Page 8

‘It’s all good. New home, new job, new chapter…’ I tell the sisters.

‘And new wanger. Plenty of it in Spain, I’m sure,’ Lucy adds, returning to the table.

Grace rolls her eyes, hitting Lucy round the head. ‘Lovely. I am sure that’s what Suzie needs.’ She looks over at me. ‘Ignore her, take your time. When your heart is broken, you don’t need wanger to fill the cracks.’

Lucy cackles as Beth chokes on her drink. ‘Her cracks? Grace, you filthy mare.’

Grace tries to look unimpressed without breaking into a smile.

Has the thought crossed my mind? The last four months have sometimes felt like some strange fever dream but sex and love has been lacking.

So much so that there have been times where I have thought about jumping on Tinder, opening myself up again to the possibility of love.

Is my fragile heart ready though? Maybe the safer option is daytime drinking, lying on a sun lounger, taking in all that vitamin D and admiring my tan lines each evening in the mirror.

Lucy continues. ‘One thing at a time. We don’t have to find you a boyfriend yet. Just lose yourself in…’

‘Wanger?’ I reply.

‘Orgasms, intimacy with someone who’s not a tosspot.’ Lucy grabs on to my arm and rests her head on my shoulder. ‘It’s a holiday, Suze. A chance for regeneration, to find your mojo again. All that sun and heat, just lap it all up – let loose, go wild.’

‘You make her sound like a farmyard animal on the rampage,’ Beth tells her.

‘A stroke and a pet, it’s all you need,’ Meg adds dryly, as we all laugh over our collective drinks.

‘Ooh, we could all do yoni sunning?’ Grace, Beth and Meg look curiously at Lucy.

It’s clear she’s relishing the chance to have her sisters all to herself, without kids and partners tagging along.

In the WhatsApp trip chat, all her planned suggestions included everything from quad biking to matching tattoos to a fire-eating workshop in the mountains.

‘Explain,’ Meg says curtly.

‘We get our vags out for a sunbathe. It’s good for you, gets all that light on the labia, it boosts hormone production and energy.’

I laugh under my breath whilst the sisters look on at her, unimpressed .

‘No,’ Meg says, firmly.

‘Are you worried you can’t find yours?’ Lucy asks, cocking her head to one side. Meg shakes her head at the absolute cheek of it all. ‘It would be a moment of releasing all our feminine energy and power into the world. Look at me, World, I’m forty.’

‘I can just say that aloud. I don’t need to have my legs akimbo and minge to the sun to prove that,’ Meg argues. Grace and Beth lean on each other to control their laughter. ‘There’s no sunscreen factor strong enough for that. I don’t want a burnt taco on holiday.’

‘Who’s burnt their tacos?’ Emma says returning to the table, curiously. ‘Who orders tacos at five in the morning?’

Grace is crying with laughter at this point.

‘Oh no, Luce wants us to sun our lady bits on holiday so we can bond,’ Meg tells her.

Emma stares at Lucy and then walks away again.

‘It’s your sacred space. You all need to recharge it, reconnect with your life force,’ she lectures us.

Grace and Beth stare at each other, eyes rolling to hear Lucy start to go all new-age on them.

Lucy is just a freer spirit, she’s pierced and tattooed and has never settled down, her focus simply on loving herself, her journey in life.

We could all learn something from her. ‘I just want you to use this space to let go a little.’

‘I was planning to do that via cheap wine,’ Meg informs us.

‘But just…this holiday, don’t do that thing where you walk around in a bloody one-piece swimming costume, worried about what you look like. Rule one. No fucking kaftans.’

‘I like a kaftan,’ Beth says.

‘No, you hide under kaftans, sarongs, sundresses. Beach cover-ups? Have you noticed, they don’t have those for men?

Men never have to cover up. They can let their bowling ball paunches and hairy cracks hang out for the world to see but women are never allowed the same luxury.

They tell us we have to hide.’ This is the Lucy we all know and love – the little sister powerhouse energy.

‘You’re all fucking beautiful. You’ve given me nieces and nephews, used your bodies in the most marvellous ways, you’ve all endured so much.

And for god’s sake, we’re in a villa. There’ll be no one about.

So please, get your tits, your yonis, all your bits out. Get the sun on them. That’s rule two.’

‘And are you going to help me put aftersun down there when I burn and it goes all pink and crisp like bacon?’ Meg asks, grinning because behind Lucy’s forthright ranting, there is only love and wanting to raise us all up.

