A few Comments and Kind Words on Trev Hunt’s Writing…..
“Trev Hunt transports you to to a world of love, comedy, drama and intrigue – brilliant!”
“I have just read ‘A Victimless Crime’ from Ibiza Shorts with a glass of wine beside an open fire, and was gripped!”
“Viva Trev Hunt – what a discovery his books are!”
John Hollands, MC – author of the 3-million best seller “The Dead, the Dying and the Damned” & many other books
The Teenage Pop Star of Figueretas
Penny d’Arcy languidly stretched her petite young body, her famous blue-green eyes flicking to check the time on the bedside clock. It was only about eight-thirty pm, but with the high tech shutters on her cabin windows closed, it could have been the middle of the night. She turned back to the book she was reading, then, on impulse, threw it as far as she could across the cabin, putting into action the oft-quoted Dorothy Parker advice, “This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.”
How many times had she read the naffin’ love story before, only of course with a different title and different named characters? Girl goes out with mates, girl meets boy, boy and girl fall in love, girl loses boy, girl gets boy back.
If only it happened like that in real life! Again she stretched out on the enormous round double bed – a feature of the owner’s suite on her multi-million pound yacht. Why couldn’t she get to sleep? Last night she hadn’t slept a wink, nor the night before. She must be tired. She flicked a button, the cabin lights dimmed, and then a solitary one lit automatically, gradually moving across the ceiling to descend down the wall, copying the setting of the sun. As the ‘sun’ went down, ‘stars’ came out in the ceiling, twinkling like a night-time summer sky – the whole system a kindly meant present from her manager. Said to be therapeutic if you’re alone, romantic if you’re not. She was alone, so had to make do with the therapy.
“When you’re worried and you can’t sleep, then count your blessings instead of sheep” the old, old song went. Not that she was worried, just a desperately unhappy twenty-two year old multi-millionaire pop star who had gained the whole world, but lost the boy she loved. And that love had started right here, in Ibiza, not far from where her luxury yacht was now anchored. Her mind drifted – was it really only six years ago that, as ordinary Penny Brown, she had come to Ibiza with five mates, all aged sixteen, to celebrate their recent release for ever from the tyranny called school?
* * * * *
Some people are catalysts, they make things happen without even realising it. They become popular, and are usually the centre of attention. Frequently but not always they are fun people, but above all it is their charisma that makes them a catalyst.
Certainly little auburn haired Penny Brown was one, and had been for many years. When Helen, one of her best mates, hit on the idea of having a school leavers’ holiday to Ibiza, and started drawing up a shortlist of those she would like to come along, inevitably Penny had been top of that list. When you were with Penny, things, well, just happened, fun things, different things. When she danced, she commanded the floor with her lithesome grace and energy. When she sang, like the pop star she dreamed of being, she sang with power, rhythm and range. Nor was there any need to chase boys when you were with Penny – although her figure had yet to fully develop, boys were never far away. So it was now with the group of six girls who had arrived in Ibiza the previous day. They had much in common, they were all sixteen, they had all done various part time jobs to save the money for their holiday, and they had all talked their parents into subsidising those savings. Also they had just escaped from the awfulness of the school they had been forced to attend for what seemed to them most of their lives. And they were all off the leash for the first time, to enjoy a holiday without parental control.
“No drugs, mind, Charlotte.”
“If you date a boy, Emily, remember there’s a little present you should save for your eventual husband.”
“Yes, Mum.” No point in telling Mum that ‘the little present’ had been given some two years ago to ‘that nice boy who lives next door and wants to become a vicar’.
“Just remember, Helen, you are not allowed to buy alcohol until you’re eighteen.”
“That’s in England, Dad, I don’t think it’s like that everywhere.”
“It is for my daughter – no alcohol.”
Helen thought of her stern faced father now as she sipped her vodka Red Bull. He once told her she was like the brown girl in an old Boney-M song, whoever they were, brown hair, brown eyes, and a decidedly brownish skin. Although she noted he made no reference to the big boobs of which she was so proud. Not that he was a bad dad – she giggled as she realised she had thought in rhyme – but he was just so un-with it. Was there such a phrase as un-with it? No matter, for if there was, it certainly applied to her dad.
