Despedida de Soltero

Pepa looks in the mirror. Good enough. An extra four inches with these shoes. Dios! She hopes it’s not an all nighter – even if the soltero is good looking. The guapos are a pain in el culo, she finds. The only thing worse than a good-looking stag is an ugly stag with a good-looking best man. She picks a speck of kohl from the corner of her left eye. Some people say her eyes are her best feature. No-one will notice them tonight. She fingernails the touch-pad on the AirBook, checks the address in the e-mail from Juanfran@hotmail.com. A bar with a terrace on Calle Larios: it always is in Malaga. Pepa knows the manager and all the staff of the place mentioned in the e-mail. It’s always better to meet them somewhere where you’re known.

These clothes. On some people they would look like porno audition clothes. Pepa knows they look ridiculous. The client is paying. What do the English guiris say? “He who pays the piper, calls the tune”, that’s it. Well, JuanFran has paid. Quite a bit actually. A lot more than Pepa gets for a week part-time at the travel agent’s in Villablanco. No, this is weekend work. Of course it is. That’s why they’re called Stag Weekends. Pepa has seen English web-sites. They don’t offer services quite like Pepa’s. Of course, if Pepa were so inclined, there is a great deal more money to be earned in this business, but … no fucking way! Ha ha. Juanita takes that kind of work, Pepa can remember how she used to smile more often.

She lights up a Ducados. Pepa only smokes when on a job. Even though personal services are not included, the handsome ones try it on and the ugly ones are forced into it by the better-looking “best man”. Pepa’s father doesn’t know about her sideline. He wouldn’t understand. Pepa can’t figure it out herself, is it because people have seen this stuff in Hollywood movies? La Resaca has a lot to answer for. Imagine calling a film “The Hangover”. She saw that with her ex- a few years ago. Jose - not Pepe, never Pepe – is a big person. Juanita never liked him:

“You never know, with a big person, Pepa. They might just be with us because of how we look.”

Pepa hadn’t answered. But you know how it is. The tiniest seed of doubt makes a jungle of your mind.

Pepa looks at the clock on the wall by the flat’s front door. It’s seven o´clock. She doesn’t wear a watch. Most Andalusians don’t. There’s a clock on your phone if you really want to know the time. She is due at the bar at eight, but no way is she not arriving first. No way is she walking in with twenty twenty-somethings cat-calling and whistling. You only make that mistake once. Pepa straightens her skirt and leaves. She takes the lift down with Jorge from the floor above. He looks down and smiles,

“Good luck!” he says.

Pepa cranes her neck and winks “Who needs luck when you look like this?”

Jorge laughs. Good, there’s no point in letting him know what she really feels.

Outside the block of flats, Jorge waves and saunters off. Inmaculada’s taxi pulls up.

‘Where to, Guapa?’

‘Larios, the same bar as last week.’

Pepa smiles into the driver’s mirror, Inmaculada always calls her “pretty”, it’s a nice thing to say, even if it’s not true.

It takes half-an-hour from Villablanco to Larios, but it’s like travelling fifty years. Inmaculada says thanks for the tip and promises to come whatever time Pepa calls.

Bar Sinistro isn’t actually on Larios. It’s on a tiny back-street or Callejon, called Calle Peligro, off the less fashionable end. Pepa waves at Rhys, the English boy with the strange name who speaks better Castilian than most people Pepa went to school with, maybe better than Pepa herself. Still, it’s hard when everyone you know has a head start on you. More than a head, haha. Rhys is a nice guy, if things were different… well, who knows. He helps Pepa up onto the high stool at the bar. Pepa can jump down easily, plenty of practice. But being helped up onto the stool is another reason to arrive early.

Twenty minutes to go. She checks her handbag for the umpteenth time, the handcuffs are still there. Some stag-parties bring their own, but Pepa won’t use them. She’ll use her own, the ones she has the keys for. Rhys catches her checking, he is still guiri enough to laugh about the Spanish for handcuffs: only a foreigner would find that funny: that the Spanish word for handcuff is esposa: spouse.