Let’s Fly, Let’s Fly Away
Me? The neurotic bride-to- be Abigail Montgomery (sometimes nicknamed Blondie – you can probably guess why!).
And next: my very best girl friends (and bridesmaids-to-be) Gin and Lucy. (Gin, by the way, isn’t short for Virginia. Think of the drink.)
Molly, Donna and Angie.
And Rhiannon. The fact that she’s actually here is a bit scary. I’ll tell you why later.
Three hours to take off.
Pink fitted tee- shirts: “Crazy Chicks” on the front, “Abigail’s last fling before the bling!” adorns the back.
Black hot-pants. Sorted.
Shimmering lip gloss: for the ultimate pout.
Sun, sand, sea and sexily-clad woman – a lethal combination, or what?
But who cares? You’ve got us for a week, San Antonio, Ibiza - how lucky are you?
We’d made the decision to meet for the airport coach at our local pub, The George.
So there we were, being helped on our way with a few bottles of vino and some tasty nosh. Loads more of our friends, who couldn’t fly out with us because of work or family commitments, had turned up to see us off.
I had noticed for a while that some of the girls were knocking them back a bit too hastily for my liking. I finished my last mouthful of sirloin steak, took a generous sip of wine and rose to my feet.
‘Can I get every one’s attention, please?’
I tinkled the side of my wine glass with a knife. A few of the girls briefly raised their eyes in my direction, and then carried on chatting and drinking, basically not really taking a blind bit of notice.
‘Please everyone! This is the bride-to-be calling. Hello? Look, everyone . . .’
A couple of the girls cheered and raised their glasses at me.
‘Silly tarts!’ I muttered.
I was feeling frustrated: at our pre-Ibiza preparation party a couple of evenings back the girls had all promised, hands on hearts, that they would not get too drunk going to the airport. Just a little tipsy, maybe. They lied, of course, and it’s not just me being paranoid - some of these girls were already wasted, acting as if they were already out in the Med.
‘It’s no use,’ I said to Gin, who was smirking at my efforts. ’I’d need a foghorn to get through to this lot. And as for you, Gin, you’re my chief bridesmaid, so sober up for God’s sake and sort those girls out!’
‘You need to take a Valium, Abs and calm down.’
‘Calm down?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ slurred Gin. ‘Chill out. I’ve got everything under control. Sorted.’
I knew it would go pear-shaped with Gin in charge.
‘Sorted?’’I held my breath as Gin stood up on her chair, swaying precariously in her five-inch stilettos. A and E and plaster of Paris flashed through my head. Very un-ladylike, Gin shoved her fingers in her mouth and gave the sort of ear-piercing, whistle that you should only hear at a football match. She grinned down at me as I rolled my eyes.
‘Get on your chair, Abs, honey-you’ve got their attention now!’
‘Girls! Listen up, girls,’ I called. ‘It’s now ten past one!’
I noticed one of the girls, Molly, who had been knocking them back since we arrived – whether she would make it to the airport was anyone’s guess.
Molly, once she saw that she was the focus of attention, bent over and exposed her ample, rounded bottom, her G-string nearly disappearing from sight, and had everyone laughing in hysterics as she playfully slapped her buttocks. I caught the middle-aged barman taking a good look then raise his eyes to the heavens. He had a rummy look on his flabby face which seemed to say: Just give me half a chance.
Molly noticed me looking at her.
‘Come on, Blondie, give us a song!’ she shouted. ‘Let’s pretend we’re on X-Factor!’
She gave her bottom another lewd wiggle.
‘Never mind the X-Factor,’ I called back. ‘It’s going to be the filth factor with you lot. And you better have some water to drink now, Mol, or you won’t be going at all.’
Molly grinned and stuck her tongue out.
‘Look, everyone,’ I continued. ‘What I’m trying to say is - the coach is getting here at two, so try not to get too paralytic or they won’t let us on the plane. And I’m going - with or without you silly cows!’
There was a chorus of cheers.
I gazed around the room, wide-eyed, watching all the girls chatting away ten to the dozen, all made up like a dog’s dinner, and surrounded by a multi-coloured sea of suitcases. False eye lashes, French manicures and, of course, fake spray tans. We all looked, with our bronzed bodies, as if we’d already spent a week lying on a sun-drenched beach, instead of on our way there. I was trying my best not to be a kill-joy as I watched the girls get excited. God knows what some of them would get up to out there. They might even end up in handcuffs – well, they probably would, but not the fluffy sort they were used to.