They were in the bar of their holiday hotel in Sant Antoni – still called ‘San Antonio’ by most of the world despite the Ibicencan government officially changing it back to its original name. With its pool and gardens and palm trees, the hotel, situated just a hundred metres from the sea and three minutes from the town centre, was luxurious beyond their wildest dreams or youthful experience, also what they expected for the money. And now they were involved in that most happy of activities, planning a programme for their holiday.
In an ideal world, it would be simple. They would spend everyday on the beach, showing off their lovely and nearly naked young bodies to any boy who wanted to look. Then every night, with inexhaustible funds and no requirement for sleep whatsoever, they would go clubbing. They knew all the clubs by reputation, but had never yet actually been inside one; Eden and Es Paradis, both in San An itself, the giant Privilege (which had once been called ‘Ku’s’) and the famous Amnesia, both on the road to Ibiza, which the girls had yet to travel. Pacha, founded by Ricardo Urgell and actually in the town of Ibiza, was of course the one that started it all, and Space, at Playa d’en Bossa, which was goodness knows where.
But the clubs were expensive, and their funds were not alas inexhaustible.
“Supposing we do three clubs?” said the slim dark haired freckle-faced Brenda, her accent, like the others, the rather pleasant sound of her native Essex. “If we don’t drink much, and fill our glasses at the taps in the loos, we should be able to afford that.”
“But the clubs are what we’re mainly here for!” from Dawn. She was blonde and blue eyed, but unfortunately rather tubby, claiming to anyone who’d listen that it was merely puppy fat that was slow to disperse.
“And boys!” Emily reminded her. Like Dawn, she was also blonde, but unlike her friend was slim and tall, a fact she tried to disguise as much as possible by such devices as sitting on chair backs, or leaning on walls. “We want to pull whilst we’re here!”
In this latter they were about to be successful, for a group of six teenage lads at the bar had been eyeing the group of girls with interest. Without realising it, the girls all looked to Penny to make a decision.
“Brenda’s right that we could easily run out of money, but Dawn’s also right – we want to go clubbing.”
“And chase some talent,” Emily again chipped in.
Penny laughed. “Wrong! Let the talent chase us.” She paused and sipped her Red Bull, before telling them what they would do.
“Let’s draw up a list of clubs in our order of preference, then it’s just a matter of how far down the list we can get before the money runs out.” The nodding heads indicated agreement, as, just for a moment, Penny’s eyes met those of one of the boys at the bar; he had dark hair and was watching her intently. Oddly, a tingle ran down her spine, before she continued. “I suggest we start with Amnesia, because it sounds the most fun. Then Privilege for a Manumission show. We could do a day-time visit to Space for some funky garage stuff – Saturday would be best for that. Then Es Paradis if we’re still in funds.”
“What about Pacha?” from raven-haired Charlotte.
“It’s supposed to be very stylish, and they do have Ministry of Sound there quite a bit,” said Helen.
“I know – it’s the one favoured by the older Yuppie crowd.”
“So we put it after Es Paradis, which we can walk to – I think it’s somewhere on the waterfront.”
“A-ho – they’re coming,” said Emily, nodding her head towards the group of lads.
And so they were. Or at least five of the six were, for one had stayed at the bar, quietly sipping his pint of beer.
The boys had the greatest chat-up line in the world, “Can we buy you ladies a drink?” one of them asked. He had lightish hair and a slight build, and his accent was almost London, but not quite, a kind of semi-posh London.
“With six straws, I suppose?” Charlotte replied, her brown eyes flashing in the way she had practised in front of her bedroom mirror.
But the boy smiled, “My my, aren’t you the sharp one? OK can we buy you six drinks – provided you tell me your name.”
“Pleased to meet you, Brian. I’ll have a vodka Red Bull, but can I have it in a glass with ice and a straw – it looks so much cooler.”
“That’s what you are, is it – cool?” Brian asked.
“That’s for us to know and you to find out,” Penny chipped in, but her eyes were on the boy at the bar, not Brian. Penny never chased boys, they came to her. Only this one didn’t. This one, handsome, tall and confident, sat at the bar watching her.
It was then that Penny did something totally out of character – she actually went towards a boy.
