others will piss off without us. We were supposed to meet them at nine.’ The ‘others’ being a twelve-strong stag party, inclusive of two ex-cons and a hyper groom-to-be.
Nick rolled sideways off the bed, wincing; his back red raw with sunburn where he’d fallen asleep by the pool earlier without oiling up. He stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray – stark evidence, along with the strewn clothes and empty San Miguel bottles, that he was sharing the apartment with three other blokes – before skidding across the beer-soaked tiles into the shower.
Dressed and good to go ten minutes later in jeans and his red England polo shirt, he dabbed on some of his Calvin Klein aftershave and checked himself in the mirror. Not bad, considering how rough he felt.
‘Vain bastard,’ said Deano, slapping the top of Nick’s near-shaven head.
‘Says he with the bleached hair and ponsey pink shirt on. At least I look like a bloke,’ said Nick, flexing his tattooed arms in defiance.
‘Nothing wrong with this shirt.’ Deano smoothed down the front of it. ‘Your Mrs raved over it when I wore it to that do in Greenwich last month. How you ever managed to pull a stunner like Abigail, I’ll never know.’
Nick flashed him a toothy smile. ‘Well, as they say, Deano, my old mate, you’ve either got it, or you ain’t. Anyway, she’s not my Mrs
yet
.’
‘Aye, aye. Do I detect the smell of marriage?’
Nick smiled coyly. He was useless at keeping secrets. He also knew what it felt like to finally be in love. Okay, he and Abi argued a bit, but who didn’t? Anyway, it added spice to things and the ‘make up sex’ was amazing.
During the flight to Spain, Nick had glanced round at his fellow stags, most of them married, realising that he was nearly thirty and still acting the court jester. Good old Nick. Always up for a laugh. Well, he wanted more than that. He wanted a wife and kids, like his brother. Jeez, he was half-Italian, it was expected, or so his mother kept telling him. And Abi was certainly ‘long term’.
Thoughts of his late father entered Nick’s brain. He’d have loved Abi’s zest for life, her raucous laugh, her mint-green convertible Beetle.
‘So have you bought the ring yet?’ Deano yelled, hauling him back to reality. ‘We could have a double stag do.’
‘Yeah, right! Don’t go mouthing off about me and Abi. Come on, let’s get a burger, I’m starving.’
They headed out onto the paseo maritimo, home to the main strip of bars and clubs in Fuengirola. If their first night was anything to go by, it would be another heavy one. They’d crawled in at five a.m., after ending up in some dodgy back street pole-dancing club. Abi would flip if she found out. Still, no doubt she was ripping it up in York. As was Rebecca, hopefully. Poor cow could do with a good laugh, being married to that stuck-up tosser.
Chapter Six
Rebecca and Abi felt so full up that evening that not even the home-made chocolate chunks served with their coffee could tempt them. The menu had been mouth-watering. Rebecca had never tasted beef so tender and, after sampling the orange soufflé, declared the chef should be knighted.
The dining room, simply named The Manor, was elegantly furnished in gold and green, with marble pillars gracing the entrance and crystal chandeliers that made the ones in the lobby look microscopic. One side of the room, entirely glass fronted, gave view to a paved courtyard strewn with fairy lights and lined with privet trees in rustic terracotta pots for those wishing to dine alfresco.
Rebecca and Abi had missed out on this option but, with the bonus of a table to themselves, were happy to eat inside where they’d been greeted by a statuesque brunette, dressed from head to toe in black velvet, who’d seated them, before entrusting them to the resident and highly professional maître d’.
‘Well, that was superb,’ said Abi, adjusting the button on her blue silk trousers. ‘I’ll
Nick rolled sideways off the bed, wincing; his back red raw with sunburn where he’d fallen asleep by the pool earlier without oiling up. He stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray – stark evidence, along with the strewn clothes and empty San Miguel bottles, that he was sharing the apartment with three other blokes – before skidding across the beer-soaked tiles into the shower.
Dressed and good to go ten minutes later in jeans and his red England polo shirt, he dabbed on some of his Calvin Klein aftershave and checked himself in the mirror. Not bad, considering how rough he felt.
‘Vain bastard,’ said Deano, slapping the top of Nick’s near-shaven head.
‘Says he with the bleached hair and ponsey pink shirt on. At least I look like a bloke,’ said Nick, flexing his tattooed arms in defiance.
‘Nothing wrong with this shirt.’ Deano smoothed down the front of it. ‘Your Mrs raved over it when I wore it to that do in Greenwich last month. How you ever managed to pull a stunner like Abigail, I’ll never know.’
Nick flashed him a toothy smile. ‘Well, as they say, Deano, my old mate, you’ve either got it, or you ain’t. Anyway, she’s not my Mrs
yet
.’
‘Aye, aye. Do I detect the smell of marriage?’
Nick smiled coyly. He was useless at keeping secrets. He also knew what it felt like to finally be in love. Okay, he and Abi argued a bit, but who didn’t? Anyway, it added spice to things and the ‘make up sex’ was amazing.
During the flight to Spain, Nick had glanced round at his fellow stags, most of them married, realising that he was nearly thirty and still acting the court jester. Good old Nick. Always up for a laugh. Well, he wanted more than that. He wanted a wife and kids, like his brother. Jeez, he was half-Italian, it was expected, or so his mother kept telling him. And Abi was certainly ‘long term’.
Thoughts of his late father entered Nick’s brain. He’d have loved Abi’s zest for life, her raucous laugh, her mint-green convertible Beetle.
‘So have you bought the ring yet?’ Deano yelled, hauling him back to reality. ‘We could have a double stag do.’
‘Yeah, right! Don’t go mouthing off about me and Abi. Come on, let’s get a burger, I’m starving.’
They headed out onto the paseo maritimo, home to the main strip of bars and clubs in Fuengirola. If their first night was anything to go by, it would be another heavy one. They’d crawled in at five a.m., after ending up in some dodgy back street pole-dancing club. Abi would flip if she found out. Still, no doubt she was ripping it up in York. As was Rebecca, hopefully. Poor cow could do with a good laugh, being married to that stuck-up tosser.
Chapter Six
Rebecca and Abi felt so full up that evening that not even the home-made chocolate chunks served with their coffee could tempt them. The menu had been mouth-watering. Rebecca had never tasted beef so tender and, after sampling the orange soufflé, declared the chef should be knighted.
The dining room, simply named The Manor, was elegantly furnished in gold and green, with marble pillars gracing the entrance and crystal chandeliers that made the ones in the lobby look microscopic. One side of the room, entirely glass fronted, gave view to a paved courtyard strewn with fairy lights and lined with privet trees in rustic terracotta pots for those wishing to dine alfresco.
Rebecca and Abi had missed out on this option but, with the bonus of a table to themselves, were happy to eat inside where they’d been greeted by a statuesque brunette, dressed from head to toe in black velvet, who’d seated them, before entrusting them to the resident and highly professional maître d’.
‘Well, that was superb,’ said Abi, adjusting the button on her blue silk trousers. ‘I’ll
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