What Fresh Hell

by Lucy Vine

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Have you ever spent a weekend with strangers you hate for a friend's hen party? Had to pay hundreds of pounds for that spa break all in the name of besties? Lilah Fox has just returned from the hen party from hell, vowing to actually spend time with her boyfriend and focus more on herself.

Then she gets the whatsapp from her best friend Lauren to say she's just got engaged. And as maid of honour, Lilah just signed up for weekend wedding fairs and weekly planning meetings for the next year.

Just when she thinks things can't get any worse, she's about to discover a new fresh hell.

Release date: March 8, 2018

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 304

Sample

 

1

I’ve been trying to make this conversation happen for what must be seventeen hours now, and I wish so hard that I could give up and walk away. But I can’t. I’ve invested too much time – I have to keep going.

‘SO,’ I try again loudly, cringing at the nasal fake-cheer in my voice and feeling all of life’s awkwardness condense into that one stupid syllable. ‘How long have you been, um, doing this . . . job?’

He barely glances in my direction. ‘Huh? What’d you say, babe?’ he replies, his Birmingham accent jarring, distinctly out of place on this random roof terrace under a too-hot sun.

‘Oh!’ I force a laugh, knowing he definitely fucking heard me, and that he just doesn’t want to talk. I stare down at my feet, examining the blister forming on the side of my big toe, and consider going heavier with my chat. Small talk isn’t working – everyone hates small talk – so maybe I should go straight in with big talk. Donald Trump’s hostage wife, floppy Brexit, any dodgy uncles he had growing up.

Sweat itches the back of my neck and the glare of the sun, reflecting off his baby-oiled nipples, briefly blinds me. I sigh. Why am I doing this to myself?

I’m only twenty-four hours into this hen do – here in Tenerife for my demanding and not-even-that-nice-to-make-up-for-it school friend, Harriet – and I already hate everything. Here we are, a group of women who don’t really know each other, trapped together in a rented apartment with a fancy roof terrace for a long weekend, enacting an intimate itinerary of nudity-based activities. It’s like an intensive episode of Big Brother, but with no cameras behind the mirrors.

Actually, that did happen on a hen do I saw on the news last year, but I think that hotel manager is in jail now.

So much forced fun, so many phallic-shaped inflatables, and such middle-class guilt over the Butler in the Buff beside me. That’s why I am trying so hard with this conversation – while carefully avoiding eye contact with his free-swinging cock – so that he knows at least one person here sees him as a real-life human being. So far, all he’s had is two hours of hens coming over, one by one, to scream in his face that he should ‘take off the stupid apron already’ and ‘do the elephant dance, bitch’. Earlier, one of the bridesmaids spilled a bright green jelly shot all over his bum-crack and screamed that it was an arsehole waterfall. Actually, that was really funny and I couldn’t stop laughing – which I think is probably why he doesn’t want to talk to me now. But I really want him to know I’m a nice person. I need him to know that I do see him as more than just a piece of meat and a naked jelly-shot arse vessel. I want to tell him about the fantastic Yelp review I plan on giving him after this weekend.

I also need him to explain to me what an elephant dance is.

The Shiny Naked Man turns suddenly away from me, to catch a toppling-over woman. She is slipping about on a large greasy patch on the ground that Shiny Naked Man may or may not be responsible for. I’m not one to point fingers, but I think he is the only one who brought a two-litre bottle of baby oil with him on this hen do. She – damn, what is her name? – smiles up at him sloppily and paws at his apron, which is the one thing standing between his sad penis and this cold, cruel world. Poor Shiny Naked Man. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s probably a world-class heart surgeon or something in his normal life.

I quickly try to catch the eye of the bride, Harriet, sitting a few feet away, and wave frantically towards the sexual assault in progress beside me. In two hours, I fully expect to be locked up in a local police station, being grilled by Spanish lawyers as the other hens rustle up bail money. Actually, that might be more fun than this . . .

Harriet rolls her eyes at me, but staggers up, shouting at ‘Jill’ to leave the Butler in the Buff alone.