“Hello,” he said gently, “thank you for coming over, Penny – my name’s Shaun.”
“Penny,” she said, “how do you know my name – you psychic or something?”
The boy laughed, and for Penny the sun shone from his eyes. “Hardly – but I do have good hearing, and I heard one of your mates call you ‘Penny’.”
He paused, before continuing, “From your accent, I’d say you’re from the East Coast – but somehow you don’t seem like a country girl.”
“Alright, Sherlock,” she said , “at least you didn’t say ‘you sound like an Essex girl’. My name’s Penny and I’m from Colchester. But where are you from – surely not Ireland, with a name like Shaun?”
“Ha-ha! No, not Ireland – try Guildford. And to save you asking, just because my name’s Shaun I’m also not a barber.”
“No? So, clever clogs, what do you call a girl on the horizon?”
He thought for a moment, then said, “Don’t know – what would I call a girl on the horizon?”
“Dot. As in she was only …..”
“….. She was only a Dot on the horizon!”
They both burst out laughing. And that was it, with Shaun things were to instantly prove so easy, so much fun. Whatever they did, whatever they said from that first time they met, Penny Brown and Shaun Miles would seem to think as one. Sitting at the bar away from the others, they talked about their families and their dreams. Penny confessed to him her ambition to be a pop star – not a casual ambition, as with many young people, but a well thought out, deeply burning ambition – something she was determined to do. Although he clearly liked a laugh, in a way Shaun was more serious than other boys she had known – two years older than her, the A-Level results he was awaiting were destined to take him to his chosen university of Bath to study Computer Sciences, following which he wanted to further train as an accountant.
“You see,” he explained to the girl hoping for a maximum of four or five middling ‘O’ Level GCSEs, “with company accounts being so much computer based, if I have a knowledge of both programming and accountancy, I should be able to walk into any top job I choose.”
“Don’t you like clubbing?” she’d asked in response, nodding at the group she had left.
“Clubbing – yeah, that’s fab, but there’s so much more to Ibiza than rap and over-priced booze.”
“You speak like you know the place.”
He nodded. “My parents first brought me here when I was ten.”
“So you must know all the clubs!”
“Yeah, I suppose so. They’re pretty much as you’ve described them – sorry I was listening to you earlier. I suppose my favourite’s Space, because they hold parties right through Saturdays and into Sunday. That means you can dance outside and enjoy the sun instead of flashing lights. Then Amnesia’s a fun place – but heck, so are they all.”
“So what else is there to do, besides clubbing – pick oranges?”
He laughed, “Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it. Ibiza, well it’s a real fun place to explore. I like cooking, and enjoy good food. But do you know, there are a great many lovely little bays, with beach bars and cafes that do wonderful seafood, where the bill for a whole meal will set you back less than you’d pay for a vodka Red Bull in a place like this? And provide a meal for two,” he added pointedly, “for the price of the same drink in Pacha.”
She laughed. “So when we’ve run out of dosh, you can take me to a beach bar.”
But he turned the tables. “If you’re asking me for a date, my sweet Lady Penelope, I guess the answer’s ‘yes’.”
“You cheeky monkey – I wasn’t ….,” but then she hesitated, and realised that was exactly what she had been doing. She, Penny Brown, the champion boy magnet of Essex, had actually asked one for a date, and she blushed at the realisation.
* * * * *
The twelve young people seemed to hit it off, and stuck together as they enjoyed the rap, house and garage music at the various clubs. At first, the sheer size, spectacle and noise they found awesome, but rapidly became blasé so they could talk knowledgeably about Manumission, Ministry of Sound and all the top DJs. Emily and Brian had seemed to establish some sort of relationship, as did Penny and Shaun, but although they got on famously, the rest of the group seemed fairly interchangeable in their friendships.
On a couple of occasions, Penny surprised her new boyfriend, for that was how she’d come to think of him, with the extent of her ability in front of the microphone. The first time was karaoke night at their own hotel, when she was clearly on a different planet from the other contestants.
