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 the list. And bybetter organisedI 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 needs.
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 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.
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 the 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 in a face that’s a lot prettier and better plucked, moisturized 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. When she walks towards me, lugging her huge cases, one of her bags slips off her shoulder to the ground, spilling its contents everywhere. I make no effort to help. I 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 road. The trolley is piled high with luggage. Shedefinitelylooks 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 looks very trim and athletic. She’s also wearing really nice, expensive-looking clothes that flatter her 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 understand what happens next, what with me always managing to keep a professional lid on things, but somehow at the same time 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 that startles even me.
I have never called anyone a cretin ever before, nor am I a hundred percent on what it means.
We stand staring at each other as my words hang in the air.
‘Well,’ she stutters, ‘I’m glad you got that off your chest. It’s important to own your truth. I learned that in Thailand. Can we make a move, please? I’m very tired… from waiting for so long? I’m thirsty and looking forward to a dip in the pool.’
Just like that. No apology, nothing.
I watch as she opens the boot and struggles to get the cases in. She beckons over to me for help. I stay firmly where I am.
Let her bloody struggle. My hand is literally stuck to my hip refusing to move anyway. Fused to the bone with anger. Then to my extreme annoyance we hear, ‘Perdona, senorita.’
We turn to see Senor Handsome Bugger, sporting both a lazy smile and a head of bouncy, thick, wavy hair. He deftly lifts my sister’s bags and cases into the boot as though they weigh no more than one of his toe rings. He shuts it with a slam, turns to give me a hard, disapproving stare, and then turns back to my sister to wish her a pleasant stay. Within seconds, I witness some outrageous, devil-may-care flirting as she tells him MY bloody address, says she’d absolutely LOVE to go for drinks with him and then gives him her phone to do some swapping of numbers. After an embarrassing series of selfies, where they take turns doing the peace sign, pretending to laugh and sticking out their tongues, she is finally ready to go.
Dear God! Has she no shame?
To make matters worse, while she’s busy eyeing up his retreating buttocks, she turns unexpectedly and catches me tapping my third eye like a loon. The stress of seeing her has got me so rattled that I’m tearing at my scalp, causing a few flakes short of a snowstorm to land on my shoulders. She slowly shakes her head, taking it all in, with contempt, or maybe it’s pity, ballooning from her big green eyes.
‘Come here,’ she says with her arms open wide and a terrible sympathetic look saddening her face. I can see actual tears in her eyes as she quickens her pace towards me. She feels sorry for me. She has the bare-faced cheek to throw her arms around me, sobbing out how much she has missed me and is here to help me get better.
‘Get better? Me? GET BETTER?’ My hand flies to clutch my pounding chest. I’m struggling to breathe. I open the driver door and throw myself in. Ignoring the shakes I’ve developed, I start the engine. My sister gingerly walks to the passenger side without comment.
I drive roughly out of the car park area through the barriers and clip the side of the car. Without even looking, I know there’ll be a scrape on the paintwork. All totally her fault. I will inform Dad. There’s absolutely no point telling our mother. At least our father has always tried to treat us equally.
We drive in complete silence and without air con so that she is as uncomfortable as possible. We are both dripping with sweat, our legs stuck to the leather car seats.
‘If the aircon is broken, I’ll just open the window,’ she says, pressing the switch to lower the screen and let the cool breeze in.