‘Always. I’ll buy cucumbers and we’ll stick them in the freezer,’ Lucy tells her. ‘I’ll get a big one for you, I know you like girth.’

Meg flares her nostrils trying not to laugh. ‘Well, maybe we’ll trade that for the night trip you have planned to Shagaluf, I don’t mind saying that I really am too old for that shit.’

‘We can negotiate,’ Lucy says, mischief still dancing in her eyes as she winks at me.

I laugh to myself because looking at all this family, all this banter, all this shared history in front of me tells me this holiday may be exactly what I need.

And with that, a waiter appears at our table.

‘Two fried breakfasts?’ We all look down as he pushes them in front of us. I look down at two shrivelled bits of bacon and catch Beth’s eye over the table as we all burst into fits of uncontrollable giggles.

Charlie

‘STAG! STAG! STAG! STAG!’

The chanting is all quite ritualistic and gets louder, more offensive to families on other tables whilst the man of the hour, the intended, the stag, downs a pint messily, slams the glass down on the table and puts his hands into the air, swirling his body around like he’s hula-hooping without a hoop, all whilst wearing a very snug and ill-fitting Hulk costume.

It really is a shame that the stag happens to be Max, my brother.

‘I am so sorry…’ I whisper to a family of four near us. ‘Can I pay for another round of coffees maybe?’ I feel they would take me more seriously if I wasn’t dressed like Aldi Iron Man.

‘Iron Man has a beard…and a moustache,’ the young boy at the table tells me, judgementally. I don’t know how to tell you this, kid, but I shaved mine all off after I broke up with Krystal.

‘I know. I apologise for not keeping it more authentic. Thor is in a wig if that helps, that’s not his real hair.

’ This gets a rise from the kids that seems to calm their parents, given the amount of swearing and sexual anecdotes flying around.

At this time of morning, I’m not sure anyone needs to hear about the time Dave had a threesome at Butlin’s with a couple of lifeguards.

‘Who’s getting married?’ the mother asks.

I point to my brother. We really should have invested more money in that costume as the Velcro is giving him issues and the fake muscular trousers make him look like he’s got three massive testicles hanging in between his legs. ‘He’s my little brother.’

‘And the Avengers theme?’ the father asks. Was decided on a WhatsApp group chat. It went to many polls, of many terrible suggestions from lederhosen to Smurfs to Baywatch lifeguards until we settled on Avengers because of my brother’s infamous teen years where he dyed his hair bright green.

‘Was not my idea. My idea was normal clothes at the airport so we’d stand a chance of actually getting on the plane.’

The dad smiles. ‘To…?’

‘Mallorca,’ I say. You see both of his shoulders drop with relief to know they are on a flight somewhere else, away from us stags.

‘Batman is also not an Avenger,’ the little boy tells me, annoyed by the amateur nature of how we are representing these superheroes. I mean, there’s also a man in a black leather catsuit and fake boobs dressed as Black Widow. I hope he’s not clocked him yet.

‘I know, right?’ I say, shaking my head.

‘Again, I’m very sorry for the interruption to your morning.

’ The dad looks at the crowd of men in fancy dress and puts an arm around his boy.

It’s a look that says: I did that once and now I have this, and I really don’t mind it that much. I smile to see it.

Two giant green hands suddenly land on my shoulders.

‘CHARLIE!’ Max yodels. Lordy, he’s bladdered.

I hope we can get him on the flight. He hugs me from behind as I try and shuffle away from the family of four.

I didn’t encourage the drinking; that was all his friends who seem to have been drip-feeding alcohol slowly and intentionally into his bloodstream since we arrived.

‘Maxi Pad. Just slow it down, man,’ I say, as he wraps his big green arms around me.

‘You never call me Maxi Pad anymore, Chuckles,’ he says, pouting. ‘You’re such a good big brother. I am so glad you’re here.’

So am I. I hadn’t planned on it. I’d been thinking of something sedate like golf and a curry for this stag do, but the plans evolved and I find myself here because I don’t trust many of Max’s friends.

Max has had the same friends since school; they’ve played football together and graced local pubs and nightclubs with their collective presence.

I’d be alright if I knew half their names but for years, they’ve all gone by the same nicknames that are either versions of their last names (Wrighty; Coops) or just passing observations that seem to have stuck.

I always thought Hawkeye across the way was called Gareth.

I only found out last year, his name is actually James.

He just looks like Gareth Southgate and it stuck.

‘Pace yourself. Please,’ I beg him.

‘I promise,’ he says, burping under his breath .