But the second was at a large bar near the seafront, where they’d gone for a cheaper evening as their funds started to run low. When the resident five piece band took their break, she stepped up onto the stage, picked up the mike, and looked at the MC. Taking his shrug for a ‘yes’ she burst into a Tina Turner number, throwing herself around the stage in time with her own unaccompanied voice. As the applause died down, she switched to a Madonna song, and this too met with noisy appreciation from the audience. Then, to show her versatility, she moved to a slow country and Western ballad, ‘Old Flames’, and magically got her, mainly young, audience to sing along with her. When she’d finished, and bowed her way off stage, it was not only the audience who applauded, the band too joined in to show their appreciation.
* * * * *
The following day, Shaun borrowed an elderly Nissan Micra from a Spanish friend he had known since boyhood, and he and Penny set off to explore the island. She felt very grown up about this, it being the first time she had been out for a date with a boy in a car. Small and elderly the Nissan may have been, but Penny Brown could not have been happier had they been in a Ferrari.
Starting from Sant Antoni, they had turned off the main road to Ibiza at San Rafael, heading east across country on a picturesque winding route, passing by citrus orchards and ancient fincas to Santa Eulalia, where they’d parked by the marina. There they had a lot of fun walking the jetties, eyeing the yachts, and pretending to decide which one to buy. The jetties were named south to north alphabetically, whilst the vessels tied up to them ranged from thousand horsepower plus speed boats costing hundreds of thousands to six-metre sail boats, motor cruisers, boats for charter, traditional day fishing boats, diving boats, yacht tenders and even one row-boat. Lending much colour to the marina were the bars and restaurantes such as The Tavernetta or Bistro Mariposa, as did the yachting service companies like V. Mari Nautica’s ships’ chandlers, or the world-leading UK boat companies of Sunseeker, Fairline and Guilford Marine
Then walking south from the marina, past the water bus terminal, she’d felt oddly jealous when Shaun set himself the task of finding the best boobs on display on the beach, but then realised he was only doing it to tease her. She considered Santa Eulalia ‘a bit posh but nice’ after San Antoni, but nevertheless enjoyed herself when they went to the elegant sea-front restaurant called ‘The Atenea’ for coffee and cakes.
Over coffee, Shaun told her about a water-sports centre at S’Argamassa, near Es Canar, “It’s called ‘César’s’, after the owner, César Jerez” he explained, “you can para-glide whilst I jet-ski”.
“Para-glide – is that what I think it is?”
“That depends on what you think, but basically they strap you into a parachute, take you out on a speed boat, then, attaching you to a rope winch, you sort of take off and fly.”
“That sounds fab,” the girl said enthusiastically “- can I really try it?”
Forty minutes later, looking down from a height of around fifty feet at the numerous national flags, flying from poles situated along a largish rock, which with the help of some concrete was used as the landing stage, she was not so certain about ‘sounding fab’, and for a while was so frightened she thought she’d wet herself. Then she relaxed, and really did enjoy the ride. When it was time to let her down, the man controlling the boat winched in the rope and gradually slowed, bringing her with care onto the little platform at the back.
After a quick check on their finances, Shaun elected to forgo his ride on the mighty 750cc Kawasaki Jet-Ski he loved so much, to instead buy a lunch of sardines and salad with a few ‘fritos’ at César’s beach bar for the girl with whom he admitted to himself he had fallen in love.
In the afternoon, they explored the town of Ibiza, both the old harbour side town of Sa Penya and the high town of the citadel, the D’alt Vila.
Emboldened, Shaun asked if she would like to go to Es Cavalettes ‘for a swim and sunbathe’.
“What is it, and where is it?”
“It’s a beach with sand dunes and a fantastic Hawaii style bar-cafe, where people swim and sunbathe without wearing an abundance of clothes.”
“An abundance of clothes? Do you mean it’s a nudist beach?”
He coloured. “’Er, yes.”
“Okay? You mean we can go?”
“If you reckon it’s alright.”
So for the first time in her life, Penny Brown took her clothes off in front of a boy, and just as importantly, he reciprocated. ‘God, he’s beautiful’, she thought.
They swam in the sea – ‘hey ho,’ she thought, ‘at least I won’t get my cossie wet’. Afterwards, they found a private spot behind a sand dune to stretch out on their towels and languidly allow the sun to dry them.
