1
I’ve been trying to make this conversation happen for what must be seventeen hours now, and I wish so hard that I could give up and walk away. But I can’t. I’ve invested too much time – Ihaveto keep going.
‘SO,’ I try again loudly, cringing at the nasal fake-cheer in my voice and feeling all of life’s awkwardness condense into that one stupid syllable. ‘How long have you been, um, doing this... job?’
He barely glances in my direction. ‘Huh? What’d you say, babe?’ he replies, his Birmingham accent jarring, distinctly out of place on this random roof terrace under a too-hot sun.
‘Oh!’ I force a laugh, knowing he definitely fucking heard me, and that he just doesn’t want to talk. I stare down at my feet, examining the blister forming on the side of my big toe, and consider going heavier with my chat. Small talk isn’t working – everyone hates small talk – so maybe I should go straight in withbigtalk. Donald Trump’s hostage wife, floppy Brexit, any dodgy uncles he had growing up.
Sweat itches the back of my neck and the glare of the sun, reflecting off his baby-oiled nipples, briefly blinds me. I sigh. Why am I doing this to myself?
I’m only twenty-four hours into this hen do – here in Tenerife for my demanding and not-even-that-nice-to-make-up-for-it school friend, Harriet – and I already hate everything. Here we are, a group of women who don’t really know each other, trapped together in a rented apartment with a fancy roof terrace for a long weekend, enacting an intimate itinerary of nudity-based activities. It’s like an intensive episode ofBig Brother, but with no cameras behind the mirrors.
Actually, that did happen on a hen do I saw on the news last year, but I think that hotel manager is in jail now.
So much forced fun, so many phallic-shaped inflatables, and such middle-class guilt over the Butler in the Buff beside me. That’s why I am trying so hard with this conversation – while carefully avoiding eye contact with his free-swinging cock – so that he knows at least one person here sees him as a real-life human being. So far, all he’s had is two hours of hens coming over, one by one, to scream in his face that he should ‘take off the stupid apron already’ and ‘do the elephant dance, bitch’. Earlier, one of the bridesmaids spilled a bright green jelly shot all over his bum-crack and screamed that it was an arsehole waterfall. Actually, that was really funny and I couldn’t stop laughing – which I think is probably why he doesn’t want to talk to me now. But I really want him to know I’m a nice person. I need him to know that I do see him as more than just a piece of meat and a naked jelly-shot arse vessel. I want to tell him about the fantastic Yelp review I plan on giving him after this weekend.
I also need him to explain to me what an elephant dance is.
The Shiny Naked Man turns suddenly away from me, to catch a toppling-over woman. She is slipping about on a large greasy patch on the ground that Shiny Naked Man may or may not be responsible for. I’m not one to point fingers, but I think he is the only one who brought a two-litre bottle of baby oil with him on this hen do. She – damn, what is her name? – smiles up at him sloppily and paws at his apron, which is the one thing standing between his sad penis and this cold, cruel world. Poor Shiny Naked Man. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s probably a world-class heart surgeon or something in his normal life.
I quickly try to catch the eye of the bride, Harriet, sitting a few feet away, and wave frantically towards the sexual assault in progress beside me. In two hours, I fully expect to be locked up in a local police station, being grilled by Spanish lawyers as the other hens rustle up bail money. Actually, that might be more fun than this...
Harriet rolls her eyes at me, but staggers up, shouting at ‘Jill’ to leave the Butler in the Buff alone.
Jill, that’s it! That’s her stupid fucking name! Like Jack and Jill, except she’s climbing uphill to fetch a pail of penis.
I force down another giggle, remembering our tepid introduction at the airport last night.
‘Lilah, this is Jill Tide,’ Harriet told me, smiling from underneath her brand new polyester veil – tags still attached. ‘She was my boss until last year, and she’s just been promoted to head of accounts at her new office. She’s now in charge of a team of, like, two hundred people, right, Jill? It’s a huge promotion.’ Harriet grinned then, adding impulsively, ‘So this weekend will be like a double celebration for both of us!’ And then she’d looked really worried and added sternly, ‘But mostly it will bemycelebration. I mean it’smyhen do. I think we can call this here in the airport – this little bit in the departure lounge –yourcelebration, Jill, and then not mention it again.OK? I really don’t think it’s cool of you to try to steal my thunder, Jill.’ And then she’d made a really unenthused toast with our free airport Baileys. I tried to whisper congratulations but Harriet gave me a really livid look.
I remember worrying that Head of Accounts Jill, in her fancy grey trouser suit from, like, Jigsaw or somewhere else fancy that I never shop, wasn’t going to be too impressed with the wild events planned for this weekend. But here she is, not even a full twenty-four hours later, in her red horny devil outfit, with dried tequila dribble peeling off her chin. Good old Jill.
This is, at least, better than last night. The moment we arrived at the villa we were herded straight down to the pool for a ‘hen photoshoot’. Harriet had hired a local photographer to capture us all jumping around in the air, wearing our matching hen t-shirts. Then we had to do another set-up, posing in our red bikinis around the pool. Harriet kept screaming at us not to drink the cocktails because they were just props for the photoshoot. She’d put hairspray all over them to keep the straws and decorations from moving about too much in the breeze. The shoot went on for ages – almost four hours – but Harriet said we couldn’t leave until all nine of us looked like we were having the exact right amount of fun. She said her Instagram followers had to be properly, spitefully jealous, or what was even the point of this weekend at all.
As you may well have picked up, Harriet, the bride, is being a proper dick about everything. And I would say you only get one hen do, but Harriet is actually having two more after this. One back in Liverpool where she lives, and then a third one for work friends the week after. She said it was for people who couldn’t make it to this one, but then she said everyone here has to attend the other two as well. Which is really just truly fantastic news for my overdraft.
‘No!’ Harriet suddenly screams now, leaping unsteadily from her seat and knocking a sun umbrella over. She looks panicked and is pale under her heavy fake tan.
‘Are youOK? What’s wrong, Harriet?’ I run over, the only one to react. The rest of the hens are too drunk. Jill is humping Shiny Naked Man’s leg, like a horny puppy, and all his energies are focused on keeping his penis safe from her grasping hands.
Harriet looks at me but her eyes are super glazed. ‘Delly?’ she says, unsure.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ I say through gritted teeth, wincing at the ancient school-era nickname. It’sLILAH– how many times do I have to casually refer to myself in the third person before she gets it?
She bursts into loud sobs and thrusts her left hand into my face. ‘I’ve lost my engagement ring,’ she wails, looking bereft. ‘It’s gone! I can’t find it. Have you seen it?’ It takes me half a second to register the bare knuckles in my face. The webbing of her fingers is stained orange, but there’s no sign of the usual massive sparkler that sits there.
Holy shit. This is bad. She can’t really have lost it, can she? It’s probably just down in our apartment? Surely?
Harriet’s fiancé is a big-time wanker-banker, and I’m pretty sure that ring is worth a lot of money. I say ‘pretty sure’ but I mean ‘absolutely sure’ – because Harriet specifically told me it’s worth a lot. Loads of times. She sent us a group email about it. She put it on Facebook. Oh, look, the ring cost £25,000.
I attempt a reassuring smile and put my hand on her arm. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll find it, I promise,’ I say as calmly as I can, biting my lip.
It must be here. It must be.
I really hope it’s here.
It’s definitely not here.
