A DIAMOND AND RUBY BELLY-BUTTON JEWEL
A long time ago, I had a diamond and ruby belly-button piercing. I had it made from a bracelet that had belonged to my mother-in-law, and it was gorgeous, kind of like a daisy, but with a ruby centre – similar to the one in the above photo, but much more beautiful, obviously!💫
I was thirty-nine at the time, and probably (ok, definitely) having a bit of a “last hurrah” because I had hair extensions down to my bum, too! But I truly did have a lovely flat, toned, and often rather tanned tummy, and – especially when I was on holiday in Ibiza – often wore silk sari tops with low-slung petticoats or skirts.
Basically, I was a hippie-deluxe, and when I look at photos of myself back then I think, “hey, good for you, girl,” because I looked good, and yet I was so insecure. Also, would you believe had a tiny mole, idyllically placed just to the left of the piercing!
Ha! I just realised that I was the Cindy Crawford of belly-button piercings!!
If you look at my tummy in the photo bottom right you can just about see it!
Of course, my mother was horrified by my piercing and droned on about “mutton dressed as lamb blablabla”, which I simply brushed off, but it still kind of stung, because she’s my Mama, and Mamas can always make us feel about four no matter how old we are.
Sadly, I soon realised that – at least for me – a belly-button piercing and riding my horse were not compatible. It rubbed against my jodhpurs and kept getting infected, so I gave it up and gifted it to my niece, who was thrilled to have such a beautiful jewel in her navel, made from stones that had once belonged to her grandmother.
And that concludes the ruby and diamond belly-button story I wanted to tell you, before sharing Chapter 7 of Just Like A Movie, currently serialised by The Empress. Chapter 7 is particularly funny (in my humble opinion), and introduces Kirsten, who has a diamond and sapphire belly-button piercing in her perfect navel. Does she also have a Emilio Caliente? Stay tuned.
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Chapter 7
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 slinks 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, 39-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 crosses 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 Maximuscompilation. 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 ridiculous 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.
Emilio is wearing baggy white linen trousers and a caramel-coloured loose linen shirt with a few too many buttons undone, revealing a bronzed, reasonably hairy, seriously toned chest. Under normal circumstances I’d have groaned and thought, ‘fasten the buttons’, but he pulls it off beautifully. He looks rested, fresh and clean. Not like Celeste and I who may as well have been wearing sheepskin coats in tropical conditions. My sweat glands are having a fiesta.
We struggle to our feet, brushing off bits of grass and rubbing at sheep slobber. This is nothing like the way I envisaged my second meeting with him. Ideally, I’d have gone for candles, incense and moonlight, soft music, good wine, and buckets of sex appeal.
He pulls me into his arms and gives me a massive hug, like I’m a long-lost friend.
“How are you?” he asks, holding me at arm’s length and looking me up and down. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
For heaven’s sake, don’t look at me like that! I take a step back before I dare speak, fearing gorilla breath, but he’s already hugging Celeste and asking questions about her car, whether she wants to leave it here as a national landmark, or have it towed somewhere for repair. Kirsten rushes to embrace me.
“Gemma!” she gushes, hugging me. “It’s so great to see you again! I’m so sorry to hear about Richard; Celeste told me everything. What a creep! How are you dealing with it, darling?”
She really is a sweetheart. Pity she had Emilio for breakfast. Something flashes in the sunlight, and I notice she has the most gorgeous sapphire and diamond belly button piercing I’ve ever seen. No traces of olive juice on her perfect stomach. What a relief. Then again, maybe she took a shower.
“I’m fine, really,” I reply breezily, summoning bubbledom and fanning myself with my hand. “Just a little hot.”
“Awwww, I can imagine,” she coos, her bright blue eyes beaming at me. “What a place to get stranded!”
I can’t resist any longer. “How do you know Emilio?” I’m trying to sound casual, bracing myself for the horrors I might hear.
Her face lights up and she goes into fully animated yippedy-skippedy mode. “Oh, I’ve known Emilio for years! I met him through Luca, my ex. Remember him, aka DJ Bonk? Emilio is such a sweetheart, such a really lovely guy. So absolutely genuine. He called me this morning to tell me he was at Los Gatos and that he’d been driven there by two wonderful ladies. He said there had been some sort of mobile phone mix-up, and that he didn’t have a car. So, I made a few calls. You know how it is in Ibiza in July, totally mad, impossible to find a rental car. And a friend of mine, Roberto – do you know Roberto? That lovely Italian record producer? No? Well, he’s wonderful; you must meet him sometime. Anyway, Roberto’s away for a couple of months – he hates Ibiza in the summer – and he said ‘of course, bella Kirsten, lend Emilio one of my cars’. So here we are! And you and Celeste are the wonderful ladies!” She pounces on me again and hugging me tight. Maybe she didn’t have him for breakfast. All is forgiven. I can relax.
Emilio wraps an arm around my shoulders. “So, guapa, do you have my phone? I’m so sorry I took your bag. I was tired and didn’t pay attention. Did anyone call me?”
I almost feel like acting all innocent and saying no, but he’ll be able to see that someone did, so I’m compelled to tell the truth. “Yes, someone called Billie phoned you.” Do I need to add that she wants him to call her back? I think not. I scour his face for a reaction and see none. Then, to give myself a little importance, I add, “What about me? Did I get any calls?”
“Yeah, some jerk called Richard called early this morning. Woke me up.”
