Lucy in the Sky

white carpet for the stars to walk down. Thank goodness it’s not raining, otherwise it’d be greywithin minutes. Chloe and I managed to persuade Gian to make vodka sour alla maracuja the cocktail of the night. We have to be on our best behaviour until 9 p.m. and after that we’re allowed to let our hair down.
     
    Apart from Gemma throwing up in the toilets at midnight and Chloe and me having to call her boyfriend to get him to come and collect her, the party goes off without a hitch. Seventy-five per cent of the celebrities that we’d invited turn up, which is a good success rate. The Beckhams don’t deign to join us, probably because Gian slagged David off recently and said he was more famous for his haircuts than his football. He’s just jealous because Becks is better paid. And better looking.
    I’m on top of the world, until I wake up the next morning with the mother of all hangovers. I meant to pack on Thursday night, really I did, but I thought I’d have enough time this morning. I climb gingerly out of bed and swallow Ibuprofen for my stonking headache.
    The plane eventually departs around three hours late so by the time I arrive in Malaga it’s after nine o’clock with the time difference. James texts to say they’re already down the main street, five minutes’ walk from the villa. They’ll be pissed by the time I get there, I bet, and I’m going to feel really out of it. The last thing I want to do right now is drink. I’m tempted to go to the villa and sleep. I text him back to ask him to meet me there in half an hour, which is how long my journey will take, according to the taxi driver.
    He’s not there when I arrive so I sit on the steps by the gate and wait for him. Five minutes later, I text him again.
    ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he calls, as he runs up the path. He grabs me bythe hand and leads the way into the villa and through to our bedroom. The living room is littered with empty beer cans and fag ends.
    ‘Party last night?’
    ‘Yeah.’ He grins. ‘Bit of a mental one.’
    Our room is all white walls and white wicker furniture. We’ve got a double bed too.
    ‘Do you want to get changed?’ he asks.
    I exhale noisily and collapse on the bed. ‘Can’t we just stay here? I’m knackered.’
    ‘Come on, Lucy,’ he says buoyantly. ‘It’s fun down the street. Everyone’s in the party mood. Let’s go and have a few drinks!’
    ‘I’d give anything to just curl up with you and spend some time alone…’ I reach over and take his hand.
    ‘No, you wouldn’t.’ He grins good-naturedly and tugs on my hand to pull me up. ‘Come on, baby. You get to see me all the time. The others will think we’re losers.’
    ‘I don’t give a shit,’ I tell him, then realise that sounds a bit harsh considering they’ve given us this free holiday. ‘Okay.’ I sigh. ‘But I need to have a shower first.’
    He rolls his eyes and flops down on the bed, wiping his brow. It’s hot outside and he’s sweaty, probably from running up the street to meet me.
    Five minutes later I’m back in the bedroom, pulling my red and white summer dress from Warehouse out of my bag.
    ‘Erm…’ he says, looking at it.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Don’t you have anything more…sexy?’ he asks tentatively. ‘It’s just that the other girls are all dolled up and you might feel a little out of it in that.’
    ‘Oh, bloody hell.’ I sit back down on the bed. I didn’t bring much with me.
    I empty the contents of my bag out and he picks up a black vest top with lace trim. ‘This and your jeans would look good,’ he says.
    I’m a bit hot in my jeans but he reassures me that the bar is air-conditioned. I pull on the vest top and accessorise it with a chunky silver necklace and strappy red heels and then I turn to my make-up. I decide to vamp it up with dark silvery-grey eyeshadow and two coats of mascara. I forgo the lippy and stick with sheer lipgloss instead. I leave my hair down.
    ‘Perfect!’ James grins, pulling me down to lie on top of him. He puts his hands on my waist. ‘Mmm, very slim…’
    ‘All that walking,’ I answer.
    ‘Maybe we should stay here,’ he says, raising one sandy eyebrow. He kisses me on the lips, slowly, languidly. I can taste the alcohol on his breath but it’s not unpleasant. That’s one thing about James; he is a very good kisser.
    ‘Hey, you, you’re going to ruin my lipgloss,’ I chastise gently.
    ‘So put some more on,’ he says, flipping me over so that he’s on