‘Si.’
She has done nothing of the sort.
‘You can go now,’ I tell Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen, trying to keep my voice from breaking.
I’m a grown woman. I will handle this.
Chapter 22
Ispendthenexttwo panicky hours rooting around the internet, looking for fun activities that would benefit both single people and sole-tradersandinvolves some type of coaching. It is nigh on impossible but has distracted me from the dread of seeing Ava back at the villa.
Before I pack up to go home, I flick through the Life Coaching Handbook which is full of advice that makes me uncomfortable. I come across a quote that makes me stop and think. It says, ‘Resentment is like swallowing poison and expecting the other person to die.’ It recommends writing a list of all the things you resent about the person.
There isn’t enough paper in the land. I simply wouldn’t do that to all those innocent trees. But I could compile a mental list.
It’s dark by the time I finally face up to returning home. Even driving up to the villa and seeing all the lights blazing away and knowing my sister is relaxing and enjoying herself fills me with resentment. I hesitate at the door. I almost feel like knocking. This place no longer feels likemyplace anymore. I really must get a grip. I can’t keep going to pieces every time I have to face her.
People go through far worse, don’t they? I mean, there are far worse things than being stabbed in the back by your entire family. Of course, there are.
Reluctantly, I hear Oliver’s words about dusting myself off and getting on with my life echo round my brain.
It’s time to confront Ava and sort it all out.
I take a deep breath in and open the door. The delicious aroma of something cooking fills my nostrils and lets my stomach know immediately that I forgot to eat again today. I can’t really remember the last time I ate a proper meal.
The music is blasting out, and even I, though I hate to admit it, I can see she’s managed to make the villa seem homely and inviting. The dining table is set with two plates, cutlery, glasses and a bottle of wine. She’s obviously invited that handsome bugger from the airport over already. Probably to help her get over the break-up with my ex- on again off again boyfriend, Dan. Or maybe she is still seeing him. Maybe she is playing the field while she is here in Spain. She still hasn’t even had the decency to admit that she was having an affair with him behind my back. Morally bankrupt. I will put that on the list. I watch as she opens the oven door to release a burst of heat and clouds of glorious-smelling meaty, garlicky fumes.
‘Ta-dah!’ she’s sings joyfully. ‘It’s your favourite.’
I follow her gaze to the oven dish inside bubbling away. It’s chilli chicken. It smells incredible. I see she’s been chopping salad and toasting pittas and then I try to smother a gasp as I clock the huge homemade cheesecake. There’s no denying that my sister does make incredible cheesecake. We once worked out that it contains over ten thousand calories.
‘Look,’ she sweeps her arm over to the table, ‘I’ve gone to so much trouble. It’s had 374 likes already.’
It’s all about her. See how easy it is to be resentful? Much easier than NOT being resentful. My mind instantly pictures her wearing it and how many likes it might get then.
‘I was looking forward to reconnecting and having a nice evening. Like always,’ she says. Fake memories. She’s just like our mother. Not once have we had a ‘nice evening’ together that I can remember. Not since we were kids anyway.
‘I didn’t ask you to.’
‘But I thought maybe you’d…’ she trails off.This should be interesting.‘I was hoping,’ I can clearly see her choking on the next word. ‘You’d hear me out so that I can own my own truth and move on.’
Flaming cheek.Me, Me, Me. I’m going to move that one further up the list and give it top priority.
‘It’s spicy chicken,’ she says.
‘I’m vegan now.’
‘Are you? But you said it was for smug do-gooders, rubbery and over-priced when I did a whole TikTok thing on it. Well, never mind, there’s salad?’
Honestly, is that all people think we vegans can eat? Leaves? And I hardly think a thirty-second video of her dancing in the kitchen in her pyjamas while she made a snack out of grilled tofu was Earth-shatteringly informative.
‘Enjoy your meal,’ I say stiffly, turning to go. If she thinks one delicious chilli chicken and a to-die-for cheesecake will make up for ruining my career, she is sadly mistaken.
‘But we need to talk about what happened,’ she calls out, with her wide eyes and dentist advert smile. All she’ll do is go on and on about how it wasn’t her fault and how that really, if I’veanysense at all, I should see that it is, in actual fact, allmyfault.
‘Yes. We do.’ I make sure to slam my bedroom door loudly. Oh my god, this darkness inside me is borderline embarrassing. It’s like the voice I hear belongs to someone else, not me. It’s like I’m deliberately trying to alienate people and take my anger out on them. The exact opposite of how I used to be. Maybe Oliver is right.
I need to be the better person here. I need to stop drinking the poison.
