Chapter One

It’s not. It can’t be. It bloody well can’t be! Oh my goodness; it is! It’s Emilio Caliente! Why is someone like him sitting next to someone like me on this flight to Ibiza? He should be up front, behind the curtain, hidden away in first class. Why now? Why him? Why me?

Without so much as a glance in my direction he’s short-circuited weeks of life changing, positive affirmations. Hiding behind my hair, I clench my fists, shut my eyes and silently recite, “My name is Gemma. I’m a beautiful, intelligent, newly single woman and I’m taking control of my life”. Yeah, right. What a joke. I’m sweating. I’m fidgeting. I’m finger combing my hair, smoothing my eyebrows, and wishing I’d retouched my makeup before boarding.

Can’t he go away for a few minutes and come back when I’ve had time to pull myself together, both mentally and physically? Planes should have an emergency hatch with a twisty staircase from the passenger area down into the hold, so you can get to your suitcase, grab a change of clothes, a more appropriate pair of shoes, and maybe even a change of underwear. There should be a decent sized bathroom with pink, soft-tone lights to flatter your complexion and boost your self-confidence, not that vile, green, fluorescent glare that only emphasizes your enlarged pores, your premature lines, your facial hair. There should be baskets of complimentary upmarket cosmetics, sample freebies of the greatest and latest scientific breakthroughs in moisturisers and makeup. Yes, even on a forty-minute flight from Barcelona to Ibiza. On this flight especially.

As it is, the bathroom has just been vacated by a rotund, ashen-faced, sickly-looking man sporting blotchy bum cleavage, so the thought of following in his footsteps isn’t exactly appealing. I rummage through my bag, praying I won’t accidentally pull out a bedraggled tampon instead of a bruised and battered lip-gloss. I don’t usually look like this. Should I explain to him that, under normal circumstances, I’m quite a babe, even if I’m old enough to be, if not his mother, then at least his big sister? I’m usually impeccable. It wasn’t me who spilled Coca-Cola on my white linen trousers. It was the woman sitting next to me on my previous flight from Geneva to Barcelona. Her feisty Iberian origins led to partial loss of body control when she started telling me all about her exasperating Scandinavian daughter-in-law who couldn’t even cook a decent tortilla. As for my T-shirt, it seemed to possess that casual, cool, worn-in look when I left home today, whereas it’s clear to me now that it should have been retired months ago and used as a duster. What on earth was I thinking? Oh, thank goodness; here’s my lip-gloss.

My lips taken care of, I fumble through the pocket of the seat in front of me, searching for an in-flight magazine, but there isn’t one. So I grab the emergency procedures card and start studying it with exaggerated interest, then get all flustered again, as though I’ve been caught reading the Special K cereal package.

What must he be thinking? I’m no first-time flyer. I’m an air-sophisticate. I shake my long brown hair over my face and sneak a sideways glance at el divino, as the women’s glossies call him. Maybe I’ve just imagined the whole thing and seat 12B is currently occupied by an obnoxious lager lout with spots and halitosis.

But no. It’s him, pop music’s Latino superstar, looking a little dishevelled and not as glamorous as on his album covers, calendars and posters. He’s obviously wearing some kind of hastily thrown together disguise. However, if the other passengers on Iberia flight 243 to Ibiza are fooled by the navy-blue baseball cap, the wraparound sunglasses, and the prickly, golden chestnut stubble, a connoisseur like me is not. I am the princess of pop music, the FM queen. I know my popstars.

It may seem sad that at the age of 37 I’m still addicted to bubble-gum music. At my age, most people seem to have either moved on to cooler, more sophisticated musical spheres or remained faithful to the likes of Céline Dion, Phil Collins and Sting. Not that I dislike Céline Dion, Phil Collins or Sting. They’re great. But when it comes to music, I’ll always be a teenybopper at heart. Boy bands may be passé, but they still do it for me. I’m a sucker for cheesy harmonies and all those slick, over-choreographed, step-step-shrug moves.

Crazy at it may sound, my taste in music was one of the irreconcilable differences that destroyed my marriage. I think it was an overdose of step-step-shrug that finally pushed my husband a step too far. He went and dumped me for an older woman.

Richard left me for Wilhelmina, a poker-faced, peroxided meanie from Munich, whom I only ever saw from a distance, yet whose sense of style made quite an impression nevertheless: black leather trousers, sequined sweaters featuring cartoon characters, daredevil heels and a hairstyle presumably influenced by lion tamers in circuses. Interesting choice for a conservative stick-in-the-mud like Richard. They probably have sex while listening to Metallica. “Jawohl, mein Schnitzel, da ist SO gut, ja ja schneller bitte, schneller”.

