beer might just save my life,’ croaks the lithe, brown one with messy black hair. Damian is Poppy’s long-term boyfriend, and they couldn’t be more compatible. As a journalist on a men’s magazine he is the epitome of the work-hard, play-hard lifestyle that suits my friend so well. And if ever the reams of misogynistic drivel he is required to churn out for work start creeping into his extracurricular chat, Poppy pulls him up short pretty sharpish.
They make a fine-looking couple, I reflect, not for the first time, as Poppy opens a bottle of San Miguel and takes it over to him, crouching down to ruffle his hair and give him a kiss. Damian has his half-Indian heritage to thank for his permanent stubble and soulful dark eyes, hidden, at the moment, by a pair of classic Ray-Bans. The other half is Welsh, and the unlikely sounding genetic combination has proved a winner. Poppy has chosen her Missoni string bikini with typical nous. Its zigzag stripes of emerald, lime, khaki and aqua add curves to her slender frame and enhance her green eyes. Despite the heavy night, she is the picture of health and vitality. ‘Beer, Ben?’ she asks. ‘Or does the Pope shit in the woods?’
‘Cheers babe.’ Ben drags himself into a sitting position. I try not to gawp.
Ben Jones is probably the most gorgeous specimen of manhood I have ever laid eyes on. A classically trained actor, he supplements his fluctuating income with the odd modelling stint (as you do), his full pouty lips, high cheekbones and long-lashed blue eyes lending themselves perfectly to preppy Gap-style advertising campaigns. He and Damian were at school together, so I’ve known him for as long as Poppy’s been with Damian, which must be getting on for … Jesus, nearly five years now. And even after nearly five years, it’s sometimes hard to believe that I count this Adonis amongst my closest friends; in fact it’s sometimes hard to believe that I count any of these people amongst my closest friends. But I’ll come back to that later.
‘So what happened after I left last night?’ he asks us all. Unusually for him, Ben left early last night as his nightmare current squeeze, an Australian model called Kimberly, wanted to get her beauty sleep (and presumably her fill of Ben, lucky bitch).
Both Alisons sit up straighter, I notice. Fuck it, who am I trying to kid? I sit up straighter, and pull my tummy in too.
Poppy starts to laugh. ‘Good question. Who do you want to hear about first, Mark or Bella?’
‘Start with Mark please,’ I say, getting to my feet. Joining Poppy at the bar, I pour myself a large gin and tonic and light the first fag of the day.
‘Christ, Mark’s a dick,’ says Poppy, and we all laugh.
Mark is the art director on Damian’s magazine, all shaved head, biceps bulging out of racer-back vests and crotch attempting to thrust through the flies of his Diesel jeans. On anybody less pulsating with testosterone, this would look gayer than Elton and ‘my partner David Furnish’ on a campsite in Mykonos. Mark presides over shoots of naked women and says things like, ‘Man, Kelly’s minge is sweet’ without shame. It pains me to admit that I find him extremely sexy.
‘Yes, he really excelled himself last night, didn’t he?’ I say. ‘What would be your reaction, Ben, to eighteen-year-old Brazilian twins?’
‘Fuck me!’ Ben chokes on his beer. ‘Lucky bastard. Where did he find them?’
‘Pacha, of course. The last we saw of him, the three of them were heading off, arm-in-arm, to the marina, making for the girls’ parents’ yacht.’
‘They were bloody fit,’ says Damian. Poppy sighs patiently.
‘They were eighteen, darling. And Mark is thirty-two. Don’t you think it’s a tad pathetic?’ Poppy is lucky enough never to have suffered from jealousy. I suppose she’s so secure in her own achievements and beauty that it’s never been an issue. Which is more than you can say for me.
‘I really hope their father – who I am assuming, with my penchant for racial stereotyping, has a macho and fiery Latin temperament – catches Mark in the act with his darling daughters,’ she muses.
‘You messa with my bambinas, I cut offa your cojones,’ I add, and everybody laughs, even the Alisons. I glance over at Ben. Christ, he’s gorgeous.
‘So what did you get up to then, Bella?’ he asks. I sigh theatrically, trying to mask the shyness that used to be so incapacitating and which still occasionally rears its ugly head at entirely inopportune moments. Like at job interviews, or when talking to handsome men. I deal with it by drinking more than is seemly (not at job interviews), hanging out with people way cooler than me and hoping some of their attitude will rub off. But, deep down, I’ve a strong suspicion I’ll always be a bit of a loser.
‘It was my favourite dress.’
‘That short white lacy number you had on last night? Yes, it looked great on you. Really showed off your tan.’ He noticed what I was wearing? Result! ‘So what happened to it?’
‘Well …’ I’m starting to feel a bit sheepish now, as I don’t want Ben to think I’m a complete slag, even though he is by no means Mr Whiter-Than-White himself.
‘It’s classic,’ says Damian, grinning. His teeth are dazzlingly white against his brown skin. ‘Come on Belles, spill.’
‘OK then. I met this American guy – can’t even remember his name now …’
‘It was Randy,’ says Poppy. ‘Can’t believe you’ve forgotten that bit.’
‘Oh God, yes, of course! I can’t believe I’ve forgotten that bit either. Anyway, Randy and I decided to go to the loo for a line, and while we were in there we had a quick snog. In the course of the snogging, my dress came off – I did not shag him, by the way …’
‘Of course not,’ mutters Skinny Alison and Poppy glares at her.
‘I didn’t. Anyway, by the time we were ready to go back and have another drink, I looked on the floor and my dress was gone. Someone must have put their hand under the partition from the next cubicle and pinched it. I mean, really – what on earth would possess you?’
‘Was it the Ladies or Gents?’ asks Ben. Such a pertinent question makes me go all gooey.
‘The Gents. Not sure if that makes it better or worse. It must have been some sort of prank, rather than a random opportunistic cheapskate stalking me and thinking I really really must have that dress – fab though it was. Ha-ha very fucking funny.’
‘Actually it is,’ says Damian. ‘And you never know, transvestism isn’t unknown in Ibiza.’
I ignore him.
‘Anyway, I was stranded in my bra and knickers, so had to get Randy to go and alert the bar staff to my plight. They all thought it was bloody hilarious, but the barmaid did lend me a towel, which I fashioned into a mini toga and wore for the rest of the night. No one batted an eyelid, of course.’
‘Excellent stuff,’ says Ben. ‘What happened to Randy?’
‘Dunno – I lost him in the crowds.’
‘Poor bloke, he’s probably brokenhearted.’ I glance up suspiciously. Is he taking the piss? Ben simply doesn’t do gratuitous compliments. Not towards me, at any rate.
‘Hi guys,’ coos a breathy voice from the direction of the French windows. ‘How’s it going?’
Nearly six feet tall, with curly, almost ringleted auburn hair and even whiter teeth than Damian, Kimberly likes to make an entrance. Now she poses languidly for a second, allowing us to take in the length of her legs, before slinking across the terrace towards Ben. He leaps to his feet.
‘Drink, darling?’
‘Ew, no!’ She wrinkles her retroussé nose in disgust. ‘I can’t believe you’re all drinking in the sun? Don’t you know how dehydrating it is? Your skin’s not going to thank you, babe.’ She gives a little tinkly laugh and I want to punch her. Her skin is an unlikely bronze spattered with tiny freckles.