating,’ I whisper.

  She purses her lips. ‘There’ll be plenty of opportunities to rehydrate once we’re in that bar. All we need now is for that chef on the right to disappear for a minute and . . .’ She gasps. ‘NOW!’

  Before Nicola and I even get a chance to exchange an eye roll, Meredith is crawling on her hands and knees across the kitchen, displaying about as much stealth as you might expect from a woman in the third trimester of pregnancy.

  ‘She’s a bloody lunatic,’ Nicola murmurs.

  ‘Yes, but she’s our bloody lunatic,’ I reply, and we head off after her.

  The distance between the work surface and door to the sun deck feels like a mile, and traversing every inch of it in this position has the equivalent effect on my kneecaps as a claw hammer. But, incredibly, we reach the door, sticky with sweat but undetected, bursting onto the far corner of the sun deck in a heap onto its boards.

  It isn’t the grandest of entrances, but at least we’re in.

  ‘What happened to your shoe?’ Nicola asks.

  I glance down and note that I appear to only be wearing one of them. ‘Oh, bugger. I’m not sure.’

  Meredith looks at me incredulously. ‘Do you know how long it took me to find a pair of snakeskin sandals with that exact heel?’

  ‘I’m sorry! I’ll find it,’ I reply, although as I push open the door again, the kitchen is now buzzing. ‘Oh God . . .’

  ‘Do it later. We have another priority now – mingling.’ She grabs me by the arm and I follow, with a pronounced limp.

  As the sun sets over the sea, the sky is a breathtaking swirl of oranges and reds, yet there’s nothing peaceful about the sun deck. The crowd has expanded since we tried to get in legitimately, and a DJ rises above it on a massive podium at one end of the infinity pool as music thuds across the evening air.

  Being among such a glamorous crowd is not an entirely positive experience. Having minutes ago convinced myself I looked tarty enough to make a living grinding my hips against a pole, I now feel like I’m on my way to man the cake stand at a summer fête. I lower my neckline slightly.

  Nicola offers to buy the first round, but returns from the bar three minutes later. ‘These are free,’ she whispers with wide eyes, as she hands them to us.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a complimentary bar. For VIPs like ourselves, of course.’ She winks.

  I take a sip and allow myself to be dazzled by my surroundings. For the first time since I left UK soil, I’m starting to believe that I’m finally getting the holiday I’d hoped for.

  My phone beeps. It’s a text from David:

  FOR THE LOVE OF PETER, PAUL AND MARY. WHEN are you going to tell me you vE got rid of this story?! God DAM Daily Sun “@” (and yes I am drunk**)

  My stomach plummets as I begin composing a reply:

  David, new PR firm is fully briefed and on the case. Will let you know when I know more. Hope you are okay. Imogen

  The tone, I hope, is polite but confident, despite the fact that I’m feeling neither.

  When Cosimo and I last spoke, he’d only managed to leave a message with the Daily Sun journalist, who had apparently been pulled off the story – temporarily – to work on an exposé involving a senior politician and a 72-year-old masseuse from Burnley.

  ‘Maybe they’ll just go off the story,’ Cosimo said, dragging my confidence in his ability even closer to the gutter.

  ‘You’re not on that thing again, are you?’ Nicola asks.

  I shove the phone in my bag. ‘It’s going away now,’ I promise.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously. In fact’ – I take a slug of my cocktail and feel a heady rush of impulsiveness as I hand my phone over to her – ‘you look after it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I nod. ‘I’m . . . sure. Listen out for it, though, won’t you? I don’t like being totally inaccessible when I’m this far from Florence.’

  ‘Done,’ she says, as her gaze drifts upwards. ‘Oh God . . .’

  I follow her look across the deck and to some dancers on a podium. When we walked in (okay, fell in), there were four lithe women on it, wearing sequin handkerchiefs and strappy heels, swirling their hips around as if in complete control of invisible hula hoops. Now, however, they have been joined by Meredith.

