Chapter 1~ Operation Deflowering

Chapter 1

Estelle

✦༺⚜︎☠︎⚜︎༻✦

“Fourteen pounds fifty… that’s not right.” My mum recounted, her voice doing that wobbly thing it did when she was trying not to cry in front of us.

I could fix this. Right now.

The money I’d been hiding under my mattress for six months could sort our grocery situation for weeks. Instead, in three hours, it was buying me a one-way ticket to Sicily where, according to my friends, I was finally going to get my cherry popped by some Mediterranean god with wandering hands.

I was officially going to hell.

“Mum, it’s fine,” Danny called from the sofa, not looking up from his Xbox. My baby brother thought seventeen made him the man of the house, bless him. “I don’t need breakfast anyway.”

“Don’t be stupid, love. Growing boys need proper meals.” Mum was trying for cheerful but landing somewhere closer to manic.

My phone buzzed. Vivian: Car’s outside in 15. Please tell me you’re not having second thoughts about Operation Deflowering.

Another buzz from Millie: I’ve packed three types of condoms and a morning-after pill. We’re not taking any chances. This is happening, Stell.

Christ, my friends were mental.

“Who’s messaging you?” Danny had developed an annoying sixth sense about my phone lately.

“Nobody important.” I shoved it in my back pocket before he could see Millie’s text about contraceptives. Last thing I needed was my kid brother knowing the intimate details of my nonexistent sex life.

“Must be somebody important if you’re grinning like that.”

“I’m not grinning.”

“You’re definitely grinning.”

“Danny, leave your sister alone,” Mum sighed, giving up on making our pathetic grocery budget stretch. “Estelle, love, you’re not going out again tonight, are you? You’ve barely been home since graduation.”

“Just meeting the girls for a bit. Might crash at Vivian’s if we watch films too late.”

Six months ago, I couldn’t lie to save my life. Now I was basically a professional deceiver.

First about the money I’d been squirreling away from my weekend job at Waterstones. Then about why I kept disappearing with Vivian and Millie for “study sessions” that were actually planning sessions for this trip. Now about vanishing to a private island off Sicily where, apparently, I was going to finally understand what all the fuss was about.

“That sounds lovely, darling. Tell Vivian’s mum I said hello.”

Danny was still giving me suspicious looks. “Since when do you voluntarily sleep anywhere that’s not your own bed? You’re like a bloody cat—you hate sleeping anywhere else.”

“Since Vivian’s mum makes actual food instead of…” I gestured at our bare cupboards, “whatever this is supposed to be.”

“Oi! There’s perfectly good pasta in there!”

“Plain pasta with no sauce isn’t food, Danny. It’s student depression fuel.”

“Sauce costs money!”

“Everything costs money, you muppet. That’s not the point.”

“Enough, you two,” Mum laughed, and for a moment she looked younger. Less tired. Less like she was carrying the weight of our little broken family on her shoulders.

This was exactly why I had to go. This moment right here.

Because if I stayed, I’d keep being the one who gave up uni nights out to work extra hours.

Twenty-three years old and I’d never been kissed on a beach. Never had a holiday romance. Never done anything remotely stupid or spontaneous or just for the hell of it.

According to Vivian and Millie, this was a tragedy of epic proportions that required immediate intervention.

“Love you both,” I said, kissing Mum’s cheek and ruffling Danny’s hair as I headed for the door with my secretly pre-packed bag.

“Love you too, sweet girl. Don’t stay out too late.”

If only she knew that “too late” was going to be approximately one week from now.

God forgive me.

“I cannot bloody believe you actually did it!” Vivian shrieked the moment I slid into the back of the taxi. “I genuinely thought you’d bottle it and we’d find you hiding under your bed eating sad beans on toast.”

“I don’t eat sad beans on toast,” I protested.

“You eat poverty beans on toast,” Millie pointed out from the front seat. “Which is basically the same thing but with more guilt and self-loathing.”

“I hate you both.”

“You love us. We’re about to get you properly shagged by a gorgeous Italian stallion with abs you could grate cheese on.”

“Please stop saying things like that where the taxi driver can hear you.” I gestured frantically at the poor man who was clearly pretending not to understand English.

“Relax, babe. Everyone knows Italian men are walking sex gods. It’s basically a scientific fact.” Vivian was practically vibrating with excitement. “Did you see the photos of that island? It’s like something out of a bloody fairytale. White sand, crystal blue water and mysterious rich families who only open it to the public one week a year.”

“Which is either incredibly romantic or the setup for a horror film,” Millie added cheerfully.

“Don’t say things like that!” I smacked her arm. “I’m nervous enough as it is. This is my first time on a plane, first time leaving England, first time doing anything remotely adventurous, and you’re talking about horror films?”

“Stell, love, you need to calm down. You’re vibrating like a tuning fork.” Vivian grabbed my hands, which were indeed shaking. “This is going to be amazing. You’re going to have the time of your life.”

“What if I’m rubbish at it? What if—”

“What if you actually let yourself have fun for once in your life instead of overthinking everything to death?” Millie interrupted. “Seriously, Estelle. You’ve spent the last three years working your arse off, getting top marks, never going out, never doing anything for yourself. This is your graduation present to yourself.”

“A graduation present that cost me six months of wages and left my family counting grocery money,” I muttered.

“Your family will be fine for one week. Your mum’s tougher than you think, and Danny’s not going to starve. You, on the other hand, are going to die of terminal responsibility if you don’t do something completely mental soon.”

The taxi pulled up to Gatwick and my stomach dropped somewhere around my shoes.

This was actually happening. I was actually about to get on a plane to Italy with my two best mates who’d made it their personal mission to get me laid before my twenty-fourth birthday.

“Right,” Vivian said, paying the driver with a flourish. “Phase one complete. Now for phase two: getting through airport security without you having a complete mental breakdown.”

“I’m not having a mental breakdown.”

“You’re hyperventilating.”

“I am not—” I stopped. I was definitely hyperventilating.

“Breathe, Stell. In and out. Think about gorgeous Italian boys with tanned skin and mysterious eyes.”

“That’s not helping!”

“Think about finally understanding what Millie’s always going on about when she disappears with random blokes.”

“Oi!” Millie protested. “I don’t disappear with random blokes. I disappear with carefully selected blokes who meet very specific criteria.”

“What criteria?” I asked, grateful for the distraction as we wheeled our cases through the terminal.

“Must be fit, must have a big dick, must know how to use his fingers and tongue, and must not expect me to make him breakfast in the morning.”

“Those are terrible criteria.”

“They’re excellent criteria. Which is why you’re going to have the most amazing week of your life, because Italian boys tick all those boxes and more.”

“Jesus, I need a fucking break.”