Page 28 of The Ghost of Exes Past

‘He can’t see us,’ I say.

‘I know,’ she whispers back.

But we both stay down anyway, as Vik reaches his long arm behind him, hand sweeping the floor for the whisky. I watch it for a second, his hand getting closer, then stick my foot out and nudge the bottle across to Belle’s side of the car floor, just out of reach. His fingers just find a crumby carpet instead. He gives up after a moment and turns back to the wheel.

Belle twists to face me. ‘Okay, show’s over. On to the next?’

‘Honestly, I’d rather get a replay of that instead.’

Ignoring me, she continues, ‘I’ve counted, and we’ve still got five more to get through before Timothy. Before I can go back and marry Timothy.’

I notice the way she corrects herself there. Did she almost forget the fact that she’s marrying him? I don’t say anything, but I notice.

‘Five more?’ I smirk. ‘Hope they’re all as good as this one.’

‘Didn’t you just vomit?’

‘I could throw up again just from laughing at that tragic scene.’

‘Hold my hands, you dick. On to the next.’

Nathaniel Hope

Belle’s eyes are shut. Head thrown back. Breeze skimming her skin. Her hair is draped over her shoulders, stuck across her back with sweat and sun cream. One hand points to the sky, where the sun is pressing down, bleaching everything white. A piña colada is clutched in her other hand and, as she sways, the condensation drips down from her glass, along the now freckled skin of her arm, and lands on her sunburned shoulders. Her body moves to its own beat, without her mind interfering. Without caring what people think.

She cracks her eyes open as one song bleeds into the next and she shimmies towards Molly, who mirrors her movements. They dance together, in time to the heavy bass. Molly clutches Belle’s free hand and leans in, shouting over the music. ‘That guy, there, the fit one, he’s checking you out.’ Rachael and Daniela hear this and swing round, using their hands as binoculars to spot him.

Belle flaps her hand at them, laughing, and glances around as Molly motions to the bar behind her. Belle slides her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose and lowers her chin. Tall, glistening, an actual Adonis – and he’s already smiling at her. He raises his glass with a slow, confident dip of the head, and she raises hers back, smiling, like she’d been expecting him.

The girls form a line behind her, watching. He pats his friend on the back and starts making his way confidently through the crowd, unhurried, towards the blonde dancing at the centre of it.

‘Would it be too forward to say that I can’t take my eyes off of you?’ He reaches down to say it into her ear, close enough that she can feel the warmth of him, his breath tickling her neck.

Her girls have already melted away, exchanging looks over their shoulders, mouths aghast as they go, barely containing themselves. Belle doesn’t watch them leave, she’s too busy processing the accent, which is rough and warm and charming.

‘A London boy?’ Belle flutters her lashes, finding herself a little lost in his dark brown eyes.

‘Brixton. Yourself?’ He grins, unable to stop himself, his teeth stark white against his dark skin.

‘Ah, I’m East London, this could never work …’ she flirts.

‘I’d ride to the end of the Victoria line for you.’

‘Wow. True love. Although the Central line would be the real test.’

The sun drops lower, turning the sea amber. Belle’s glass goes from empty to full, to empty again. The groups have merged now and a full dance battle is underway. The girls are pulling out all the stops. Rachael backs everyone away to clear a circle and, on cue, Daniela worms across the floor – her party trick. The girls whoop, the boys cheer, high-fiving Daniela once she’s taken a bow in the centre.

Belle, meanwhile, grinds against Nat, his hands around her waist. Then he grabs her hand and bows, like he’s asking her to dance at a ball. She curtsies and lets him lead her into the centre of the circle, where he spins her around with ease – the hot sea air catching her hair – before pulling her in with a kiss. The girls lose their shit at this; the screaming is feral.

She melts into it, without caring about the many eyes watching – his lips are soft, the kiss is good, and she chooses to ignore the fact that his breath tastes of sour milk. Like too much beer. Mixed with wine. Mixed with rum.

With her hands around his neck, she nibbles his lips, feeling his grip on her waist grow tighter. He groans into her mouth and she pulls back, her smile naughty and wanting. Around them the crowd has closed back in, everyone dancing, nobody paying attention anymore – except the girls, who are still ogling.

‘You’re trouble, y’know that?’ he whispers into her ear.

She shrugs playfully, still swaying her hips.

‘Do you want to go somewhere a little more private with me, Belle?’