Page 31

Chapter Sixteen

The warm air hits my face as soon as I step off the plane and I know that I am exactly where I need to be.

Marshall’s affirmation: ‘I’m in the moment, I am the moment’ comes back to me as I disembark the plane, attempting to embody the aura of Grace Kelly (and not trip down the steps).

I’m only on the airport tarmac and already I feel more expensive, like the oxygen here consists of particles of gold and I’m just inhaling it all in.

I want to yell out “Monaco, are you ready for meeeeeeeee” with arms outstretched, awaiting some hot French man to come running into them, ready to swoop me up off my feet, fling me over his shoulder and feed me oysters.

Except they’re gross and would make me spew.

Maybe some perfectly flaky croissant instead?

Though I’d only eat a very small portion, of course.

Damn, why am I letting my diet infiltrate my fantasies?

That’s not how it works. In my fantasy I can eat a whole banquet and my new body would still be as sculpted as it is now.

There’s a lovely old man, with a big white moustache (a trustworthy moustache, I decide) waiting for me at arrivals, with my name scrawled on a board.

“The beautiful Angelica,” he says. “I’ve been waiting for you,” and even though he’s pushing seventy and I am slightly worried when he insists on carrying my cases, as he seems close to toppling over, I am charmed, and even a little turned on. I text Madison and Layla.

Even the old guys here are hot.

My phone pings back straight away. It’s Madison.

Argh I can’t wait to arrive, my clit’s tingling just thinking about all the dick there.

I’m oiled up and ready! (For the sunshine) (and the men) Lx

They’ve both been invited separately, by different brands.

It seems like the entire reality TV circuit is here.

Hayley from Carry on Chelmsford was on my plane and even said she’s going to come over to my hotel room this afternoon and give me a free va-glimmer.

I’ve already shaved down there (it was like battling through jungle bushes, it had been a while, what with the post-op recovery and all) and she’s going to apply sparkly gems, which is the latest thing, apparently.

I can choose from shapes, like cherries, strawberries or a heart or words.

I think I’ll go for words. Maybe lucky boy, or even something in French, adjusting to the culture and all that.

Pulling up at my hotel is like pulling up at a palace.

Despite it being so central and only a short walk away from the marina, there’s this long driveway and the door is framed by two carved pillars, and stepping into the marble lobby I feel like an old-school Hollywood movie star.

I’m wearing little black shorts and a vest, and I’ve already had three proper panics that I’ve lost my cases, but Antonio my driver has handed everything across to the hotel porters.

He blows me a kiss and tells me he will be my personal driver for the whole time I am here, so whenever I need him, I’m just to drop him a text.

I’ve never had a personal driver before!

Well, apart from when I nicknamed my dad my personal driver as he collected me and my friends so much from town in the middle of the night, when no taxis would take us because we were too hammered. But I don’t think that counts.

I’m absolutely itching to get to my room and see what it’s like.

No matter where I stay, whether it’s a cheapie one (I’ve paid for myself) or an expensive one (when works books the hotel) I love to get in, run around squealing and then jump up and down on the bed for a while.

It’s tradition. But it’s so fancy here that they sit me on this deep purple sofa with a gold tasseled trim and give me an actual glass of champagne, not prosecco, while they check me in.

I’m even given a little plate of strawberries to nibble on.

I try not to eat them too quickly, so that I look classy and like I am given little plates of strawberries to nibble on all the time.

Once I’m all checked in, they give me a tour of the hotel, showing me the cute little secluded courtyard where breakfast will be served and the library, where all these beautiful people are just lounging around reading ginormous newspapers while drinking from teeny tiny coffee cups.

My room, instead of having a key card, has an actual big brass key and as I’m shown around I keep repeating “wow, wow, wow” while swallowing my squeals of delight under my breath.

It’s the most incredible room I’ve ever seen, never mind stayed in.

Room isn’t even the right word, as technically it’s four different rooms in one.