Jill, that’s it! That’s her stupid fucking name! Like Jack and Jill, except she’s climbing uphill to fetch a pail of penis.

I force down another giggle, remembering our tepid introduction at the airport last night.

‘Lilah, this is Jill Tide,’ Harriet told me, smiling from underneath her brand new polyester veil – tags still attached. ‘She was my boss until last year, and she’s just been promoted to head of accounts at her new office. She’s now in charge of a team of, like, two hundred people, right, Jill? It’s a huge promotion.’ Harriet grinned then, adding impulsively, ‘So this weekend will be like a double celebration for both of us!’ And then she’d looked really worried and added sternly, ‘But mostly it will be my celebration. I mean it’s my hen do. I think we can call this here in the airport – this little bit in the departure lounge – your celebration, Jill, and then not mention it again. OK? I really don’t think it’s cool of you to try to steal my thunder, Jill.’ And then she’d made a really unenthused toast with our free airport Baileys. I tried to whisper congratulations but Harriet gave me a really livid look.

I remember worrying that Head of Accounts Jill, in her fancy grey trouser suit from, like, Jigsaw or somewhere else fancy that I never shop, wasn’t going to be too impressed with the wild events planned for this weekend. But here she is, not even a full twenty-four hours later, in her red horny devil outfit, with dried tequila dribble peeling off her chin. Good old Jill.

This is, at least, better than last night. The moment we arrived at the villa we were herded straight down to the pool for a ‘hen photoshoot’. Harriet had hired a local photographer to capture us all jumping around in the air, wearing our matching hen t-shirts. Then we had to do another set-up, posing in our red bikinis around the pool. Harriet kept screaming at us not to drink the cocktails because they were just props for the photoshoot. She’d put hairspray all over them to keep the straws and decorations from moving about too much in the breeze. The shoot went on for ages – almost four hours – but Harriet said we couldn’t leave until all nine of us looked like we were having the exact right amount of fun. She said her Instagram followers had to be properly, spitefully jealous, or what was even the point of this weekend at all.

As you may well have picked up, Harriet, the bride, is being a proper dick about everything. And I would say you only get one hen do, but Harriet is actually having two more after this. One back in Liverpool where she lives, and then a third one for work friends the week after. She said it was for people who couldn’t make it to this one, but then she said everyone here has to attend the other two as well. Which is really just truly fantastic news for my overdraft.

‘No!’ Harriet suddenly screams now, leaping unsteadily from her seat and knocking a sun umbrella over. She looks panicked and is pale under her heavy fake tan.

‘Are you OK? What’s wrong, Harriet?’ I run over, the only one to react. The rest of the hens are too drunk. Jill is humping Shiny Naked Man’s leg, like a horny puppy, and all his energies are focused on keeping his penis safe from her grasping hands.

Harriet looks at me but her eyes are super glazed. ‘Delly?’ she says, unsure.

‘Yes, it’s me,’ I say through gritted teeth, wincing at the ancient school-era nickname. It’s LILAH – how many times do I have to casually refer to myself in the third person before she gets it?

She bursts into loud sobs and thrusts her left hand into my face. ‘I’ve lost my engagement ring,’ she wails, looking bereft. ‘It’s gone! I can’t find it. Have you seen it?’ It takes me half a second to register the bare knuckles in my face. The webbing of her fingers is stained orange, but there’s no sign of the usual massive sparkler that sits there.

Holy shit. This is bad. She can’t really have lost it, can she? It’s probably just down in our apartment? Surely?

Harriet’s fiancé is a big-time wanker-banker, and I’m pretty sure that ring is worth a lot of money. I say ‘pretty sure’ but I mean ‘absolutely sure’ – because Harriet specifically told me it’s worth a lot. Loads of times. She sent us a group email about it. She put it on Facebook. Oh, look, the ring cost £25,000.

I attempt a reassuring smile and put my hand on her arm. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll find it, I promise,’ I say as calmly as I can, biting my lip.

It must be here. It must be.

I really hope it’s here.

 

It’s definitely not here.

