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squealed when she broke it to them (within two seconds of them sitting down.) “Wow!”
    Yes. Wow. Bloody. Wow.
    I wouldn’t say I was jealous, but I was definitely irritated by the way she acted like Goldenballs is perfect but never mentioned the fact that she’s doing the dirty on him with Boring Roger. No. Her little fail-safe speech didn’t even got a look-in. Isn’t the universe supposed to punish people for stuff like that? Because I can’t understand why I – the one who isn’t stringing along two blokes – am coming off second while everything is going so perfectly for Malibu.
    1. Why can’t Goldenballs be the one in Ayia Napa and Robbie be taking ME to the Orchid Bar?
    2. Why does Goldenballs play for a bigger football team than Robbie?
    3. Drive a better car?
    4. Text her more?
    5. And why is it that even my loveliest message from Robbie will probably never compete with one of hers, because Goldus Bollockus always comes up with something deep and bloody meaningful?
    I felt even more sorry for myself when Malibu’s client Plastic Fantastic screeched, “The Orchid Bar? Omigod, it’s so–oooo you!” when she heard the news.
    “So, what does your Gary look like then?” she asked as Malibu started filing her nails.
    “Oh, he’s ama–aaaaazing. The spitting image of Will Smith,” said Malibu. Then she stopped filing, looked towards me and said, “Isn’t he, Remy?”
    I thought,
this is it
. This is the universe hitting Malibu right back in her face, because Goldenballs may have a lot of things on Robbie, but he is nowhere near as good looking. In fact, even though the club was dark and I’ve only seen him once – and it was a week ago – I’m 110% certain that Will Smith HE AIN’t.
    I cleared my throat. “Well, actually he’s er … he’s er…”
    I could feel everyone in the salon focused on me. And Malibu was eyeballing me. HARD. Her pupils were saying, “Back me up.” Not in a threatening way. They were
begging
.
    I turned to Plastic Fantastic. “He’s … a … a …”
    Then I caught sight of Malibu’s begging eyes again.
    “He’s a… Ugh.” I sighed. “He’s a dead stamp of him. Yeah.”
    I just couldn’t do it. Family loyalty and all that.
    “Oh my god. AND a footballer,” said Plastic Fantastic. Then she gave me a look of pity as she said, “Well, you never know, you could be next.”
    Aaaaaaaaargh! I hate being patronized!
    “Actually, I’m sorted,” I told her through gritted teeth.
    “Oh, really?” she replied, looking surprised.
    “Yes. I’m seeing Gary’s mate, Robbie Wilkins. He plays for Netherfield Park Rangers,” I announced.
    “Good on ya, girl. So are you going to the Orchid Bar too?” she asked.
    “Er, no. We can’t. He’s a … way.” I was starting to regret opening my big mouth.
    “Shame! Where’s he gone?” asked Plastic Fantastic.
    “Ayia Napa,” Malibu answered for me, and I don’t know whether she timed it deliberately, but the words left her lips just as everything and everyone had taken a pause – the phone, conversation … BREATHING.
    So much for family loyalty.
    “Ayia Napa?!” everyone repeated. It was obvious from their voices what they thought. That he’d cheat on me.
    Cheat on me? Listen to what I’m saying – he CAN’T cheat on me because I’m not even his girlfriend. YET.
    But I’m now even more worried (if that’s possible). And he’s there and there’s nothing I can do about it.
8 p.m.
    Malibu came in to model the dress she’s wearing to the Orchid Bar tonight. Can’t believe she had the cheek to warn me about my LBD for the date with Robbie when her dress was so tight, you could see what she’d had for dinner!
    It was also luminous orange, to match her luminous orange nails. She called it her neon look and said it’s going to be big this summer.
    “This is the face I’m gonna pull for the paparazzi,” she said. Then she pouted her lips until they looked like Angelina’s.
    I must admit, she looked