There’s a hallway, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors that magically slide open to reveal a huge wardrobe space and mini bar (I’ll be raiding that later) and the hallway leads into my very own living room, complete with a balcony that opens out onto the bustling square below, with a view that stretches all the way to the ocean.

The sea just glimmers with possibility, I can’t believe I’m here!

They’ve laid out a bottle of champagne for me in an ice bucket, and a cute little card welcoming me to the hotel.

Then there’s double doors that open, to a – and I kid-you-not – FOUR-POSTER BED.

It even has curtains! It is exactly the kind of room little me imagined a palace would look like when I would play dress-up as a girl.

“I really am a princess!” I say, unable to hide my excitement which makes the porter smile, he’s got these cute sparkling brown eyes and the most incredible tan.

“If they bottled your tan, I would buy it,” I said to him earlier, but he didn’t really understand what I was saying.

The bathroom is all marble and the bath, he shows me, has a button that pours water to the exact right temperature alongside jacuzzi jets in four different settings.

“Anything you need, Miss Angelica, you call us,” he says.

“I can’t think of anything else I would possibly need,” I say. “This is amazing!”

I’m sure that, from the other side of the door, he hears the excitable scream I let out as soon as he leaves. I throw myself onto the bed, hoping that a man will be the one throwing me on it soon. This new body needs road-testing! And a gorgeous mediterranean man is surely perfect for the job.

It’s very, very difficult not to scratch at my crotch-stubble as I stand on the jetty looking at the boats bobbing on the glittering surface a couple of hours later.

I forgot all about that freshly-shaved fanny itch, but – hopefully – it’ll all be worth it.

Hayley’s adorned me, I opted for ‘hello lover’ in cursive font, in fake diamonds, and, surely, there will be someone on this yacht I’m heading to, who will untie my bikini bottoms and have their dirty way with me.

That’s not too much to ask, is it? But first, to get to the big boat, I have to get into a little speed boat, captained by a lady named Mary who, from the outside, looks not-to-be-messed-with.

But as soon as she cracks a smile I know I am in safe hands, plus I swear that’s a northern twang in her accent.

“Mary, I don’t mean to be rude, but I wouldn’t have expected—”

“—a woman my age to be driving a dinghy? I probably wouldn’t have either, my love.

And yes, normally it’s the young lads who are doing these back and forths.

” Her accent is broad, Mancunian. “Long story short, I fell in love with an Italian man, oooh many years ago now, then I fell in love with this place, and with the ocean. I swapped Moss Side for Monaco and I’ve not looked back.

The man, well, he left but my love for the sea remained.

I said to the captains I’d do anything they needed me to, odd jobs here and there, sometimes it’s cooking, sometimes it’s cleaning but, when I’m very lucky it’s this.

Whizzing the beautiful people, like yourself, to the yachts and back. ”

“That’s sad, about the man.”

“Did you not listen properly?” she says, revving the engine up. “My life’s perfect. Have enough men, as I have,” she cackles. “And you’ll soon learn they’re not worth the heartache.”

“I think I’m nearly there on that lesson,” I say, thinking of Damon. I’m trying to only remember the bad stuff, and erase all of the good. It’s better that way.

“Now, tell me, are you all on your lonesome?”

“I don’t actually know,” I say, but as soon as I do the boat starts rocking violently from side to side.

“Tally ho, watch out,” I hear, booming from above us.

Then, there’s a penis in my face. Well, a penis covered in skintight Kermit-the-frog green speedos.

Followed by a toned, tanned stomach, and then there’s strong arms holding me.

Is this my Italian/French/Greek god? Only the arms aren’t holding me as such, more using me for balance as the owner of said arms climbs into the dinghy, and with the boat rocking this much I’m not much of a balancing aid.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Mary asks the figure who has now successfully landed in the boat, after almost knocking me into the water in the process. I’m gripping the side of the boat trying to steady myself as I listen to our skipper address the idiot. “Did you not think to ask for help?”