Deep breaths.Have I gone completely insane?
I am approaching thirty years old. I have no friends, no command of the language, no job. But I am not going to panic. I will stay at our family getaway and figure things out, right after this mini panic attack I appear to be having. My lungs are billowing from my chest like bagpipes.
‘Are you okay?’ asks a tall man with a strong Scottish accent in the passport queue next to me.
Where to bloody start? My life is in a catastrophic mess of exponential proportions.
‘Yes, of course,’ I snap at him.
Some people are so incredibly nosy.
Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
A wave of exhaustion envelops me as I struggle for air in the heat. My hand flies instinctively to my chest. I’m definitely going to have a heart attack and it will be all Ava’s fault.
‘I just thought you looked a bit –’
‘No, I’m fine.’ I say defensively, turning to see who this intrusive person is that’s towering over me, and offering unsolicited opinions. ‘If anything, you’re the one who looks “a bit”.’
I watch him physically regret ever having made the enquiry as he hastily turns to gaze in the opposite direction. Why do people think they have the right to interfere? He’s seems about my age. He should put his airpods in and block out the world like normal people, but instead we are stuck awkwardly with each other in this, the world’s slowest queue. He rakes a hand slowly through his dark hair, letting it fall messily back into place. He looks very tanned and is wearing a cool T-shirt that hugs his biceps, and shorts that fit him perfectly given his height. Maybe he is a paramedic. He certainly has the well-toned arms for it. And the long legs. And the stubbled chin. And the kind eyes.
‘I just thought you looked a bit upset,’ he says, catching me eyeing him up and down. I stare blankly back.
Upset? Upset? Of course, I’m bloody upset, who wouldn’t be with the day I’ve had?
His eyes are brimming with sympathy. He tilts his head to one side, inviting me to share my heavy burden. Suddenly, the pent-up fury of this afternoon explodes out of me in loud, gurgling, uncontrollable sobs. ‘WHAAAA!’ I howl, grabbing tightly onto him for balance. ‘It’s my sister. My back-stabbing, AWFUL BLOODY SIST… ER… ERRRR… EERRR.’
My wailing is attracting the attention of everyone in the vicinity while he stands rigid, taking a moment to process, scanning my face.
Christ but it’s hot.I wheeze, unable to catch my breath.
We lock eyes for a fraction too long, and before I have a chance to explain that I’ve just endured an extremely harrowing day, he swivels his eyes past my head, across the arrivals lounge to bellow with the lungs of a drill sergeant, ‘OVER HERE! BLOODY CYSTS! HELP! EMERGENCIA!’
Bloody cysts?
The crowd seem horrified that I’m about to explode all over their hand luggage and brand-new holiday espadrilles. It’s enough to snap me out of it.
‘I don’t have bloody cysts! Who said anything about cysts?’ I say, stepping away from him.
‘Youdid. You said you had a bloody cyst. Has it burst? Where’s the stabbing pain? In your back, did you say?’
The crowd cautiously move further away from us.
How humiliating.
‘I saidsister,’ I tell him firmly, as though I’m consulting with my GP. ‘Back-stabbing sister not CYST!’
He looks confused.
I’m going to have to spell it out. ‘It’s my bloody sister, she’s the reason I’m so upset!’
‘Oh.’
He sounds almost deflated at the lack of emergency. Unfortunately, the combination of embarrassing myself in front of this heroic man-mountain and the confusion on the faces surrounding us, acts as a tipping point.
I develop what I can only describe as sudden-onset ‘persecution complex’.