What? What does Richard want? I’m seriously chuffed, not that he called, but to know that when he did call, he must have had the shock of his life when a male voice answered, even though – sadly – he clearly wouldn’t have known that he was talking to the Emilio Caliente. Or did he? Could Emilio have divulged his identity to my ex-husband, the man who has nothing but derision for me and my musical tastes?
“What did he say?” I can just imagine Richard’s face if he thought he’d caught me in bed with Emilio Caliente on my first night in Ibiza! “Actually, never mind, just tell me what you said.”
Emilio grins naughtily, runs his fingers through his hair and strikes a rock star pose, hips thrust sideways. “Well, guapa, I am Spanish, you know. We have a reputation to uphold. I said, ‘Hey man, this is Emilio Caliente here. It’s nine in the morning, this is Ibiza, everyone is sleeping’. You know, make him a little jealous if that’s his fancy.” Then his eyes grow wide as his expression turns to dismay. “Dios, I hope I didn’t do something wrong! I mean, after you’ve been so kind, I wouldn’t want to cause trouble for you.”
I’m definitely in love now. Ha! Richard must have been blown away! This must be all over the Internet by now. Back in Beigeland, the bongos must be bonging, the Gucci gang gossiping away over their expressos. I’m an overnight success story!
I’m so happy that I forget all about the ethics of appropriate behaviour in the presence of popstars, corporal odours, sheep drool and other nasties. I perform the ultimate, check-out-my-long-flickety-hair trick and throw myself into his arms in a rush of spontaneity.
“Perfect!” chirrups Kirsten. “Give that bastard something to think about!”
Emilio pats my shoulders. I realise that I’ve been hugging him for about twenty seconds beyond the accepted code of casual hugging and am clobbered by a wave of embarrassment. It’s one of those sensitive moments where if you do let go, you feel even sillier. But if you don’t, you’re faced with the awkward sensation of belonging to the category of women who hug too much. I give it another three seconds, then pull away quickly, pretending to have a broken nail to attend to.
“Who’s Richard?” asks Emilio.
“Gemma’s boring ex-husband,” drawls Celeste. “His timing’s always been perfect. But hey – are we just going to hang around here melting, or are we going to get a move on? What am I going to do about my car? I can’t live without a car, but I’m not sure I can afford another one right now. Do you think it’s fixable?”
We make our way towards the sorry looking piece of rubbish. Emilio gives it a kick. “Looks like it’s seen better days,” he says with a rueful nod. “I say, let it rest in peace, if possible. You may not even have a choice.” Turning his attention back to me, he adds “Oh, and guapa, by the way, some other guy called Kevin called. Who’s he?”
Ooh là là! What’s with the interrogation? Which I’m loving, of course. Let’s see. What should I say to spice things up? “Kevin is a… He’s a very special friend,” I say, smiling enigmatically. It feels enigmatic, anyway. Why does he keep looking at me like that? Is he mentally undressing me or do I have sheep-poop on my skirt?
“Oh, but I loved my car,” pipes up Celeste in a baby voice, pouting through her curtain of hair and doing her ridiculous, look-at-cutesy-little-me act. I hate it when she does that.
It’s now beyond three and everyone is hungry. Celeste suggests we go eat at a beach restaurant. She’s sure I must be dying for a swim, too. Is she mad? I’ve not seen the sun in a year and there are insect bites all over my tummy. I hastily point out that I haven’t brought a swimsuit. Kirsten – bless her, damn her – assures me it’s not a problem because she has at least three in her bag. Of course she does! The thing is, she only wears crocheted bum floss and nipple warmers.
Everyone is enthused by the idea of lunch on the beach. I can’t throw a wobbly without appearing to be a boring old fogey, so I’ll just buy a sarong if necessary. We all climb into the Ferrari. Celeste manages to wangle it so I’m seated in front with Emilio. She and Kirsten then squeeze their miniature bottoms into the little there is of a back seat.
Celeste leans forward and throws her arms around Emilio’s neck. “Step on it, honey, I’m starving!” she says, nuzzling his neck where tiny caramel hairs curl ever so yummily.
He snuggles back towards her, making silly, moany, pseudo-sexy appreciative noises that seriously annoy me, taking his time before finally turning the key in the ignition. The car va-va-vooms to life. I curse in silence, wishing I’d been the one to lean over and nuzzle his neck, but because of the effect he has on me, being touchy-feely with him is out of the question. Celeste’s gesture was spontaneous and devoid of any ulterior motive; I’d have hesitated a nanosecond too long and rendered the gesture gauche and pathetic.
Emilio has no such qualms. He puts a hand on my knee, gives me a sly, sexy look from underneath his eyelashes and softly growls, “God, I’m so hungry.”
In an in-depth, split-second analysis of the situation, I conclude that he is acting spontaneously, without an ulterior motive and therefore must have no specific interest in me. I therefore feel instantly depressed, not to mention gauche and pathetic, because I don’t know how to respond to his hand on my knee and fail to give him a spontaneous, flirtatious quip. Still looking at me with those incendiary eyes, Emilio slides the car into gear and my heart flutters as I find myself skewered to the seat like a butterfly on a pin board.
When the G-force relents, Kirsten leans forward and pats me on the shoulder. “Here, take this,” she says in an oversweet, tinkly voice.
The bitch just handed me leopard-print bum floss with matching nipple warmers.
