He laughs but he’s secretly really pleased with that. He replies that he likes her lack of tan. She is auburn-haired and mostly tries to avoid the sun altogether. She tells him that a tan is not something she covets anymore…
‘I’m working hard on being happy just the way I am,’ she says.
‘I’m the right bloke to teach you how,’ he says, looking around the garden. ‘Know why?’
‘Why?’
‘Cos I’m already happy with just the way you are.’
It doesn’t entirely make sense and is the kind of line Zack might describe as ‘weak chat’. He’s called Lance out on that kind of thing before. But Dawn seems to like it just fine.
She places her hand on Lance’s large, gleaming arm and nods her head to the pounding bassline of the dreamy music coming from the speakers on the other side of the garden, as she looks into his eyes.
*
Tommy’s head hits the lounger, while his body, some metres above, leans limp, halfway out of the Love Nest window. That private camera-less room the couples have to be voted into to spend the night in.
Every other member of the villa hears the sound and stops instantly.
The sound of the head hitting the taut material of the lounger caused the comfortable orange polyester to vibrate like a drum. And if the first noise hadn’t drawn their attention, the following bounce back onto the patio slabs definitely would’ve. That heavy thump and tumble, that squelch, both dry and wet, as Tommy’s head slowly rolls to rest.
‘What the shit was that?’ shouts Justine through the bathroom window above, as Roberto appears next to her.
On the decking, Liv pushes back her hair, a cigarette frozen between her red lips, as Sly and Summer dash past the pool, screaming as if there was anyone within hearing distance that might make this situation any better.
But Dawn’s howls eclipse even theirs, as she gathers her quaking alabaster limbs, moving closer to what she slowly realises is the worst possible thing that could be lying directly in front of her.
The brutal sun drenches Zack as he sees it, having wandered back outside from the darkness of the diary room; his knees buckle underneath him as his gaze meets Tommy’s vacant eyes.
Lance, taking a more direct and less scream-y route towards Tommy’s head, quells the other villa dwellers as he approaches like he knows exactly what to do in scenarios such as this. He bends over the head of the best friend he had in this place. The most ‘together geezer in here’, he claimed yesterday, though, of course, the subsequent irony of that statement has inevitably passed him by. With his middle finger and thumb, as softly as he might touch butterfly wings, he pushes Tommy’s eyelids shut.
Meanwhile, two floors up, Tommy’s feet dangle two inches above the terracotta tiles of the Love Nest, his torso cantilevered against the window ledge, his headless body leaning half in, half out of the villa, having found that perfect balance point, like a can of fizzy drink just full enough to lean on its rim.
It can be assumed that Tommy’s head has been given assistance in finding itself two floors from his body. As cutting one’s own head off is not only an unusual method of leaving the villa and this fragile existence, but, certainly in this case, physically impossible due to the force required to sever one’s own spine just below the cranium.
Tabitha, in the pool, barely sees the shadows, having imagined the whack to be something to do with Zack larking about with that watermelon again. The sun swells above her. The feet that beat the grass and concrete, and even the cries of her new friends, are dampened and blurred by the water that engulfs her ears.
She contemplates that strange thing Tommy said to her just before lunch.
Tommy: Before
He hugs his little sister one last time. Tommy’s mum, stepdad and sister Scout say their farewells before he passes through customs, tearfully putting his laptop into the grey X-ray container, but forgetting to take his change out of his pocket, then forgetting to take off his belt, then forgetting his house keys are in his back pocket, then realising he has put his change back in his pocket.
The whole episode takes a full four attempts, so many in fact that he hears one of the suited officials mutter the word ‘suspicious’.
Which only serves to prove that they do not know Tommy. A man who, four years ago, at the tender age of 18 and bereft of his house keys decided to barge down the back door of his Edinburgh family home using only his shoulder and a short run-up. It took him eleven separate attacks. And when the door did give way it was due to his understanding stepfather opening it, who was rather less understanding the next day when he saw the damage Tommy had done to the door jamb. Particularly as one minute after opening it, Tommy realised that his house keys were in his back pocket the whole time.
If looks could strangle.
This same look greets Tommy like an old friend as the customs lady brushes his person with some contraption that he believes is intended to remove lint from his designer polo shirt. He decides to soothe her in the usual manner, by offering his pearly whites and that resonant voice of his. ‘Sorry, I’m excited, I’m going on Sex on the Beach, you know.’
But she must be one of the few people in Britain who haven’t heard of it, because with a tilt of her head she ushers him away without so much as an ‘oh my god, oh my god, oh my god’.
He fares rather better with the pink-haired girl at the coffee shop:
‘Hi, I’m Tommy, can I have a coffee I’m going on Sex on the Beach, you know.’
While she doesn’t appear to believe him, she still gifts him with a free flat white, which is lucky because the only money he has with him – the change his mother gave him – is currently sitting in a grey tray on the other side of the scanners where he left it.
The pink-haired girl even seems to have written his name on the coffee cup. But why? Is it flirting? Best not to smash one on her straight away as he normally would, Tommy tells himself. Keep your powder dry early, son, his stepdad has advised him. The airport would certainly be too soon.
The woman with the fringe at the currency exchange seems like she might be of use too. And he notes she’s particularly taken with his accent – he’s become adept at noticing that – as he runs his hand across his close-cut bottle-blonde hair and says:
‘Could you help me out with some money? I’m going on Sex on the Beach, you know.’
‘Really?’ she says, eyebrows raised and voice climbing.
‘I’m no’ beggin’. I’ll give you some money, for the money.’
‘I mean, you’re really going on Sex on the Beach?’ she says.
‘You’ve heard of it?’
‘Of course I’ve heard of it. Really?’
Tommy wonders how much longer her saying ‘really’ will go on for. He got up at 3.30 a.m. and doesn’t have much oomph left in
