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.