Then she lost her virginity to Shaun Miles. Lost? In all honesty, she gave it willingly.
* * * * *
Later, happy, content and wrapped in the girl’s arms, as the sun started its descent, Shaun checked his watch – eight-thirty. Again they counted their combined wealth, an operation that did not take a great deal of time.
“I know just the spot to round off the day,” Shaun said, when they realised they were not exactly Euro millionaires. “There’s a bar-restaurante in Figueretas, this side of Ibiza town, where you can get a good square meal for just a few euros, and later …..”
“…..And later, what?”
“Well, around ten-thirty, they stop serving food, and the restaurant becomes something else.”
“Not lap dancing? You’ve surely had enough excitement for one day!”
He laughed. “No – a really trendy karaoke bar, so you can again impress me with your brilliance!”
* * * * *
‘Mike’s Kitchen’ in Figueretas is one of several smaller establishments which over the years has become an institution of Ibiza. It opens prompt at six pm, and, with probably the most rapid service on Ibiza, serves a vast number of English-style meals, early evening to those with young children, later to the middle aged, then later still to the young and young at heart who want to stay and sing the night away to karaoke.
Outside there is a spacious terrace in front of and to the right of the bar-restaurante, with tables and seating for many diners, whilst inside along the right hand side are five brown-painted concrete alcoves with bench seats, and above them for decoration three truly giant Budweiser bottles.
Closing time tends to be a flexible friend, being more akin to the economics of the number of late night revellers spending money than anything to do with the hands on the clock.
Above the main karaoke ‘stage’ area is an illuminated Budweiser sign, and for the better enjoyment of the enthusiastic participants, throughout the establishment there are multiple TVs to display the words currently being enjoyed, or sometimes, murdered. The exceptionally well-stocked bar has numerous beers on draft, including Caffrey’s, Estrella, Carling and Becks, as well as less alcoholic drinks such as Pepsi, 7up and various Kas fruit flavours.
Penny and Shaun enjoyed their meal, both choosing entrecote steak, hers well done and his rare. As they kept holding, and squeezing hands, Penny looked around at the other diners, and wondered. Could they tell? Did she look different? Was there something about her that screamed, “I’m no longer a schoolgirl – today I became a woman!”
After the steaks, they had wedges of the most delicious pineapple ice cream called ‘piña helado’, and then quietly and efficiently around ten-thirty, the restaurante stopped serving food to become a karaoke bar. This, of course, is not good news everywhere, at least not one hundred per cent of the time, although to the youngsters’ amusement a middle aged Mum from Reading had a fair stab at the all-time karaoke favourite, beloved of the tuneless and drunks, ‘My Achy Breaky Heart’ and an elderly couple created much interest with a take-off of Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers singing ‘Islands in the Stream’, with the interest coming from their lack of regard for conventions such as sticking to a particular key, to such an extent that had it not been for his beard and her more than ample bosom it would have been unclear who was supposed to be Dolly and who was supposed to be Kenny.
They were followed by a younger man who gave a reasonable rendition of the late, great Buddy Holly’s ‘Everyday’, whilst his wife proved his chief barracker saying that if he didn’t stop making a damned fool of himself, she was going home and taking the car.
Then Penny moved to pick up the microphone, and the atmosphere changed as she moved into the Tina Turner number she had performed in the seafront bar in San An. But when she tried to put down the mike, cries of ‘more, more’ prevented her from doing so – karaoke night became cabaret night, and to the delight of her audience, she performed four more numbers before returning to her seat and a very proud boyfriend.
Almost immediately, a man in his thirties slid into the couch seat next to them. He was quite tall, round-faced, dark-haired, and running to fat in a not unpleasant kind of way.
“You know, you’re good,” he said, “really good.”
Penny laughed, flattered. “Thank-you,” she said.
“You look plenty young enough,” the newcomer continued, “do you want to make it in the pop business, or do you have other ambitions?”
Again Penny laughed. “Oh yes, I want to make it as a pop star – and I suppose you’re going to offer me a contract?” she joked.
The man smiled. “That’s exactly what I expect to do – after hearing you in a recording studio of course. Here’s my card.” From the back pocket of his jeans he produced a wad of business cards, and passed her one.
