Revelry. Lucy Lord
disrespect, mate,’ says Damian to Ben. ‘But where the fuck did you find her?’ Then, as Veronique raises her eyebrows, ‘Not you, darling – the other one.’ Poppy rolls her eyes and stage-whispers to me: ‘Lord Tact of Tactville strikes again.’ I giggle and whisper back, ‘This is hilarious.’
Poppy looks at me curiously. ‘So you’re feeling better about everything now?’
‘Oh yes, water off a duck’s back.’ I wave my hand about airily.
‘Ow,’ complains Mark as I bash him in the nose, at which Poppy and I laugh so much that I nearly fall off his lap. The various intoxicants have made us awfully silly, I am nearly coherent enough to reflect.
Andy returns from his strop.
‘Right, when are we off to Manumission?’ he asks, looking at me and Poppy.
‘Oh God, not for another hour or so at least,’ says Poppy. ‘Anyway, Damian needs to go and score first, don’t you sweetheart?’
‘Too right I do,’ says Damian, getting to his feet. ‘In fact, no time like the present. Anyone else fancy a walk?’
‘I’ll come,’ says Andy, surprising us all.
‘Actually, darling,’ says Skinny Alison, ‘I think I’d rather have an early night. I need to get up early to try and get hold of that incompetent bloody seamstress in the morning.’
‘OK darling, go ahead. I fancy a night out.’Skinny Alison’s features droop, and I almost feel sorry for her, but it soon passes as she bullies Plump Alison and Charlie, who were clearly also looking forward to a night out, into escorting her back to the villa.
Multicoloured lights flash through the darkness, the sweat of 20,000 revellers fills the air and the insistent beat of electro house pumps through our veins. Nazi officers, sexy nurses and PVC-clad beauties mingle with only slightly less exotically dressed clubbers. A naked couple is almost shagging on stage – they put a stop to the live sex shows a few years ago, but the simulation is pretty realistic. Dwarfs fondle girls in stockings and suspenders carrying whips. Nice work if you can get it, I suppose, if you’re a dwarf.
The popularity of Manumission is staggering. Queuing time for your average Joe is generally a couple of hours, but we managed to blag our way to the front of the guest list queue in ten minutes. This was not, as you might expect, due to the extreme beauty of Kim, or Ben, or even Poppy; people are used to extreme beauty here. No, we managed to swan past a whole load of satisfactorily put-out models entirely thanks to my father’s longstanding notoriety in the Balearics.
‘You’ve got to hand it to him, Bella, he’s a groovy old bugger,’ were Poppy’s words, as my heart swelled with a weird kind of pride.
Now we’re all on the dance floor, vaguely paired up – me with Mark, Damian with Poppy, Dad with Kim, Ben with Veronique and Andy kind of hovering on the sidelines. He’s a good dancer, I notice.
Mark puts his arms around me and starts gyrating unnecessarily, grinding his pelvis into mine. As any inhibitions I might once have had disappeared hours ago, I’m finding this mightily enjoyable and looking forward to what I’m assuming will be the logical conclusion to tonight. I close my eyes and let the sensations wash over me. Suddenly they stop and I open my eyes. Mark is looking over my shoulder. I turn round and follow his gaze. Two little brunettes in short dresses, one hot pink, the other orange, are attracting quite a bit of attention with some clearly South American hip undulations. Fuck. The Brazilian twins. Just my bloody luck, I think, any idea of my night culminating in some hot shagging disappearing in a puff of smoke.
‘I’ll be back in a minute, babe.’ Mark can’t get away fast enough. He practically runs over to them and they both squeal enthusiastically and throw their arms around him.
And in a flash the scene changes from divinely decadent to disgustingly decadent. Dwarfs leer repellently. The lingerie-clad babes seem to mock me, cackling as they crack their whips. The Nazis assume a terrifyingly sinister mantle. Of course they do, they’re fucking Nazis, for Christ’s sake. Whoever thought that was cool? I want to scream. My father has his hand right up Kimbo’s skirt. It’s the last straw. I mumble hasty goodbyes to a surprised Poppy and Damian and push my way past the crowds out of the club.
Outside I catch my breath and light a cigarette.
‘Are you all right?’ I look up to see Andy standing behind me, his intelligent eyes concerned behind the specs. He must have followed me out.
‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. It just all got a bit much, that’s all,’ I say, trying to disguise my humiliation. I’m feeling horribly frumpy in my maxidress now.
‘Listen,’ says Andy awkwardly. ‘I saw what happened in there, and for what it’s worth, I think Mark’s a fool. Those two girls are … well, they’re nothing special really.’
‘Thanks,’ I laugh, a trifle tearfully. ‘However, they’re practically half my age and there are two of them. You do the math, as our American cousins are wont to say.’
Andy laughs too, looking relieved. ‘Do you want to go back inside?’ he asks. I shake my head.
‘No, I’ve had enough. I’ll get a cab back to the villa.’
‘OK, I’ll see you back.’
‘Don’t be silly; you’ve got a pink ticket. You go back inside and enjoy yourself. I’ll be fine.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. Let me see you into a cab at any rate.’
He is as good as his word and five minutes later I am sitting in a taxi, speeding along the motorway back in the direction of Ibiza Town. Now I’m away from the seediness of Manumission I decide I fancy another drink. I’m still buzzing from the various substances I’ve ingested and am certainly not ready for bed yet. The idea of chilling with the Alisons and Charlie just doesn’t do it for me, so I ask the driver to take me back to the harbour, instead of taking the turn that would take us back to the villa.
He shrugs. ‘Sí sí, claro.’ He’s seen it all before.
Five in the morning is probably the quietest you’ll ever see Ibiza Town. Most of the bars pack up around three, as everyone decamps to the clubs, and there’s respite for a few hours before the bars and cafés start opening up for breakfast. I am starting to regret my decision not to go home, when I see a light glimmering in the distance. I walk towards it and discover a little bar, just behind the waterfront. It’s distinctly unglamorous, with unflattering strip lighting and about ten customers, but it’s a bar and it will serve me a drink. I go in.
‘Un vodka limón, por favor,’ I say to the barman, plonking myself onto one of the high bar stools.
‘Cinco euros,’ says the barman, handing me the drink. I look up in surprise. Very cheap, by Ibiza standards.
‘Here, let me get that,’ says an unmistakeably cheeky chappie cockney voice in my ear. I look over into a pair of very sparkly blue eyes set in a ruggedly handsome face.
‘Well, if you’re sure …’
‘Yeah, no problem. So what’s a lovely lady like you doing all alone on a night like this? Where are your mates?’
As I start to tell him, it dawns on me that there is something out of the ordinary about this particular fellow. The short arms, the large head, the … the … little dangly legs, swinging from the bar stool. Yes, I’m being chatted up by a dwarf.
He notices me noticing and says matter-of-factly, ‘Yeah babe, I’m a dwarf. Just finished my shift at Manumission. All the industry workers come here after their shifts – it’s the only bar left open in town. You were lucky to find it.’
‘I just kind of stumbled on it,’ I say, and we start chatting. He’s a bright chap, it turns out, and I surprise myself by enjoying the conversation as much as any I’ve had in the last few days. He seems to think so too, as he says:
‘I