Page 30 of The Ghost of Exes Past

These girls, though, they are without a care in the world. No camera phones in sight, they dance truly like nobody’s watching. I watch as young Belle pulls an impressive slut drop to the floor, tongue in cheek, literally, with her friends cheering around her, whooping and hollering. I wonder if my knees could still do that now? They chant to the music, hand in hand.

This girl – younger me – stands out like a disco ball: shining bright, in a way that makes everyone around her catch the light too. Her skin isn’t bronzed but dusted in freckles; her bleached hair has grown out to sandy roots, an unintentional ombré she’d never have chosen deliberately, but that she’s grown to love. Thank God I finally ditched those bleach-at-home box-dye kits – they made my head itch like ants had taken up residence there.

I’m beaming at her, I realise. She’s still grieving, deep down, but underneath it all, she’s just present. Living for the moment. Chasing her dreams, not forgetting to make the most of every second along the way. My jaw is clenched – I find this out by unclenching it.

What is that? Jealousy? I’m jealous of myself, apparently. That’s new.

The girls are clinging to each other now, in a four-way bear hug, laughing as they go, and I find myself trying to remember the last time I danced like that with them. Not just the polite bopping you do at a work Christmas party when someone drags you to the dance floor after only two mulled wines. I reach for the memory but can’t find it; it must be further back than I expected. A birthday? Whose? I can’t remember.

Why did I decide not to do a hen party, again? Why would I miss an opportunity to have a proper, wild, and rite-of-passage send-off, with these queens by my side? I know the official answer: I was busy. Wedding planning is relentless if you’re doing it properly, which I was, mostly alone.

I remember thinking it wasn’t necessary. That a weekend trip would have meant more money and more time spent away from planning the actual dream day. More time off, plus logistics on top of logistics, so I just pushed it aside. That’s the excuse I gave Rachael, anyway, when she’d asked – the first, second, and third time. Then she’d stopped asking. Timothy had said that it all felt like a lot, too, given everything we had on. I actually think I might have been the one to say it first.

Either way, it feels like such a shame. I wanted one last hurrah with these girls. I wanted penis piñata, penis straws, penis sashes. I wanted the lot and I wanted it with them.

Younger me does a spin, grabs Daniela’s hands and they turn in a circle like they’re nine years old and playing ring-a-ring o’ roses, except to a Diplo track instead of a nursery rhyme.

I’m still trying to relax my jaw, actually massaging it with my palms now, as Jake hands me a drink. It’s bright pink and garish, with a layer of blue at the bottom and complete with an orange slice and straw.

‘Cheers,’ Jake says, raising his glass as well as his brows.

We clink glasses, very politely, which feels ridiculous given the setting. The drink tastes chemically sweet.

We stand still and sip for a moment, until a woman in a neon-yellow bikini walks past and does a double take at us – or rather, at our glasses: two garish drinks hovering in the crowd at chest height, occasionally tilting. She turns to her friend. We watch her friend’s face do the same thing.

I reflexively back away, grabbing Jake by his sleeve.

‘We should probably—’

‘Yep!’ Jake agrees.

We shuffle into a gap between the bar and a speaker, loud enough that no one will pay much attention to anything other than themselves and their end goal of trying to catch the barman’s attention.

Jake winces next to me, lowering his glass. ‘Terrible drink, this,’ he says, one hand massaging his jowls.

‘It’s an Ibiza beach bar, not a cocktail championship.’

‘Tastes like that time Vik put four bags of Skittles in a bottle of vodka and then set it off in the dishwasher.’

‘I think that’s basically what this is.’ I grimace, dragging my tongue across my teeth.

Jake looks at his drink, takes another sip and then scans the crowd. ‘Who were you here with, anyway?’ he says. I can see him analysing, still comparing himself to the men around us.

‘That guy.’ I point with the straw in my glass. There stands Nat. God, he was hot.

Jake follows my eyeline just as Nat approaches younger me, places his hands on my hips and we sway side to side. I lean my head back on his chest, eyes closed, and we grind like something from a Nineties R&B video.

‘Him!?’ Jake’s eyes look like they’re about to eject from his head like some cartoon character.

‘I know you thought I’d be alone forever but, please, don’t act too surprised.’

‘No, yeah. He’s very … very chiselled. Good for him. Great jawline. Excellent work on the jaw.’

My eyes aren’t paying attention to Nat’s jaw; they’re instead fixed on that chest. I remember the feel of my hands pressing down on that chest as I rode him. The way my skin had goosebumps from the too-cold air conditioning, even as everything else was warm. The sound of his laugh when I’d knocked the hotel phone from the bedside table with one arm, and how neither of us had stopped to pick it up, the dial tone becoming the soundtrack to our night. Along with the sound of our skin slapping together.

It wasn’t meaningful in the way that true love is meaningful, but that evening with him felt like the relief my body needed. I’d been so careful for so long, with who I let in and let close. Especially after Vik, who I can admit now was a mistake born out of grief. This felt like something else, completely freeing. To be enjoyed without apology. I have to stop myself from blushing.

Jake’s still muttering along to himself beside me. ‘I’m not threatened! Why would I be threatened? Just because he looks like that, and I’m literally deceased … Fine. This is fine!’