Page 116 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

After exploring the old fishermen’s quarter, which was now transformed into a strip of glitzy super yachts, some even with their own helicopters, and finding out that the cruise ships were docked on the other side of the island, Flick had returned to discover she’d just missed Birdy.

‘Where?’ Sitting across from her, Maggie fanned herself with the flyer. ‘The other port?’

‘No.’ Flick tutted. ‘Clubbing!’

Maggie’s heart sank. She wished she’d never mentioned the VIP invite.

‘I need to ask Birdy a few questions.’

‘What kind of questions?’

‘I’m an investigative journalist – I’ll think of something.’

‘I thought you were a community reporter?’

Flick snatched the flyer from her fingers.

‘And I’m going to stay one for ever if I don’t get this story, now come on.’

One outfit change and a solar shower later, they were now with what felt like a million other people, packed like sardines into a club. Fortunately it was outside and the dance floor was open air. Unfortunately there was no shade and everyone was melting.

‘I need some water,’ yelled Maggie, trying to make her voice heard above the dance anthems. Despite telling the bouncers their names were on the VIP guest list, they’d had to queue for ever to get in. ‘I feel a bit faint.’

Attempting to make their way across the dance floor to try to find the VIP section, Flick turned to see her friend being jostled on all sides by hordes of enthusiastic clubbers. Crikey, she did look a bit ashen. She felt a beat of alarm. It was only yesterday she’d suffered a concussion and ended up in hospital. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all. They quickly needed to divert.

‘Let’s go to the bar.’

‘How will we find it? This place is enormous.’

‘Don’t worry, follow me!’

Grabbing Maggie’s hand, Flick started pushing through the crowds with the kind of determination that only someone who went to a crappy school and tries to get on in life understands. It was like wading through an ocean of waving arms, skimpy outfits and sweating bodies.

Until finally they made it, panting and breathless, to the bar which was thronging with thirsty clubbers.

‘How did you do that?’

‘Glastonbury.’ Flick looked triumphant. ‘Once you’ve made it to the front of the pyramid stage, you can do anything.’

Maggie smiled weakly and wiped her brow.

Flick’s triumph quickly disappeared and she felt a beat of concern. Maggie really did look quite odd. And it wasn’t just the black eye and bruising. She’d gone a strange sickly green colour.

‘Here, sit down, I’ll get you a drink.’

Except there was nowhere to sit. For another fifteen minutes they were pushed and jostled until, finally reaching the front, they were served – and Maggie felt even more faint.

‘Fourteen euros for a bottle of water!’ she gasped. ‘What happened to drinks being free?’

‘What?’ yelled Flick, trying to make herself heard above the rave.

‘Wham. “Club Tropicana”. It’s a song,’ she explained, in reference to the famous lyrics. ‘You know they filmed the video here in Ibiza.’

‘I’ve never heard of it.’

‘You’ve never heard of it?’ Maggie was incredulous. ‘First Duran Duran, now Wham, what’s it going to be next? Heaven 17?’

‘You really did get a bang on the head, didn’t you?’