I’ve looked all over this stupid roof terrace, discarding a thousand willy straws and knocking over a million more sticky shot glasses, but no ring. Shiny Naked Man briefly shook Jill off and helped me search, but after a few minutes he muttered something about his insurance not covering this, and wandered back over to resume being pestered. Actually, he is starting to seem fairly OK about the groping situation. Ooh, maybe he and Jill will fall in love? That would be so romantic! Wait, would that be romantic? I’m not sure I’ve got romance right.

I turn to Harriet, who is staring forlornly at her empty glass. It’s hard to tell if she’s more upset about the missing jewellery, or being momentarily out of alcohol. ‘You’re absolutely sure you didn’t leave it back in your room tonight, Harri? Maybe in the bathroom? Can I not just go down and check?’ I ask for the third time.

She wails again, ‘I’ve already told you: no! Definitely not! I’m not an idiot, Delly. Oh God, I’m sure I left it at the cocktail class earlier. I remember taking it off there. Or maybe it was at the life drawing class we did? Or maybe the karaoke? Why did we go to so many different places today? I’m pretty sure it must be at one of those. I’m ninety-nine per cent certain it’s at the cocktail class.’ She looks at me pointedly and then adds slowly, ‘I guess someone is going to have to go back over there to check.’

Oh shit, she wants me to go. I pause, thinking about retracing the many, many exhausting steps we’ve taken today and knowing I’m the only one here sober enough to do it.

Harriet seizes on my reluctance and starts shrieking again. ‘Oh, forget it! What’s the point? My hen do is ruined; everything’s ruined. We might as well go home right now and I’ll just cancel my wedding since clearly no one gives a shit about me.’ She covers her face with her hands.

I can’t believe I’m about to do this.

‘Of course it’s not ruined,’ I say, knowing I’m being manipulated and hating it. ‘You stay here and keep having . . . fun. This is going to be fine. I’ll go to the cocktail place and find it.’

I locate my bag under the maid of honour, Nina, who is flopped across one of the sofas. There’s a sick bucket next to her head and a really rather surprising amount of bright green vomit in there.

‘Nina, are you all right?’ I ask, genuinely concerned. She lifts her head up from the sofa and nods, blearily. I look again at the bucket. ‘Er, I don’t suppose you have the phone numbers for any of the venues we’ve been to today?’ I say, enunciating as clearly as I can. ‘Or maybe an itinerary or something? Harriet can’t find her engagement ring.’

Nina looks momentarily stricken. ‘Oh no, that’s . . .’ She stops, confused. ‘Wait, what’s happened? Sorry, Nelly, what do you need?’ She tries to stand and immediately lurches back down.

Nelly, now, is it? Fabulous.

I save her hair before it flops into the green liquid, and say as nicely as I can, ‘OK, Nina, never mind. You stay there and keep that bucket close. I’ll sort this out.’

She gives me a weak thumbs up. ‘Thanks, Nelly.’

It’s fine. I can do this all by myself. I will handle it. And Nelly is at least a nicer name than Delly.

 

Three hours later, and I am totally broken as I trudge back into the villa. I have been all over town looking for this fucking, fucking ring. I managed to figure out the names of the various places we’d been to, even without Nina’s help, and got their phone numbers off Google, using up all my O2 data. But it’s a Saturday night so obviously no one was really answering when I rang around. Oh, except that one guy who just kept asking me what I was wearing, and when I mentioned looking for a ring, he said he wouldn’t mind looking for my ring sometime. So I got a cab to each of the three places we’d visited, to search them properly for myself. Sadly, all I found were yet more drunk groups of women, and barmen who smirked and made the exact same joke about my ring as the other guy.

At some point in my travels, my phone died, and I had to admit defeat and head back to the apartment, empty-handed and miserable.

I know Harriet has been a pain, but I feel really, really awful. I told her I’d find the ring and I haven’t. I’ve failed the bride. I’ve let her down. Everyone knows that’s the one thing you’re not supposed to do. If a bride says jump, you bloody well jump and then jump higher and then you find a lost fucking engagement ring.

