JUST LIKE A MOVIE (a snippet from my romcom, set in Ibiza, Spain)
Ever had a crush on a popstar?! Enjoy classic romcoms? Just Like A Movie is pure escapism.
“Emilio Caliente would look sexy riding a donkey along a hillside track. So it’s hardly surprising that when he pulls up alongside Celeste’s poor old red relic of post-war French technology in a Ferrari convertible, I almost have an orgasm. But when I notice someone very blonde and very ferrarily compatible sitting next to him, my G-spot shrivels up and sneaks away. Disappointed? Very.
I’m ashamed to say that I get even more upset when the blonde waves excitedly at us and yells, “Hi Gemma! Hi Celeste!” Yep, we know this person. It’s Kirsten.
I like Kirsten. She’s really nice. But when I’m not at my best, she’s not someone I want to be around. The sight of her is enough to make the supermodels of the world unite and, in a frenzy of jealousy, hot wax her head. Right now, I’m tempted to act as a supermodel informant and instigate the attack.
Once Miss Sweden, 35-year-old Kirsten has thick, ultra-long, sun-streaked, come-tangle-in-the-surf-with-me, white-blond hair that never needs brushing, because it looks dead sexy the way it is. Then there’s her body. I’ve never seen a body like hers. Ever. Forget those skinny teenage models in fashion magazines. You don’t want their bodies. You want hers. Well, I certainly do. She was designed by Pininfarina. Everything about her body is curvaceously aerodynamic. Except, as I said, her hair. Had she been born with the bald eagle look there might have been some hope for other women on the island. But no such luck.
Not only does Kirsten cause men to walk into lampposts, or crash their cars, when she walks down the street, she’s also one of the kindest, sweetest people I’ve ever met. Worse, there are no bubbles in her head. She came to Ibiza four years ago on a two-week summer holiday and fell in love with DJ Bonk, the man behind Celeste’s bum-burning Café Maximus compilation. At the time, Bonk was resident DJ at Wasted, one of the biggest clubs in Ibiza. Kirsten never went back to Stockholm. The love affair with DJ Bonk fizzled out (he inexplicably left her for a French lap dancer with a big bottom and piercings in very rude places) but she decided to stay on the island nonetheless.
She set up a small production company, scouting locations for photographic and video shoots, and within a year had become a key contact for anything related to media and communications in the Balearics. Her connections are insane. As for DJ Bonk, he was last seen three years ago in Ibiza hospital’s emergency ward with a rather disconcerting inflammation of the penis, apparently caused by repeated contact with certain alloys. They were considering amputation, but he requested a second opinion and moved to Hamburg.
Now, here she is, flushed, windswept and bushy tailed in Emilio’s company. She might well be. He looks like a Bacardi advertisement.
Emilio leaps out of the car without opening the door, just like they do in films, and jogs towards our olive tree. I don’t know whether to put it down to the heat, the Rioja leftovers still intoxicating my veins or his incredible good looks, but he seems to float towards us in slow motion, bathed in shimmering silver light, as though encased in special effects. Kirsten bounds after him, all legs and hair, her perfect boobs gift-wrapped in turquoise silk. I’m willing her to trip over and plummet into sheep poop.”
JUST LIKE A MOVIE Available on all the Amazons!
"I’m willing her to trip over and plummet into sheep poop.” Bwaha! Same. Espesh after that description of her. LOL