She and Shaun read it together. It said simply ‘Red Sky, DJ’ followed by an email address and the number of his mobile.
“You’re Red Sky?” Shaun asked in wonder.
“The DJ we saw in Amnesia?” Penny added.
“With long red dreadlocks, big dark shades and the jump suit featuring the setting sun?” Shaun continued.
This time the man did laugh. “Yeah – great outfit, isn’t it?” Then he quoted his ‘signature’ patter, “Red Sky at night, virgin’s delight! I’m famous all over the world, but the moment I take off my stage gear, I’m invisible – it gives me the best of both worlds, I’ve got the glam life of a celeb and an ordinary life when I want it – so I can often come to great places like this for straightforward English cooking and the like.”
“This contract,” from Shaun, “you play rap and garage kind of stuff, but Penny’s voice is definitely pop material.”
“In Ibiza I do indeed play what you say, but in the UK, if you’ve ever listened to it, you must know my radio show is far more across the board.”
Shaun nodded thoughtfully. “And you could get her a recording contract, although you’re not a producer?”
“Actually I do get involved on the production side, but tend to keep it quiet in case I’m accused of favouring my own numbers on the turntable. As if I would! But believe me, if tonight is anything to go by, and she can re-produce it in a studio and on stage, with my contacts and her talent, there’s no doubt I can get her a recording contract. Then of course all the additional paraphernalia like guest appearances, and media coverage par excellence.”
“Wow!” from Penny.
* * * * *
And so the deal had been done. For Penny, the next three years was like living a fairy tale, with herself as the principal character. ‘Reds’, as she had come to know him, had been as good as his word, and aided rather than hindered by her great youth, she had leapt to stardom. Chat shows, TV spectaculars, videos, she was rarely out of the public limelight, taking to her new lifestyle like a duck to water.
Only one thing intruded to keep her less than totally happy, for she saw less and less of Shaun. As expected, he got great ‘A’s , and enrolled at Bath University for a three year course on Maths and Computer Sciences. For a while they’d kept in touch, but she knew he was miffed at all the hangers on who perpetually surrounded her. She also suspected he was a bit jealous when she spoke so easily of her friendship with the A-List celebrities he knew only through the media.
Then suddenly one day he wasn’t even there. He’d gained a two-one honours degree, whatever that was, and dropped out of sight. Even a firm of private detectives failed to find him, and for Penny, the absence of the boy she loved made the dream world in which she lived so artificial. But where was he? The world is a big place, and she knew that with his intelligence and c.v., Shaun could get a job in any part of it.
* * * * *
Penny d’Arcy looked at the twinkling stars on the cabin ceiling, and rubbed her eyes. It had been three years since she had tried the detective agency, three further years of a career in which she had enjoyed ever increasing fame and good fortune, but failed to find either hide nor hair of Shaun Miles.
This was hopeless – she’d never get to sleep. She may just as well stick on her wig and shades, and with Terry trailing her, find a bar somewhere where she could drown her sorrows.
She flipped a switch on the intercom, “Terry, be ready in fifteen minutes – I want to go walkabout. Say jeans and smart casual, you never know where we might end up.”
A pause, then, “Yes, I know it’s dodgier for me on Saturday night, but if I don’t get off this boat, I’ll go crazy.”
She slipped into her version of Red Sky’s ‘incognito’ disguise – a wig, big shades and a hippie style one piece flower-power dress usually saw her through. Terry was waiting for her by the gangplank. She’d christened him ‘Terry’ when he’d first entered her employment as personal bodyguard, her own ‘Minder’, named after the wonderful character, Terry McCann, played by Dennis Waterman in the TV series. Hailing from the West Indies, her Terry was about the size of Lennox Lewis, but where Lennox was not bad looking, Terry certainly was.
Not just bad looking, he was really ugly, which made things a little difficult sometimes, for part of their disguise was to pretend to be on a date. But one real look at Terry, and folk tended to not ask questions.
