One of the Girls(14)
Eleanor’s head snapped up. She knew which woman the sound had erupted from. She watched the way she laughed with her head tipped back, drink in hand, like the world was there for the taking.
She felt the slow uncoiling of the snake in her gut. Poisonous and deadly.
We were all ready for a holiday.
We wanted to surrender our bodies to the hot kiss of the sun. We wanted to idle away evenings in Greek tavernas, mopping up olive oil and oregano with hunks of bread. We wanted to drink cold beers and sip the icy sweetness of Fanta Limon from glass bottles. We wanted the sea, blue and shimmering, with a pebble-white carpet. We wanted to surround ourselves with other women and talk about food and travel and sex – instead of work and children and ageing parents. We wanted to rediscover those parts of ourselves that were freer, sexier, and more fun. We wanted our friends to be our mirrors – to reflect our best, brightest selves.
We wanted it all.
And we deserved it. That’s what we told ourselves: We deserve this.
Except one of us was thinking something different. Something darker.
SHE deserves this.
10
Bella
Without spilling a drop of Prosecco, Bella managed to adjust her dress one-handed. It was a strapless canary-yellow number that cinched in her waist and emphasised her bust. She felt sexy in it – and also a little sweaty. Still, give it a few more drinks, and she’d probably strip naked and dive in the pool.
She turned on the spot, taking in the terrace, which was washed rose-gold by the setting sun. Candlelight danced in wide glass lanterns and fairy lights twinkled between the thick tumbling vines woven through the pergola. The hens chatted together, Lexi standing at their centre looking relaxed and at ease.
Bella lifted her shoulders towards her ears, feeling a rush of pleasure and pride. She’d done this! They were in Greece on Lexi’s hen do – and she, Bella Rossi, had made it happen. She lifted her glass. ‘To you, Lexi,’ she called across the group. ‘Happy hen party!’
The others raised their glasses. ‘Happy hen party!’
Lexi glowed. ‘Thank you!’
Bella turned up the music. Madonna: ‘Like a Virgin’. She’d collated a playlist called ‘The Lexi Years’, this track having been on repeat in Bella’s teenage bedroom as they’d curled their hair with steaming tongs, her brothers trying to get a peek of Lexi through the open doorway.
She felt a yearning in her chest to cut loose. She wanted music so loud she could feel her blood buzzing with it. She wanted a quick line of coke, just to get glittery. She wanted to slink into a club, feeling a crowd of bodies humming and writhing and moving. She wanted glossy lipstick reapplied in a steaming bathroom filled with women. She wanted to dance with Lexi, eyes on each other, the whole dancefloor gravitating towards them. That. That buzz. That tripping out of the club at two, three, four in the morning and going anywhere … wherever the party was … taxi rides through London, hotel rooms, minibars. She wanted it all.
Through her twenties, those nights out had given shape to her weeks. She’d been working as a nurse then, living hand to mouth to be able to afford a blowout when she wasn’t on shift. Then she’d return to the hospital, rolling in with tales of wild nights that made her patients grin.
She glanced at Lexi, who was standing with a flute of Prosecco in hand, talking to Ana. Lexi may have said she didn’t want to go clubbing this weekend – but Bella was the maid of honour. She had a job to do – and she planned on doing it thoroughly. She’d allow them this first night. Let them have their cosy little mezes, and then she’d step forward.
She fetched another bottle of Prosecco from the ice bucket, giving it a quick shake so that the cork flew off and it bubbled over, causing squeals of delight and the rushing of glasses. They cheers-ed again, glasses clinking, music playing, the night warm against their skin. Yes, this was good.
Robyn approached wearing a navy dress that said interview candidate more than hen party. In a hushed, organiser’s voice, Robyn said, ‘Shall we do the presents tonight?’
A fortnight ago, Robyn had emailed the hens suggesting that each of them make a present for Lexi that ‘reflects your friendship’.
Bella had rolled her eyes at the screen.
‘Sure. If you want.’
‘Perhaps now, before we eat?’
Bella noticed how knackered Robyn looked. Kids. That’s what they do to you. She’d only met Robyn’s little boy once. Jack. He was cute; he had Robyn’s big, innocent eyes, and a lopsided grin that hinted at a mischievous streak.
Bella’s three brothers were all married with kids. She was an auntie to six nephews and one niece (named Lolita, for God’s sake!) who the family spoiled rotten and Bella already saw worrying signs of herself in, like the way she’d check who was watching before performing a pirouette. But Bella didn’t want children of her own. It was a discussion she’d had with Fen right at the start. Sperm donors and artificial insemination weren’t the problem, it was that she didn’t want a baby in her body. No, she liked her body with just her inside, thank you very much. Plus, she enjoyed being Fun Auntie Bella. She didn’t want to impose rules and serve healthy snacks. She loved it when her nephews flocked around her ankles, like little vultures, hunting out whatever treats were stuffed in her handbag.