  The one thing you can say about her J-Lo-style choreography is that she moves with surprisingly agility given that she has a girth like Henry VIII’s right now. A small crowd gathers, joining in tentatively, as if trying to work out whether the krumping pregnant lady represents some hip new trend in upscale entertainment.

  Nicola and I stand shiftily at the back of the crowd as a smattering of others start to clap, and one or two even begin to cheer. When Nicola begins wiggling her hips, I know the only thing left to do is for me to join in.

  I’ve barely managed to shuffle into place when things take an unseemly turn for the worse.

  Nicola spots the bouncer first, pushing his way through the crowd until he’s standing before Meredith, eyeing her like it’s a bomb rather than a baby under her swing top.

  She’s oblivious to him as he’s almost at her feet, but then she does a double take that nearly makes her head fall off. Before she can argue, she’s led down the steps onto terra firma.

  As the bouncer ignores her loud protestations and leads her towards us, I feel as though my heart is about to burst out of my chest. I have never been one of life’s rebels – the closest I ever got to teenage insurgence involved a two-minute experiment behind the school bike sheds with a nicotine patch.

  The bouncer is in the process of bundling us all through the glass doors – not something you can be a part of while retaining any dignity – when a voice rings out.

  ‘Wait!’

  We all stop and look round. It’s Harry. He’s wearing his glasses. Clipboard Barbie is behind him.

  ‘They’re with us,’ he announces.

  Clipboard Barbie glares at him indignantly. He turns to her and, as they lock eyes, he has this remarkable look that’s part sheepish, part sexy – and 100 per cent effective.

  ‘Would you mind?’ He shrugs. ‘They’re good friends of mine. I’d really appreciate it.’

  She unclenches her teeth and visibly melts before turning to the bouncer and firing a few words of Spanish at him, at which point Meredith, Nicola and I are released from his grip.

  ‘You’re a gem. Much appreciated,’ Harry says with a smile as she totters away, glancing back once.

  My friends are beside themselves, gushing thanks like a pair of defective taps until he actually looks uncomfortable.

  ‘Seriously, don’t worry about it. I couldn’t watch a group of fellow Brits be thrown out of somewhere with a free bar.’

  We follow him back to the party as my friends both link arms with me.

  Mer
edith leans in to whisper in my ear: ‘He. Is. Gorgeous.’

  I open my mouth to respond, and suddenly find her very difficult to argue with.

  Chapter 23

  You know those moments in Scooby Doo where Shaggy and the other meddling kids are all together, then he turns around to discover they’ve disappeared? That’s exactly what happens to me, only I know they haven’t fallen through a trap door, and hopefully I look slightly better than Shaggy, even with one shoe. Although, believe me, trying to balance on one foot at the exact height of the other to mask this problem is not easy.

  Harry either doesn’t notice, is polite enough not to point it out, or is distracted by my cleavage, which wouldn’t be hard in this top.

  Whatever the case, my friends have disappeared with negligible subtlety. They didn’t even make excuses, simply grinned and proclaimed ‘We’re leaving you two to it.’ Which raises one question: to what exactly are they leaving us? The thought makes me horribly nervous. Obviously, there’s only one solution to that.

  ‘Finished that already? Let me get you another,’ says Harry as I drain my cocktail. He reaches to a passing waiter to take another from his tray. It’s only then that I realise that I haven’t eaten a proper meal since breakfast, not unless you count a handful of posh spiced nuts and the chocolate the maid left on my pillow last night.

  ‘Who do you work for, Imogen? Each time I look in your direction you’re on your phone. I was starting to wonder if it was surgically attached.’ Every so often when he says something – just small talk like this – it sounds flirtatious. But it strikes me that it’s possible this might not be deliberate.

  ‘I work for a big-food production company, Peebles. I’m their UK marketing director. Well, acting UK marketing director.’

  ‘Sounds important. Do you enjoy it?’

  ‘Most of the time I absolutely love it, although it can be full on. I’m not one of those superwoman working mothers who can keep a dozen plates spinning at once.’