Gross.

Well, they’re welcome to it. They can have Metallica and schnitzels, with or without noodles. Screw them! I’m going to Ibiza to get myself a new life. But please, God, right now, give me something cool to say to Emilio Caliente. Send me instant smooth moves, oodles of charm, irresistible flickety hair.

I try to arrange myself a little more attractively, cross my legs. I’d offer him my best profile, but doing so would require odd contortions since it’s the one against the window. I rub my nose, making sure there isn’t anything embarrassing hanging off the end.

He takes off his baseball cap and his sunglasses, removes his brown leather sandals (hairy toes, I notice), checks his phone, switches it off and puts it in the duty-free bag by his feet. He then turns to me, gives me the once over, let’s-see-what-we-have-here, oh-yes, oh-well, never-mind-then, graces me with a quick smile (Yes! This is good! Initial contact established!), puts his sunglasses back on and closes his eyes.

So much for contact.

It’s almost eleven when we take-off. The flight has been delayed for nearly two hours. Most of the other passengers are either dozing or flicking through the kind of magazines you tend to buy at airports when you’re bored and need cheap, easy distractions. Even I had a copy of No Way! magazine in my duty-free bag. But now, with Emilio sitting next to me, I’m a little embarrassed to pull it out and have him think I saunter down the superficial side of life.

A bored, exhausted flight attendant passes down the aisle with a basket of boiled sweets. I smile at her smugly, willing her to believe that I’m travelling with Mr. Caliente, that we’re a couple. But as she reaches our level and I lean over to grab something to combat potential gorilla breath, the plane hits turbulence and the basket and most of its contents fly through the air and land on Emilio Caliente’s crotch. The flight attendant gasps, and I freeze, wide-eyed, but Emilio doesn’t stir. Is he asleep or is he deliberately ignoring what he thinks is a desperate plea for attention from his moronic, past-her-sell-by-date neighbour? What kind of a person doesn’t acknowledge an unfortunate accident? Why can’t he just smile politely, say “no harm done” and offer me a cellophane wrapped windfall?

It’s now obvious to the flight attendant that we are not an item. Aghast, she suppresses a giggle and points a discreet finger at the multicoloured sweets decorating Emilio’s khaki clad, drawstring secured, rather impressive crotch. With her eyes she asks me, “Do we leave them or pick them up?”

I shrug, quickly shake my head, utterly mortified. Better to leave them than disturb the sleeping demigod and have him open his eyes to find four unfamiliar hands groping his testicles.

Still grinning, and doing her best not to giggle, she carries on down the aisle, offering the few remaining sweets to the rest of the passengers.

I glance at Emilio again. His eyes are still closed. Contact is over and out. Bummer. What will Celeste say when I tell her? Knowing her, she’d probably have gone straight for the strategically placed sweets and got away with it. Celeste makes friends with everyone she meets, a characteristic supposedly linked to her bright pink aura.

To pass the time I decide to read all about the latest happenings in celebrity-land. As I flick through the pages of No Way!, skipping over something about some obscure celebrity’s scandalous fling, I spot a small, fuzzy, rather unflattering photograph of a scowling Emilio Caliente. Below it the article reads:

“Latino heart-throb Emilio Caliente doesn’t have a whole lot to smile about these days. His latest single, Corazon Loco, has flopped miserably, barely reaching number 54 in the charts before sinking without a trace. Rodrigo Del Fuego and Alejandro Tampoco, founders of record label Latin Hard Beat, have announced that they are not satisfied with Caliente’s new album, Solo Yo, scheduled for release in September, which the gorgeous Emilio insisted on producing himself. They stated that the album will not be released unless el divino agrees to re-record eight of the tracks under the direction of hot-shot Miami producer El Gordoncito. Could this compromise Latin Hard Beat’s long-standing collaboration with the hip swivelling Latin lover? Will Emilio swallow his pride and do as he’s told? Watch this space!”

“Bastards,” mutters a sexy, throaty voice in seat 12B. “They know nothing. It’s crap. Bullshit.”

I turn to look at him. His eyes are still closed but he’s unwrapping a pink sweet, which he pops between a set of flawless white teeth, flashing an utterly delectable morsel of pink tongue at the same time. How come even his tongue is perfect? I thought they airbrushed it pink in his photographs.

