Sunday, June 21
9:49 A.M.
Alicia and Nina watched from their jail cell, otherwise known as the Toalla Hut, while the twins rehearsed their opposite of complicated dance routine with world-renowned choreographer Jocy O—a routine, by the way, that Alicia could have mastered in fifth grade. But Isobel and Celia, aka the Callas Sisters, as they had been dubbed by ¡Hola! magazine, had been hard at work all week. And thanks to the paparazzi, everyone who read Spain’s answer to Us Weekly knew it.
The pool deck was filled to fire-hazard capacity because cameras were set to roll in ten minutes, and ¡i! was finally going to make an appearance. But for Alicia, this was more about finding ways to make fun of the twins and find fault in the shoot so she’d feel better about not being part of it. Not that she’d ever admit that.
Finally, everything was in place for the video shoot to begin. The rain machine, the twins—even the unseasonably cool breeze and overcast sky, which, according to Fonsi, the director, worked perfectly with the moody-slash-gloomy feel of the video’s story line.
After ten more minutes of waiting, Fonsi made a big show of checking his watch before calling a huddle with G, P, and S. Celia and Isobel hopped up and down in their teeny denim cutoffs and fringed half-shirts, trying to stay warm.
“They think they’re cold now?” Nina snickered. “Wait until that rain machine starts.”
“Point.” Alicia absentmindedly handed a blue towel to someone’s pale arm and smile-thanked it for tossing a euro in the tip jar.
“They better get started before the real storm comes,” said a familiar British accent.
“Hey, Nigel.” Alicia allowed herself to grin. After all, the auditions were over. The ban on Brits was officially over.
“What’s going on?” Nina asked when a hairy-chested man stepped onto the set. The crew quickly swiped some deodorant under his pits and brushed his body hair while a PA rolled a portable blue screen onto center stage.
Celia side-glanced at Isobel. “¿Quien es el?” She demanded to know who he was.
Isobel shrugged, then turned away in disgust.
“Yeah, who is that?” Alicia echoed.
“I hear ¡i! has a terrible flu and won’t be able to shoot,” Nigel whispered with the authority of a TMZ reporter. He leaned his elbows on the Toalla Hut’s counter and took a sip from his bottle of Voss. “So they’re going to use his stand-in and Photoshop ¡i! in later.”
Alicia and Nina gasped in disbelief.
“Quiet on the set!” called Fonsi, waving his tan arms violently.
Someone quickly handed the stand-in an ice cream cone and positioned him between the twins.
“Walking on the pier, take one,” Fonsi shouted. “Annnnnnd action!”
The music began and Isobel, Celia, and Hairy Stand-In began walking in place, the blank blue screen positioned behind them.
“A production assistant told me they were going to put an image of a Ferris wheel behind them so it looks like they’re at an amusement park,” Nigel explained.
“Stand by rain,” Fonsi directed, pointing to the silver rain machine. “Cue the rain. Okay, Leon, drop the ice cream on your chest . . . now.”
Leon did what he was told as a torrential downpour drenched the actors.
“Okay, girls, lick it off his che-sssssst . . . now!”
“Ew!” Alicia shouted.
“It’s all hairy!” Nina screamed.
The twins must have felt the same way, because all they did was stare at the chocolate stream that was spilling down the stand-in’s chest and pooling in his deep belly button.
“Cut!” Fonsi shouted, his temples pulsing. “You need to lick! LICK! Dry them off and reset for another take.”
The twins pretended to gag while the crowd slowly returned to their sun cots and beach reads.
“Didn’t I say you’d regret winning this contest?” Nigel winked.
Alicia looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since they’d met. It felt like slipping on a great pair of wraparound D&G lenses after staring into the sun for hours. Her gaze could finally linger. And it did. . . .
“How do you know all of this?” she asked his clear blue eyes.
“ADM!” Nina gasped and covered her mouth. “¡i!” she screech-shouted into her palm.
“You what?” Alicia asked her cousin, whose eyes were suddenly bulging from her skull.
“Quiet!” Nigel dropped his Voss and jumped through the window of the towel hut, ducking down by their flip-flopped feet.
“Not me,” Nina whisper-shouted. “¡i!”
Nigel looked up from the tiled floor, and Alicia quickly crossed her legs so he couldn’t peer up her mustard-yellow dress. “I opposite of understand what’s going on here.”
“I am ¡i!,” he said sweetly, not even trying to catch a glimpse.
“You are ¡i!?” Alicia ducked down to join him. Nina followed. “But you’re . . . you’re nawt even Spanish!”
“Shhhhhh.” He waved his hand frantically in front of her open mouth.
Once she closed it, he continued. “I was lead vocal in a band back in Manchester until a talent scout offered me a contract to go solo. He said Spain was desperate for a pop star and asked if I wouldn’t mind ’elping out, since we’re all part of the same continent and all,” he whispered. “So they airbrushed my face, Photoshopped my body, but kept my voice. No one knows.”
“ADM, you’re Fannish times ten!” Alicia blurted.
“I told you!” He smiled. “G, P, and S are my mother’s nephews.”
“And that rubber hand was—”
“A decoy.”
“I can’t believe you’re ¡i!” Nina plucked a blond hair off his bare shoulder and stuffed it in her bikini top.
“What if your cousins tell?” Alicia asked, quickly calculating how many gossip points she could earn by breaking the news first.
“And give up all of this?” He gestured to the five-star resort outside the towel hut.
“I can’t believe you’re ¡i!,” Nina muttered, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Shhhhhh,” Nigel smile-insisted.
“Why are you telling us?” Alicia asked, knowing full well she’d never be able to keep this from the Pretty Committee.
“Because I am hoping that now you’ll finally agree to hang out with me.” His crooked tooth and fair skin suddenly oozed quirky charm.
“We have jobs, remember?” Alicia insisted, shocking herself with the words she never thought she’d say—at least not in that order.
“Time for early retirement.” Nigel stood, brushing off the seat of his slouchy, skull-covered board shorts. Obviously the trend was still very much alive in Europe.
“I can’t believe you’re ¡i!,” Nina mouthed, a salty stream of mascara trickling down her face and into her cleavage.
Nigel handed her a towel.
“We have debt,” Alicia explained.
“Not anymore.” Nigel slapped his hands together like he was wiping off cake crumbs. “I paid it off.”
“What?” Alicia jumped up and hugged him.
Nina cried harder.
“What can I do to repay you?”
“Keep my secret.” He held out both of his hands. “And spend the afternoon sailing on my yacht. Looks like the sun is about to break through these clouds.”
“Done!” Alicia grabbed hold of his hands firmly, cementing their pact.
She had never chosen loyalty over gossip before. But then again, she had never folded a towel, bonded with Nina, or decided that being an alpha was a lot less fun than just being herself.
“Can we go home and change first?” Alicia asked, rubbing her finger along the embroidered mop for the last time.
“Please! I insist on it.” He chuckled his adorable Fannish chuckle.
Alicia, Nigel, and Nina held hands and walked proud as peacocks past the video shoot. Isobel and Celia were shivering while the hairy stand-in stiffly gripped his fresh new ice cream cone like the Statue of Liberty. Take two was about to begin.
Not just for the twins. For everyone.