Page 48
‘She can’t come! There’s nothing for her to do here. She can’t just turn up expecting to become a life coach overnight.’
Like I did.
‘She’s too unlikeable and… self-absorbed. Literally the opposite of what you need to be.’
‘She’s arriving in the morning, and she’s staying for as long as she wants, darling.’
‘Fine! She can stay two days.’
‘As long as she wants, Nell.’
‘Okay! Three days max. Two would be better.’
‘As long as she wants. It’s her home too.’
‘We’ll just have to see, Dad. She may want to leave straight away. Don’t put pressure on her to stay. Two days is quite enough time for her to pull herself together and realise she belongs back at home with you and Mum. Tell her to only pack for two days.’
‘Nell, are you a bit drunk? Because it sounds like you aren’t listening to a word I’m saying.’
The rest of the conversation consisted of my dad repeating himself until he was too weary to continue, and when he sounded like he was getting a bit annoyed with me, I accidentally roared, ‘She can only stay for two effing days, all right?’
Despite my colourful language, I’m sure he’ll have passed on my message.
A sudden nausea spreads throughout my body. My head is banging, and my stomach feels incredibly queasy. I dry heave a few times and drag myself back to the bedroom. A sideways glance at the time tells me I am going to be extremely late to pick my sister up from the airport. I throw on the nearest clothes lying on the floor and haul my heavy body to the bathroom to give my black, red wine teeth a power scrub. Ava is the type to notice tiny red wine smile marks at the side of lips and unkempt dental hygiene.
Now, where did I fling my car keys when I got back from work yesterday? And where is all that loose change I’ll need for the toll road? And where did I hide my new bank card so I can fill the near-empty tank with petrol on the way?
While I’m frantically searching the oven and rifling through bags of pasta for my bank card, I find the car keys in the sink.
I will add being better organised to my ever-growing to-do list that Nidi left me. And by ‘better organised’ I mean ‘less pissed’.
The transfer of money from my UK account to the new Spanish one went as seamlessly as trying to access the internet with only a roll of Sellotape and a cabbage. I’m down to my last twenty euros and I’ve been putting off going to the bank to sort it out because of all this shit that’s going on. That also reminds me, I must book a venue and caterer for the business singles event.
Gaaah! Later. I’ll do it later. I have more pressing tasks.
I set off in the car and try to drive like a normal person instead of one who is teetering on the brink of an emotional cliff, about to throw herself off into the deep end. Last night’s binge drinking and seven-hour scrolling fest to see what nuggets of inspo the internet can tell me on how to deal with stress has done nothing to alleviate the knot of tension in my stomach, thus guaranteeing there was no chance of any jogging or yoga happening this morning. Or hot water with lemon. Or exfoliating for gleaming skin. Or any lasting joyful fecking thoughts. I am going to add ‘stop scrolling’ to the to-do list.
As I drive along, the sea twinkles back at me. The sun shines brightly, but the scenic beauty is completely lost on me. There’s no fecking bright side to any of this. I’m just fooling myself. No matter what my mother says, my sister is here for one reason and one reason only. To ruin my fecking life all over again. I feel the bile of too much coffee, too much wine and too much resentment swill around. The heat building in the car is stifling and making me feel ten times worse.
* * *
By the time I skid through the airport and park up, I get out of the car and instantly throw up burning liquid from the drink last night. My sudden and startlingly noisy outpour sends a family of four scurrying away from me, across to Arrivals and through the huge glass doors guarding the airport entrance. As it gushes out of me, I instantly feel better.
Unfortunately, that feeling is short-lived as I feel a pair of judgy eyes on me. My sister is standing by the entrance with her hand on her hip and her head cocked to one side. She’s wearing an expression very similar to mine, but on a face that’s a lot prettier and better plucked, moisturised and hydrated. With better-conditioned hair and notably stronger eyebrows. What a fucking hypocrite. It’s me who needs to be annoyed, not her.
It is the moment I have been dreading. The scenario feels surreal now that I’m in it. Whatever I do, I must remain dignified and self-respecting. No more throwing up on the pavement in front of families with children. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and hold her gaze. My mind is completely blank. The sun is beating down on me, the air is unbearably dry and it’s not helping my hangover a single bit. All I can feel is a familiar rage simmering deep within. Dignity might just have to take a back seat for this one.
Feck! Feck! Feckerty, feck, feck!
I simply can’t move. Ava has come dressed as though she may be called on to enter the Love Island villa at a moment’s notice, in what is essentially a denim thong. As she walks towards me her tote bag slips off her shoulder to the ground, spilling its contents everywhere. I make no effort to help. I just watch her stumble on her elegant high-wedged shoes, trying to juggle her phone in one hand and the trolley holding her cases in the other, while she bends to pick up her belongings from the ground. The trolley is piled high with luggage. She definitely looks like a person who intends to stay for more than two effing days.
She quickly swoops a salon’s worth of beauty products back into her bag, grabs the trolley and continues her march towards me. Her clean, thick hair shines in the sunlight and sways in slow motion like a glossy shampoo commercial. As she gets nearer, I notice she’s wearing really nice, expensive-looking clothes that flatter her trim and athletic figure. I see her skimpy denim shorts hugging her award-winning legs, not a pick of cellulite to be seen. Her skin is gleaming. She looks shiny, like she’s bothered to have herself waxed from top to toe. I’ve always wanted to get myself thoroughly waxed. But unlike her, I don’t have the time. I’m too busy starting a new frigging career from scratch.
Her beautifully annoyed face finally reaches mine and we stand for a moment, a foot apart, staring at each other. I really can’t explain what happens next, what with me always having managed to keep a professional lid on things, but somehow, at the same time as my sister puts her hands together in prayer, bowing down to say a polite but patronising ‘Namaste’, I bellow out, ‘Go to hell, you patronising, self-absorbed cretin!’ at such a prize-winning pitch it startles even me.
I have never called anyone a cretin ever before.
We stand staring at each other as my words hang in the air.