I swallow. Come on now, say something, Gemma. Something that will start a decent conversation. Something interesting. What would Celeste say? “I loved Corazon Loco”, I hear myself squeak. My temperature turns tropical. I feel a blush spread from my ears to my chest. Not exactly celestial. More Minnie Mouse on helium.

He smiles, shakes his head. Static electricity makes his dark brown hair cling to the paper headrest. Then he yawns loudly (cue more pink tongue), lazily runs his fingers through his hair, musses it to a sexy, spiky style, pushes his sunglasses onto the top of his head, and looks at me.

His eyes should come with a warning from the Surgeon General: “Gazing into Emilio Caliente’s eyes can seriously damage your mental health.” They are the colour of warm caramel and edged with long, thick, black lashes. Is that the outline of a gold-flecked star etched within the pupil of his right eye? How amazing is that? He looks as though he’s wearing eyeliner, but of course he isn’t. Or is he? What’s more, his eyes are almond shaped, giving him a slightly mysterious, slightly naughty look. He does have dark, purplish circles underneath them, and, I notice happily, a couple of blackheads on his nose. But he’s very good looking. Very. Maybe a little too pretty. Maybe not. On second thought, definitely not. How old is he?

“I thought it was pretty good too”, he says, sucking noisily on his sweet. Anyone else making such a noise would give me instant gross-out because I’ve always hated noisy eaters. The sound of someone biting into an apple makes me cringe; it’s as bad as chalk squeaking on a blackboard. But I must say, Emilio’s sweet sucking technique is quite mesmerizing.

“Hola, I’m Emilio,” he says, holding out a surprisingly small hand for me to shake. What is it they say about small hands? Or is it small feet? Crap, for sure.

“Hi Emilio, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Gemma,” I reply. And I, Gemma Talbot, 37-year-old teenybopper, shake Emilio Caliente’s hand. Small it may be, but he has a nice, firm, manly handshake, not a mushy wimpy one. And it’s definitely not eyeliner, I decide. Now what do I say?

I manage to curb a suicidal urge to lean over, place a hand on his shoulder and, in a dorky voice, say “I’m your biggest fan,” thus narrowly sparing him from having to grab the vomit bag and gag.

Say something, Gemma.

“Are you going to Ibiza?”

Duh.

Shit, that’s it. Ten years from now, I definitely won’t be remembered as that rather sexy, rather interesting, somewhat older woman he enjoyed chatting to on his way to Ibiza. You know; the woman who brightened his darkest hour, made him see that things can only get better, who spent ages showing him around the island with her cool friends. No. Typical. Had my chance and blew it.

He smiles. “Actually, I’m stopping over in Ibiza but planning on heading over to Formentera in a couple of days.” Saved by a detail! I could kiss him. In fact, I’d love to smooch him senseless.

“You?” he asks coolly, unwrapping another sweet while my stomach does a series of back-flips like circus tumblers.

“Uhm, yes. Ibiza. I’m moving there. To start my own business. I paint. Old chandeliers, not pictures. In bright colours. Well, mostly chandeliers, but I paint old furniture too.” I’m inwardly cringing because, all of a sudden, painting chandeliers sounds like a silly, pseudo-artistic thing to do. But he’s gazing at me with what I hope isn’t just polite interest, so I blunder on.

“I’m staying with my friend Celeste. In Santa Agnes. Well Santa Inès, depending on how you spell it. Or how you pronounce it. In the campo. That’s Spanish for countryside. But you knew that.” Am I excessively happy to meet him or is it excessively hot in here?

“Where were you living until now?”

Is he just being polite? Why is he asking me stuff?

“Switzerland.” I hope I sound worldly as I say it. “My ex-husband and I lived in Geneva, but he left me. For an older woman.” I throw in the “older” just for good measure. To let him know that it’s possible for men to leave bimbos for older women. Not that I’m a bimbo. But I’m older than Emilio. Anything is possible. I want him to know that.

“You don’t look old enough to be married, let alone divorced.” His voice is like raw silk. “Sweet?” He selects a blue one from his crotch and hands it to me with a cheeky grin.

What’s going on here? Is he just being himself? Could he be flirting with me? Pff! Flirting? No way. I’m hot enough to steam up the plane windows. Why do my sweat glands go ballistic when I’m with men I fancy? My earliest memory of excessive sweating dates back to when I was 16. I had a crush on an ultra-gorgeous 29-year-old with a black Golf GTI.