I find everyone gathered back in our apartment, playing pin the willy on the donkey in the large living room. The mood has lifted decidedly since I last saw them, and I feel a pang at having missed out on so much of the fun. I was so desperate to get away from them but now I’m sad and resentful at having missed out.

I’m surprised to see Shiny Naked Man is still here. His allotted booking with us must’ve run out ages ago. But yep, that’s definitely his apron I can see in the corner, covering those hairless legs poking out from underneath Jill.

Oh God, I hope he’s not dead.

But at least that might distract everyone from my failed ring mission?

Harriet looks up, surprised as I come in.

‘Where have you been, Delly?’ she says delightedly.

I wince – she’s going to be devastated. Come on, Lilah, woman up. Just tell her the truth. It’s not like you lost the ring yourself, and she’ll understand that you did everything you could to get it back. She’s not a monster.

She is a bit of a monster.

Deep breath.

‘I’m really sorry, Harri, I couldn’t find it,’ I say, covering my eyes.

‘Find what?’ she says, and I peek through my fingers. She looks confused.

‘Your engagement ring,’ I say, waiting for the crying to start again. There really should be crying at this point. Maybe she’s saving up the tears for telling the fiancé – that conversation will require a lot of crying to avoid shouting.

But instead, she waves her hand dismissively. The hand glitters.

‘Oh, that. Don’t worry, I found it hours ago,’ she says. ‘It was here in the apartment all along – in the bedside table. I remembered that I left it here deliberately because –’ she lowers her voice – ‘I thought I might want to get off with the stripper.’ She gives a peeved nod over in the direction of Jill, before adding thoughtfully, ‘But that didn’t work out. Plus, the diamond didn’t go with my horny devil outfit.’

I gape at her, as my stomach acid starts to boil.

What. The. Fuck.

It was here, all along? I asked her that – over and over. I shitting asked her that. I even tried to wrestle the apartment key off her to check, but she was so insistent it wasn’t down here, she wouldn’t hand it over. Hours I’ve been out there searching for this ring. Hours. I start counting up in my head all the Euros I’ve spent on taxis back and forth. How many times my arse got pinched and my nipple got elbowed, fighting my way through to the front of the karaoke stage so I could check the sticky floor for a missing fucking diamond that was here the whole time. I asked her so many times if she might’ve left it here.

I wait. She waits. We look at each other. She’s not going to say sorry. She doesn’t even seem bothered.

The words bubble up and out of me. ‘You know I’ve spent my whole night out there looking for it?’ I say, my voice breaking a bit.

I know, I know, I’m lame, but it’s the best I can do – I really don’t like confrontation.

She shrugs and I feel myself go rigid.

Just leave it, I tell myself. She’s the bride, this is her hen do, don’t be the one who makes a fuss and ruins everything with an argument.

There’s silence and I can’t bring myself to say anything else. For a second she looks half repentant and then the defiance slides back into place. ‘Actually, Delly, to be honest, I’m the one who should be annoyed with you,’ she says in a sing-song school-marm-y voice. ‘After all, we’ve been waiting hours to take a group selfie. You know I have a schedule to keep to for my Instagram posts. I can’t have my followers forgetting about us, or thinking we’re not having the best hen do ever!’

I picture forcibly removing her engagement ring right now, putting it on my own hand and then punching her in the face with it. It would feel good, wouldn’t it? The impact of that over-priced rock smashing her over-priced nose job. I might have to go to jail for a while, but I think it would be worth it. When the rage in my stomach is like it is now, I honestly think I could do a murder and it would be worth it. Or maybe a revenge-suicide. Right now I could happily throw myself in front of Harriet’s car, just to make her feel bad for killing me. I think it would be worth my death if I could make a shitty person feel shit, if only for a few minutes.

‘What’s going on?’ shouts Nina, who’s staggered over, leaving a trail of blood on the floor. She’s barefoot and, for some reason, still clutching the bucket of green sick under her arm.