Because of its size, her yacht was anchored in the old harbour near the ferry port offices, rather than the Marina, so that after a gentle stroll of only a few hundred metres they reached the palm-covered terrace of the trendy ‘Mar y Sol’, where everyone who is anyone meets to chew the fat, talk about friends and put the world to rights. They sat on aluminium chairs with mock wicker plastic webbing at a small round table, and surveyed the scene. Beyond the terrace they could glimpse the port road entrance post and barrier, and beyond that the numerous ferry boats, now at rest after the hard labours of the day.
She felt better after two swift G and T’s, then told Terry she just wanted to walk.
“Where to Miss d’Arcy?”
“I don’t know – anywhere, I just want to walk, okay?”
So they walked, aimlessly. Through the Vara de Rey and onto the long stretch of the Avenida de España. At the top, by McDonald’s, they turned left, back towards the sea. Suddenly, Penny stopped.
“My God – we’re in Figueretas. Terry – for God’s sake, we’re in Figueretas!”
“Are we, honey?” Sometimes polite, sometimes informal, but always watchful, always minding, was Terry.
“Terry – it was here that I met Reds – here he discovered me! I must find it – what was it called?”
“I don’t know Miss d’Arcy, honey, but I’ll sure help you look.” His voice belying his physique, soft and gentle – a deliberately cultivated mix of his native West Indies and the American Southland.
They walked along, looking at bars, shops, takeaways, until suddenly Penny stopped. “My God, this is it – Mike’s Kitchen! Terry, come on, you can buy me a drink from that roll I gave you.”
Two more G and Ts slipped down rather easily, as again she sat in one of the alcoves and watched the restaurante metamorphosise into a karaoke bar. People started to drift in anticipation, as the music started. For the first time in many months, Penny felt herself relax. Her seat was a sort of curved couch, in such a way she was unable to see the people who sat down behind her in the next alcove, but instinctively she listened to their conversation, as a young girl spoke.
“So you actually live here – not just on holiday?”
“My – aren’t you lucky – I’d just die to live in Ibiza,” from a different female voice.
“What do you do – drive speedboats or run discos or something?” from the first voice.
A man answered. “No, it’s a bit more boring, I’m afraid. I’m an accountant at a firm in Santa Eulalia.” The voice, more mature, a little older, but definitely his voice!
Penny had heard the phrase ‘being turned to jelly’ and never quite believed it. But she was, first a shiver ran down her spine and her skin tingled all over, then she became like jelly, then her very vitals seemed to turn liquid.
“Gosh that is boring! Why Ibiza – you could do that anywhere?” the second female asked.
The man laughed. Oh that laugh – just hearing it again gave Penny goose pimples.
“If you must know, I lost my heart once in Ibiza, and I’ve come to live here hoping that one day I’ll find someone to give it back to me again.”
“That’s so romantic.”
Unsteadily, being certain to keep her back to the group behind her, Penny headed for the stage area and took the microphone. A quick word to select the right tune and she burst into song, still with her back to the audience, deliberately choosing the old karaoke number, the one they had laughed at when the middle-aged housewife had sung it in this very bar a seeming lifetime ago. But nevertheless, in her adapted female version, the words so truly expressed her thoughts…..
“…..Don’t tell my heart, my achy breaky heart – I just don’t think she’d understand ….”
At that moment, Shaun did something he’d never done in his whole life before – he dropped his pint of beer. They both turned round, and across the crowded bar-room, their eyes met, as Penny d’Arcy tossed away her wig and shades and sang her own version of the old karaoke number to the man she loved.
“…..and if you tell my heart, my achy breaky heart, she might blow up and kill this gal.”
As the song ended, and realising that for some incredible reason they really had heard the famous Penny d’Arcy singing a karaoke number to them, the audience rose to their feet to applaud.
But there was no press photographer on hand to take the million dollar picture, as, crying tears of joy, she fell into the arms of the man she loved, and whispered ‘yes’ when he asked her to marry him…..
If you enjoyed this story, please write a review on your supplier’s web-site and tell your friends by email, Twitter, Facebook, blog or even face to face over a beer or a cup of coffee.
Also why not buy the full collection of 14 stories – plus a bonus free poem ? ! ?
I like people to read my books!
You can write to Trev Hunt in care of his publishers:-
Acorn Classics House Ltd., PO Box 1565, Wedmore, Somerset, BS28 4YA, United Kingdom