One cold evening after school, I was wandering around town when I saw him hot wheel his way around a corner, bass box booming out some infernal disco anthem. I knew he was going to come to a squealing stop at a red light, so I raced over, heaving my schoolbag, and hid behind a telephone box. When he stopped at the light, I crossed the road casually on the pedestrian crossing, did a fake double-take as in, “Wow, what a coincidence!”. Then, before I realized what I was doing, I’d rushed towards his car and hopped in beside him. Unfortunately, the combination of nerves and sprinting around in my down jacket had made me so hot that within seconds we were fogged in. He had to crank up the defogger to the max. I wanted to die. But I guess he just thought I was a hot young chick, because he smooched me outside my apartment building about ten days later.

Could I be a hot older chick? I take Emilio’s sweet. It’s disgusting, one of those sour banana-type flavours that you wonder what whoever invented it was thinking when they boiled it up and had a taste, but I eat it anyway. We’re probably halfway to Ibiza now and I urgently need to make conversational progress. I want a phone number. I want to – and now my imagination is off to a rave party – invite him for dinner!

“How old do you think I am?” I ask, all coy and cutesy. This is the zillion dollar question. If he guesses right, it is what it is. If he guesses younger, it’s yippedy skippedy. If he guesses older, it’s up there with natural disasters.

He studies me and I squirm beneath my seatbelt. His eyes make my stomach fall into my knickers. I’d like him to study me even more closely. I’d like him to do a project on me. Even a small one.

“Early thirties? I’ve never been good at guessing ages. And I don’t think age is important.”

Right answer. Right answer. Right answer. Cliché, but right answer.

“I’m 36,” I lie. Well, didn’t he just say that age isn’t important? Wrinkles and receding gums sort of are. I have some of the former but none of the latter. “And you?”

He smiles slyly. “Trade secret. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. Okay, I’ll tell you. I’m officially 27, legally 29.”

This is good. He’s not even ten years younger than me! I’m beginning to relax. He’s quite easy to talk to. He has dimples in his cheeks. There’s definitely a star in his eye. Should I mention it to him? No, he’ll think I’m coming on to him, which I am. Sort of. To be honest, I’m feeling fabulously flirtatious and surprisingly bold.

The fasten your seatbelts sign lights up. I’m running out of time.

“Have you been to Formentera before?” I’m picturing him in a swimsuit against a backdrop of turquoise water and white sand, going gooey as the pixels connect and the image downloads in my mind. What’s going on? I haven’t felt this lecherous in years! “How are you getting there?” I can’t imagine him on the ferry. And why is he travelling Economy on Iberia?

“To tell you the truth, I don’t have anything planned. I haven’t even booked a hotel. Can you believe that? I mean, Ibiza and Formentera in July, with no hotel reservations?” He shakes his head, rolls his toffee eyes. “I was supposed to fly over with my manager in a few days, but things got a little ugly between us. I just wanted out. Too much crazy shit. Bad energy. Negative vibes. I was lucky to get on this plane. And I’ll be crazy lucky if I manage to rent a car.”

Hence the eco fare.

Hence the possibility of giving him a lift! A room? Yeah right, Gemma! I can just see him in a tiny, eclectically cluttered old almond mill conversion with no electricity, located way out in the boonies. He probably can’t live without his hairdryer.

But I can’t help myself. “Celeste is picking me up at the airport. If you can’t get a car, we could give you a lift somewhere. Try to find you a hotel.”

He smiles another slow, lazy smile. I feel like an idiot again but try my best not to show it. He probably knows loads of people with amazing houses in Ibiza. He probably has a stable full of gorgeous, 22-year-old sun kissed blondes with tousled hair and salty skin. They’ll be tossing their manes and baring their teeth at each other, squabbling over who gets to pick him up at the airport the minute he issues a ‘Mayday’ signal on his phone.

I smile to myself, imagining Emilio Caliente squashed into the back of Celeste’s battered, filthy, red Deux-Chevaux, bumping around as we fly along the rocky camino that leads to her little house in the hills. I see Celeste dancing in her seat to the syncopated electro beat torturing the tinny old speakers. She’s babbling away in her usual effervescent manner, her long honey-blonde, sun-streaked hair whipping around her face willy-nilly. Such fun imagery. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. Shame.

And as we land, I hear him say, “Did you mean what you said about that lift?”