‘Nothing, it’s all fine,’ I say, swallowing down my fury harder than anything in my life. There is no point getting into an argument. There’s no way I’d win. And, thinking about it a bit more now, I proooobably shouldn’t kill myself or murder anyone just to make a point.

Before I can say anything else, Harriet suddenly looks angry, turning to Nina. ‘Delly’s in a massive huff with me because I thought I’d lost my ring and she volunteered to look for it, even though I didn’t ask her to,’ she says defensively. ‘I found it myself but now she’s in a giant mood with me for no reason. Even though I’m the bride and this is MY HEN DO.’ She shouts the last part and Nina turns to me, the liquid she’s inexplicably carrying with her like a souvenir slopping about.

‘What the fuck, Nelly? Let it go. It’s HARRIET’S HEN DO.’

I shake my head. This is stupid. ‘No, no,’ I say tersely. ‘I’m not in a mood, I’m fine. I was just surprised for a second. Can we leave it and get back to the games?’

‘You should be happy she found the ring!’ Nina goes on, getting in my face. The smell from the bucket is making me gag. ‘You know it cost Jamie twenty-five thousand pounds? I can’t believe you lost it in the first place, Nelly. You should be fucking relieved Harriet found it, or you would’ve had to replace it, love. Do you even have twenty-five thousand pounds? Because it cost twenty-five thousand pounds, did you know that?’

Harriet nods aggressively in agreement.

I feel my brow furrow. ‘Hold on, I didn’t lose it,’ I say, my voice shaking. The anger in my stomach has drained away and now I’m just desperate to get away from this pointless drunk anger. ‘I was trying to find it because Harriet thought she’d left it at the cocktail class earlier. I was helping her. Why would I have to replace—’

‘OH, IT’S MY FAULT NOW, IS IT?’ shouts Harriet, whose drunk logic has suddenly shifted gears.

‘No, no!’ I say again quickly, thinking, yes, yes, it is your fault, you stupid idiot.

Oh crap, what’s happening here? Why am I the one in trouble now? I didn’t even do anything. Oh Christ, I hate this.

The Shiny Naked Man, who is much less shiny, and Jill, who is a lot more shiny now, have joined us and are listening interestedly.

‘WHOSE FAULT IS IT THEN, NELLY?’ Nina bellows at me, and panic starts building in my stomach. I can’t handle being shouted at in any situation, never mind something like this with a group of semi-strangers. And I know she’s that kind of drunk where no amount of reasonable explanation is going to calm her down.

‘Oh God, look, guys,’ I try desperately, ‘please stop shouting at me. This is over absolutely nothing. We thought Harriet had lost her ring, I went to look for it, but it was here in the apartment all along. It’s a good thing! I’m really sorry I upset you, Harri. Let’s get back to having fun, shall we? Can we? Please?’

Shiny Naked Man interjects. ‘Hold on, have you been out looking for that ring this whole time?’ He pokes a finger at me. ‘Fookin’ hell, babe, I wondered where you’d gone. And them shouting at you, that’s hella out of order.’ He turns to Harriet and Nina, who are black-faced with fury. ‘Why’s you two shouting at her when she’s just been trying to help ya? She shouldn’t be sayin’ sorry to you; youse two should be apologising to her.’ Beside him, Jill glares at me jealously, her fingers turning white as the iron grip she has on his arm tightens.

Fuck. I really appreciate Shiny Naked Man trying to help – and, honestly, it feels really good to finally, properly have his attention – but he’s clearly now made everything worse. Harriet and Nina will feel cornered and fight even harder. That’s how angry drunks work.

‘WHY ARE YOU EVEN STILL HERE, YOU FRIGID BITCH?’ Harriet shouts at Shiny Naked Man, taking a step towards him.

Jill immediately switches her attention to Harriet, elbowing her shiny man out the way to scream in the bride’s face for her to: ‘STEP THE FUCK OFF, HARRIET’.

I glance around the shouting group, my heart pumping hard in my chest, as the rest of the hens join us. I note distractedly that one is still blindfolded from the pin-the-willy donkey game.

Nina steps closer too and we’re all . . .