Sun, Sea and Sangria

by Victoria Cooke

  About the Author

  Victoria Cooke grew up in the city of Manchester before crossing the Pennines in pursuit of her career in education. She now lives in Huddersfield with her husband and two young daughters. When she’s not at home writing by the fire with a cup of coffee in hand, she loves working out in the gym and travelling. Victoria has always had a passion for reading and writing, undertaking several writers’ courses before completing her first novel in 2016.

  Also by Victoria Cooke:

  The Secret to Falling in Love

  The Holiday Cruise

  Who Needs Men Anyway?

  It Started with a Note

  A Summer to Remember

  Sun, Sea and Sangria

  VICTORIA COOKE

  ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

  Copyright © Victoria Cooke 2020

  Victoria Cooke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © June 2020 ISBN: 9780008376208

  Version: 2020-06-02

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Also by Victoria Cooke

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Andrea’s Sunny Sangria Recipe

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Extract

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  For Dave and Adam, who each inspired this book in their own special way.

  Andrea’s Sunny Sangria Recipe

  One bottle of your favourite Rioja

  (I like to have an extra one so I can have a glass whilst chopping fruit)

  An orange

  A lemon

  An apple

  A few strawberries

  2–3 tablespoons of sugar

  A dash of banana liqueur or brandy/rum/gin or whatever you have left over from Christmas

  (choose one of these – not all)

  A cup of orange juice

  Ginger ale, soda water or lemonade to taste

  A few frozen raspberries

  1. Chop the fruit and squeeze a little of the juice from the lemon and orange pieces into the pitcher then toss the rest of the fruit in.

  2. Add the sugar and pour in the full bottle of wine.

  3. Add the dash of dusty-shelf booze and chill until you’re ready to serve.

  4. Before serving, add ginger ale, orange juice, frozen berries and ice, then give it a stir.

  Chapter 1

  ‘Where the hell is the dry oil spray?’ My chest is tightening. ‘We’re on in ten and Sammy needs to be glistening like an Adonis and smelling of coconut in five.’

  ‘I’ve got some olive oil from the restaurant,’ Ant pipes up. ‘That’s what I’ve used.’

  ‘Yes, well you look like a deep-fried sausage and don’t smell much better. Grab a towel and rub it off. It’s the twenty-first century, for goodness’ sake, and nobody here is auditioning for The Full Monty.’

  ‘Yes, Kat,’ a few voices mumble. I don’t have the time to think about who they belong to, but I do spot one or two other super-greasy torsos.

  ‘Seven minutes to go. Come on!’ I’m rummaging through my bag, throwing things left and right in a fit of panic. ‘Here.’ I produce an old bottle of Skin So Soft from Avon, which I’ve been using as a mozzie repellent since my mum gave me a bottle in 1997.

  ‘I want you all shimmering seductively and smelling nose-twitchingly floral in three minutes tops.’ I toss the spray to my lead dancer, Marcus. ‘Go!’

  Through the fog and nose-tingling scent of dry oil mist, I check myself in the mirror. My stage make-up looks like Mary Berry has daubed it on with a silicone spatula, but this glam look is for my bold stage persona. It helps me get into the character of a strong, confident woman who knows what she wants. It should look natural under the lights. Anyway, it’s the guys who need to look good out there, not me.

  ‘Okay, huddle up.’ The guys gather dutifully around me. ‘Right, remember that Sammy has pulled his shoulder, so when you all go into the backflips segment, he will be stage left, grinding. Don’t wait for him. Also, Marcus, that thing you did with the eye contact and the winking last night – the audience loved it. I want to see more. Remember, the crowd loves you. Do your best and let’s blow this thing up.’

  There are some whoops from the audience as the amplified beats of 50 Cent’s ‘Candy Shop’ start. I’m up. I wiggle my curvy hips as I saunter onto the stage and pump the mic above my head in time to the music. The crowd whoop and cheer and the excitement is tangible. Under the glare of the bright white spotlights, I can barely make out the hundreds of people who’ve come to see the show, but the energy is electric.

  ‘Ladies … and gentlemen,’ because there are always a few blokes in the crowd, ‘welcome to the Grand Canarian resort complex where we are going to Blow. Your. Mind! There won’t be a fire hose or PVC thong in sight, because tonight we’re giving you your dream man. Think gorgeous Adonises who can satisfy your deepest desires. Think dreamboat pick ‘n’ mix. Ladies and gents, think the Heavenly Hunks …’

  As the crowd goes wild, my five men come out dressed in distressed blue jeans and T-shirts that struggle to contain their abs. Marcus and Ant lift me into the air and turn me around as ‘I Want It That Way’ by the Backstreet Boys kicks in and the boys start to dance. It’s the same routine we do every night, but each show feels a little different depending on where we’re performing. As the boys move to the front, I slip back into the shadows.