It was getting wild even before touchdown in Ibiza.
OMG!! Someone familiar caught my eye, flouncing through the swing door.
‘Somebody please tell me . . . ?’ I gasped, gob-smacked, looking in Gin and Lucy’s direction. Getting their attention, I pointed to the door.
‘Tell me that’s not my mother?’ I pleaded.
I peeped through half-opened fingers, praying that it was the excitement of the occasion -and the drink – that was playing tricks on my eyes. Surely my mind wouldn’t be that horrible and spiteful as to make me think that my mother had turned up at my hen do? It had to be a figment of my imagination, didn’t it? I grabbed my glass, closed my eyes, took a long drink, and prayed that she wouldn’t be there when I looked up again.
‘Darling did you honestly think I wouldn’t want to go to Ibiza? As if I’d miss out on my only daughter’s hen party? No chance in hell!’
My mother dumped her case, gave me a quick kiss and a hug, followed by a peck on Gin and Lucy’s flushed cheeks. My shock slowly turned to annoyance. How on earth had my mother turned up here uninvited? How did she know where to come?
I looked across at Gin and Lucy. Both of them looked shifty to me. Then they both burst out laughing. I turned back to see my mother doing a twirl in the most awful, eye-scorching pink cat suit. Mutton and lamb were words that forced themselves into my mind. Oh, Christ, why did I have to have such an embarrassing mother?
‘Sit down, Mum. Please?’
I sighed and gave her one of my speciality killer looks. She completely refused to read my thoughts – if she had, she would have been dragging her case over to the door, on her way home. Failing that, I wanted a big explanation - and I wanted it right now. I cringed for about the tenth time since she’d arrived. Why has she dressed like an eighteen-year old? Why did her suitcase have a picture of a guy on the front sporting a six-pack? I know Gin’s a bit of an exhibitionist, but she’s a wallflower compared to my mum. She’s always got to be the centre of attention. Well, not this time, mummy dear – this is my party. No way is my own mother going to hijack my hen party. I looked in my bag for a Valium.
‘Sit, mum,’ I said again. My frustration must have been plain to see. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’
‘Dry martini on the rocks, hon. Shaken and not stirred, please.‘
Mum pretended to shoot me with finger. ‘You know, like 007.’
I looked to the heavens. ‘I want a good reason, Mum, why you’ve turned up here, right?’
I was stunned when Mum just brushed off my words like dandruff.
‘Abi, darling, just get my drink and then I will tell.’ She turned to the others. ‘Hey girls, if looks could kill my daughter would have me ten foot under by now!’
I was seething with frustration at the bar as I watched all the hugging and kissing going at the table. I wasn’t being unreasonable, was I? Oh, God! I had visions of having to babysit my mother day and night for the next week. My mother’s a handful when she’s on her best behaviour but when she’s got a drink inside her – which she was probably planning to have most of the time - she’s totally outrageous. She still thinks she’s twenty-something.
Now don’t get me wrong, Mum is only thirty-nine - she had me at eighteen. Dressed in the right clothes she’d be very attractive, thick blonde shoulder-length hair and bright blue eyes to go with it. But Mum being Mum, she goes her own way. Nothing subtle or refined for her – she loves her thick black false eye-lashes and shocking pink lipstick. All my friends adore her banter and wit - and her filthy language. She keeps body and soul together on a handful of lettuce leaves and chain-smokes thirty fags a day. And she’s a massive flirt. I forgot about that - drink will be the least of my problems when she decides to go tom-titting. Shit, I need to ring my dad for help. Knowing her, Dad won’t have a clue what she’s doing. She’ll kill me telling him, but I’d rather die now than out in Ibiza of embarrassment.
I pulled out my mobile but typically, no answer. He must have been out on one of his construction sites – as usual. So reluctantly, I dialled my beloved. He wasn’t too happy about me going to Ibiza as it was, so I didn’t particularly want to ring him to ask for help now, but I didn’t have a lot of choice.
‘Rob? Thank God I got hold of you. I thought you might have gone training.’
‘No, not yet. What’s up babe? You sound stressed.’
‘Stressed? I am, Rob and that’s putting it mildly. I need your help. Like in now.’
‘Ha, don’t tell me. Having last minute worries about going off and leaving me by myself, aren’t you?’
Trust him to start on all that shit again. I could feel tears of frustration welling up.
‘My mum’s turned up,’ I blurted out. ‘She’s coming to Ibiza!’
