What Fresh Hell

by Lucy Vine

  Praise for Lucy’s first novel, Hot Mess:

  ‘A rom-com for a new generation. I loved it!’

  Sarah Knight, bestselling author of

  The Life-Changing Magic of Not Giving a F*ck

  ‘The most relatable book I’ve read in years – funny, real, filthy, if you liked Fleabag, you’ll love this’ Heat

  ‘Hot Mess is one of the funniest, warmest books I’ve ever read’Daisy Buchanan, author of How To Be a Grown-Up

  ‘The funniest thing I have read in a very, very long time’

  Cosmopolitan

  ‘The laugh-out-loud literary equivalent of Trainwreck-meets-Fleabag’ Glamour

  ‘A laugh-out-loud comedy of errors’

  Sarra Manning, Red Magazine

  ‘A breath of fresh air. You’re guaranteed at least one moment of total recognition per chapter’Stylist

  ‘A hilarious read that singletons everywhere will relate to’

  Natasha Harding, The Sun

  ‘This laugh-out-loud book reminds you that you aren’t alone. A Bridget Jones for the Tinder generation’ Closer

  ‘A more realistic, relatable Bridget Jones for this generation . . . Hilarious’ Grazia

  ‘If you love dirty jokes, dating horror stories and hilarious dialogue, this book is for you’Emma Gannon,

  author and podcast host of Ctrl Alt Delete

  LUCY VINE

  Contents

  Praise for Lucy’s first novel, Hot Mess:

  Title Page

  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

  Where are they now?

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Lucy Vine

  Copyright

  Wedding Number One: Kelly and Hamish, Saint Columbia’s Presbyterian Church, Edinburgh

  Theme: Floral. Unparalleled numbers of flowers everywhere you turn. Several hayfever sufferers forced to flee church.

  Menu: Smoked salmon starter, followed by chicken and a meringue dessert. Veggie option: stuffed red pepper with goat’s cheese.

  Gift: His and hers champagne glasses @ £150.

  Gossip: The best man’s speech went on for forty-five minutes, dissecting the groom’s very real porn addiction in horrifying detail. Grandma started crying.

  My bank balance: £425

  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.’