>   ‘They always bring the crowds,’ a male voice with a thick Spanish accent says. Gaël, the hotel manager, has appeared in the wings beside me.

  I smile. It’s taken a while to get to this point. When we first started up here, there was just me, Marcus, Hugo and Pauw trying to get gigs (Pauw’s real name is Paul but everyone loves to make fun of the fact that despite living in East London his whole life, he doesn’t have a cockney accent – it’s incredibly hard to just call him Paul now). Most of the big hotels wanted tribute acts or magicians and we just about scraped by in seedy bars.

  Things changed when Gaël booked us a couple of years ago for his huge, fancy hotel, on a whim, after a spate of complaining Brits rightfully whinged about a geriatric gymnast who took five minutes and two helpers to do a cartwheel and called it a show. After that, people couldn’t get enough of the Heavenly Hunks. The Canaries Today called us ‘The Chippendales for the Modern Woman’. We’re probably piggy-backing off the success of Magic Mike a bit, but I don’t think their lawyers are worried.

  ‘My favourite part,’ Gaël nudges me. He’s a skinny, six-foot, heterosexual guy but even he can’t help but glue his eyes to the backflips and breakdancing. Pauw does his run of six consecutive backflips as Ant, who’s a trained ballet dancer, leaps across the stage in mid-air splits, his long brown hair billowing behind him. The crowd can’t get enough of his porcelain skin.

  The music slows down and the intro to Ed Sheeran’s ‘I’m a Mess’ kicks in. Marcus appears in an open dark denim shirt that reveals enough of his smooth, toned chest to drive the audience wild. The shirt is paired with fitted, dark jeans and chunky boots. His short dark hair and light-brown skin look beautiful under the light, and the whole ensemble is one of my finest pieces of work, even if I do say so myself. He sits on the edge of the stage, making eye contact with as many lucky audience members as he can manage, whilst his silky voice gives its pitch-perfect rendition of the song. I still get chills watching him and I’ve seen this act a billion times.

  ‘Even I am almost falling in love,’ Gaël jokes.

  ‘See, that’s the point, Gaël. Women don’t want cheesy hosepipe-stroking and pant-dropping to the beat of “Hot Stuff”. We don’t even want to see any naked bottoms.’ Gaël shifts uncomfortably, but I’m proud of the act I’ve put together so I carry on regardless. ‘Women want sexy all-rounders. Men with talent. Half the time, the Heavenlies are fully clothed, yet you can practically hear the ladies’ ovaries scream.’

  ‘I admire what you’ve done. You know, if you ever get fed up of managing the Heavenly Hunks, there would be a job here as my entertainment director. I’m terrible at it.’ He laughs.

  ‘Thanks, Gaël, though I can’t see that happening any time soon.’

  I switch my mic back on and step back into the spotlight. ‘I don’t know about you but I’ve come over all hot and bothered,’ I say over the screaming cheers. ‘We’ve had a hard day today, haven’t we, ladies? I mean, I bet some of you even had to fetch your own cocktails from the pool bar, didn’t you? Well, we’re going to slow things down and treat as many of you as possible to your own heavenly massage whilst our talented Hugo plays the piano, just for you.’

  The spotlight switches to Hugo, who starts playing ‘All of Me’. As dry ice fills the stage, the rest of the guys filter through the audience giving shoulder rubs to as many audience members as possible. Those not having their shoulders rubbed are fixated on Hugo. His black hair shines under the light and his muscles ripple beneath his tanned skin as he hits the keys, his eyes intent on the sheet music. A ripple of excitement washes over me. We put on a bloody good show even if I do say so myself.

  As the song finishes, it’s time for our pièce de résistance, and okay, the song is nicked from Magic Mike but we did our own choreography and I doubt Mike cares. The beat starts and the guys bound across the stage from behind the curtain as ‘Pony’ kicks in at the chorus, and the crowd are up, out of their seats, singing and going wild. Under the blue-white spotlight, with the rising dry ice, they look like mythical beings.

  ***

  ‘That was awesome, guys. The manager is really pleased with us and has booked us in for an extra show next month when we’re back from Gran Canaria, as well as the bookings we’d already secured for early next year.’ The guys cheer and there’s a bit of back-slapping. ‘We have the show over in Playa de las Americas tomorrow, which is going to be huge, and there’s a British newspaper doing a piece on the resort – they want to include a short review of our show, so I want you all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the rehearsal tomorrow. That means one drink tops in the bar tonight then bed, okay?’