I’m sure Rob was smirking at the other end. I could hear a funny noise.
‘Don’t cry, hon,’ he managed to say, eventually. ‘You’ll ruin your make-up.’
’Fuck my face, you idiot,’ I shouted back. And then realised what I’d said.
Rob laughed outright this time. I was getting madder by the minute and glared at the barman as he brought the drinks. I slammed down a handful of change.
‘You’re a bastard,‘ I said. ‘It’s not a bit funny.’
The barman gave me a nervous look as he scooped up the money.
‘Sorry,’ I mouthed at him.
‘Rob, you there?’
‘Yeah. Sorry for laughing, babe. I know you told her she couldn’t go. Have you phoned your old man?’
‘I can’t get an answer. Look, Rob, will you come over and persuade Mum not to go?’
‘Jesus, Abs, I’d rather face a six-foot-five, 20 stone guy made of iron. I shit myself when your old girl kicks off.’
‘Oh well, thanks a bunch, Rob. You should see what she’s wearing, as well. I hate to think what else she’s got in her suitcase. I should have guessed what she was planning – she’s been ordering loads off the internet.’
‘Look babes, I’ll do my best and drive round to your old man’s site and look for him. Stay calm now, I’ll find him. Let me ring off now, I’m already in the car. Talk soon, love you, babe!’
‘Love you, Rob. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll ring you when I land.’
I put my phone away and turned to pick up the drinks. It was only then that I saw Rhiannon. I don’t know how long she’d been standing behind me but she was trying her best to keep a smirk off her face, so it must have been a while.
‘What’s the matter, Abi? You look a tad upset. Rob okay?’
‘Yes, we’re fine, thanks, Rhiannon. I forgot to ask my dad to water my plants. Rob’s going to remind him. That’s all.’
Rhiannon gave me a disbelieving kind of look and headed for the loo.
There was a loud shout from my table.
‘Come on Abi! Where’s Babs’ drink? She’s already drunk mine and Lucy’s!’
Babs is my mother by the way. She’s been trying to get me to call her that as well recently. She says being called mum makes her feel old. Especially if there’s men around.
Gin came to the bar to give me a hand, so I had a chance to confront her. She swore blind that she didn’t know a thing. But she soon found out I saw through her lying eyes - the bitch! – and we exchanged some harsh words. In a whisper, though, because I didn’t want the other girls to know I was upset. Lucy must have spotted me with a face like thunder and our mouths going ten to the dozen and came over to smooth things out.
It turned out that my mother had been pumping both girls for details of the hen week agenda, but they just assumed it was just because she was concerned for her daughter’s safety out in the big, bad world. Scheming bi . . . Can you call your mother that?
Mum had gone out to have a smoke – and a breather between drinks – but was back now and had joined some of the girls on another table, laughing at some story Molly was telling. Look at her, I thought. She had no intention of going home - she was getting on the plane for Ibiza no matter how much I had a mare, or chucked my toys in the corner. She was doing a Shirley Valentine disappearing act from Dad. In the film I found it hilarious. I wasn’t too sure, now. I tried Rob again. No answer. What a shithouse, scared of my mum. My arse!
‘Take the drink over to her, girls. I’ll be there now.’
I caught the bartender’s eye and pushed my empty glass over. ‘Put a double in there as well, please.’
‘Which one’s the bride then?’ he asked, grinning and looking over at the laughing girls.
‘Me,’ I said, unsmiling. ‘And that’s the bride’s blushing mother.’
I pointed to Mum, who was now shrieking and waving her arms around.
‘I see what you mean, love. Best of luck.’
‘Way hey!’ the girls chorused. ‘Here comes Abs.’
I snuggled in amongst them and knocked back half of my drink. I may as well loosen up, I figured, or the trip would be ruined.
Mum raised her glass to me.
‘The girls haven’t stopped telling me how young I look, Abigail. Haven’t you, girls?’
Of course they all nodded like mad.
‘Really young - and she’s gorgeous,’ Molly chirped up. ‘I wish I looked like her now, never mind when I’m forty.’
‘Thirty nine and three-quarters, darlings,’ Mum reminded everyone. She was lapping it up like the cat that had got the cream.
‘A lot of people have mistaken us for sisters, haven’t they, Abigail?’
She gave me a wink and I spluttered into my glass.
‘Yes, they have, Mu . . . er . . .Babs.’
I planted a grin on my face and glanced at the door again, hoping my dad would turn up at the last minute.
‘Drink up, everyone! Ibiza, here we come!’