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Mucho Caliente
Excerpt
“MUCHO CALIENTE!”
Chapter one
It’s not. It can’t be. It bloody well can’t be! Oh my goodness; it is! It’s Latino heart-throb, Emilio Caliente! Why is someone like him sitting next to someone like me on this flight to Ibiza? He should be up front, behind the curtain, hidden away in first class. Why now? Why him? Why me? Without so much as a glance in my direction, he’s short-circuited weeks of life changing, positive affirmations. Hiding behind my hair, I clench my fists, shut my eyes and silently recite, ‘I’m a beautiful, intelligent, newly single woman and I’m taking control of my life.’ Yeah right. What a joke! I’m sweating. I’m fidgeting. I’m finger combing my hair back to life, smoothing my eyebrows and wishing I’d retouched my makeup before boarding.
Can’t he go away for a few minutes and come back when I’ve had time to pull myself together, both mentally and physically? Planes should have an emergency hatch with a twisty staircase from the passenger area down into the hold so that you can get to your suitcase, grab a change of clothes, a more appropriate pair of shoes, maybe even a change of underwear. There should be a decent sized bathroom with pink, soft-tone lights to flatter your complexion and boost your self confidence, not that vile, green, fluorescent glare that only emphasises your enlarged pores, your premature lines, your facial hair. There should be baskets of complimentary upmarket cosmetics, sample freebies of the greatest and latest scientific breakthroughs in moisturisers and makeup. Yes, even on a forty-minute flight from Barcelona to Ibiza. On this flight especially.
As it is, the bathroom has just been vacated by a podgy, sweaty, sick looking man and the thought of following in his footsteps does not appeal. I rummage through my bag, praying that I won’t accidentally pull out a bedraggled tampon instead of a bruised and battered lip gloss. I don’t usually look like this. Should I explain to him that, actually, I’m quite a babe, even if I’m old enough to be, if not his mother, then at least his big sister? I’m usually impeccable; it wasn’t me who spilled Coca-Cola on my white linen trousers, it was the woman sitting next to me on my previous flight from Geneva. Her fiery Iberian origins led to loss of body control once she got started on the subject of her exasperating Scandinavian daughter-in-law. As for my T-shirt, it seemed to possess that casual, worn-in look when I left home earlier today, whereas it’s clear to me now that it should have been retired months ago and used as a duster. What on earth was I thinking? Oh, thank goodness; here’s my lip gloss!
My lips taken care of, I fumble through the pocket of the seat in front of me, searching for an in-flight magazine, but there isn’t one. So I grab the emergency procedures card and start studying it with exaggerated interest, then get all flustered again, as though I’ve been caught reading the ‘Special K’ cereal package. What must he be thinking? I’m no first time flyer; I’m an air-sophisticate. I shake my long brown hair over my face and sneak a sideways glance at el divino, as the women’s glossies call him. Maybe it isn’t really him. Maybe I’ve just imagined the whole thing and that, in reality, seat 12B is occupied by an obnoxious lager lout with spots and halitosis.
But no. It’s him, pop music’s Latino superstar, looking a little dishevelled and not quite as glamorous as on his album covers, calendars and posters, and obviously wearing some kind of hastily thrown together disguise. But if the rest of the passengers of Iberia flight 243 to Ibiza are fooled by the navy blue baseball cap, the wraparound sunglasses and the prickly, chestnut coloured three-day beard, a connoisseur like myself is not. I am the princess of pop music, the FM queen. I know my popstars. It may seem sad that, at the ripe old age of 37, I’m still addicted to bubblegum music. At my age, most people seem to have either moved on to cooler, more sophisticated musical spheres or remained faithful to the likes of Céline Dion, Phil Collins and Sting. Not that I dislike Céline Dion, Phil Collins and Sting. They’re great. But when it comes to music, I’ll always be a teenybopper at heart. Boybands may be passé, but they still do it for me. I’m a sucker for cheesy harmonies and all those slick, over-choreographed, step-step-shrug moves. Crazy as it may sound, my taste in music was one of the ‘irreconcilable differences’ that destroyed my marriage. I think it was an overdose of step-step-shrug that finally pushed my husband a step too far. He went and dumped me for an older woman.
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