  I glare pointedly at Ant and Hugo. Ant looks sheepish and Hugo looks downright confused. He speaks English fairly well, but he doesn’t always catch what I’m saying if I go off on a rant and sometimes I wonder if it’s ‘selective’ understanding. I’m hoping a stern glance in his direction is enough to stop him going home with an audience member or two, tonight at least.

  ‘Love you, Kat.’ Pauw leans in for a hug.

  ‘You too. Make sure you get yourself to the doctor’s tomorrow and have that mole on your back checked,’ I say, unhappy with the raised appearance it’s taken on recently. He gives me a salute and blows me a kiss. I shake my head as he walks away.

  ‘Marcus, you left your driver’s licence in the dressing area,’ I sigh, holding it out to him between my fingers.

  ‘What would I do without you, Kat?’

  ‘I honestly have no idea,’ I say drily as he wanders off.

  Hugo gives me a sheepish look and waves goodbye as the rest of the guys give me hugs and disperse. When I’m alone, I take a deep breath, gather my things and walk out through the hotel’s reception on a high.

  Chapter 2

  As I walk out into the crisp silence of the early hours, my skin bristles. I feel on edge. A man is loitering across the street. He has a messy bun and a giant camouflage-print Puffa jacket on. Granted, it can get chilly here at night in September but it’s hardly the Arctic Circle. My body is tense with apprehension; each nerve ending senses danger. He’s watching me whilst sipping something from a bottle. I tuck my bag under my arm and walk briskly past. It isn’t until I’m much closer that I realise he’s sipping some kind of smoothie drink. I relax a little, as though it’s a given that muggers don’t really worry about their vitamin intake or care much for liquefied kale. It’s silly how our perception of people works sometimes, but right now it’s making me feel safe.

  Something grabs my shoulder, and my heart catapults out of my chest. I spin, fists clenched, ready to pound seven bells out of Smoothie Man or whoever it is.

  When my eyes focus on the person in front of me, I get quite the surprise.

  It isn’t the camouflaged man-bun-man I was expecting. It’s a dark-haired man I don’t recognise. Something about his soft-brown eyes, fixed with concern on my clenched fists, stifles my alarm.

  ‘Sorry, I’m so sorry.’ He holds his hands in the air. ‘Just realised how bad it was to touch your shoulder. I didn’t want to just shout a random “excuse me” down the street at half twelve.’

  ‘But grabbing a lady on a dark, lonely street at half twelve is okay?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m sorry. I didn’t think it through, I just really wanted to talk to you and you left the hotel before I got a chance. Can we start again?’ He grins a wide smile and two small dimples form either side. He may have terrible etiquette but he is handsome. That thought is quickly overshadowed. What could he possibly want to talk to me about at this hour? I’d send him away but I’m too intrigued.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I saw your show tonight and thought it was great …’ He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the longer-on-top side-parting thing that seems trendy these days. ‘Anyway, I think I have what it takes and I wondered if you might have an opening for another dancer? I’ve just moved out here and I’m looking for work. I think it would suit me.’

  I get
a pang in my stomach. He certainly looks the part despite perhaps seeming a little older than the others, but that’s not a problem. The age range of our audience is eighteen to anything goes. I just can’t take someone on at the moment. ‘Look …’ I look pointedly at him, hoping he’ll furnish me with a name.

  ‘Jay,’ he says, taking the cue.

  ‘Jay. It’s not that I’m trying to brush you off. You certainly look the part and if you can dance I’d definitely audition you if I had space … The thing is, our profit margins are small and I’d not budgeted for taking on another dancer this year. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hijacked your evening. It was just an idea. I’ve just got out here and I’m looking for work. It looked like fun, that’s all.’ He drops his head and turns to leave.

  I feel really bad, not that he’s my responsibility or anything but when I first arrived out here, desperate, I was given a chance and it indirectly kick-started the Hunks. Perhaps I’m just shattered after back-to-back gigs but I want to throw him a lifeline. I’m sure we probably could afford another body on stage and it will give us an excuse to update our posters and fliers.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t you come along to a short audition tomorrow and I can keep you in mind.’

  The dimples reappear. ‘Yes, great. Tell me when and where you want me.’

  I shiver. Must be the arctic conditions. I rummage in my bag and pull out a tatty old business card for the bar we rehearse in. ‘We practise at three so come at two. Prepare a routine to “Pony” and we’ll take it from there.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll be there …’ he gestures to me with an open hand.

  ‘Kat,’ I say and take his hand in mine sealing the arrangement with a firm shake.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Kat.’

  Chapter 3

  We rehearse in a dance bar about a ten-minute walk away. The owner, Andrea, is a Spanish woman in her mid-forties who lets us use it for free. I suspect it’s for the view, but I like to think it’s because she’s my friend. I like Andrea a lot; she takes no nonsense from anyone.