I take a ginormous breath in, filling my lungs. ‘SHE’S RUINED MY WHOLE FECKIN LIFE!’ And although that feels good, I can tell that it’ll be a very, very temporary release.
My nosy companion looks like he is about to have a triple heart attack as we hear heavy footfall.
Armed guards charge in our direction and immediately manhandle us out of the queue and over to a small, very official-looking room, to face a very severe, moustached police officer. He is not happy.
I look at my Good Samaritan. He is not happy either.
I burst into noisy tears.
Chapter 4
‘Sorry!’Isayrepeatedly,wiping my tears with the back of my hand and blowing my nose with the box of tissues pushed in front of me. ‘It’s my birthday. I’m supposed to be hap… hap… happy.’
'Names!' the police officer shouts.
'Oliver,' blurts the nosy guy immediately.
They turn to look at me. 'Nell,' I sniff. 'As in short for Eleanor.'
Say what you like about the Spanish, but they take crying damsels in distress very seriously. He turns sharply to Oliver, ‘Why have you upset your lady-woman? On her birthday?’
‘I didn’t know it was her birthday,’ he explains, as the policeman offers me more tissues.
The policeman glares at him as though he’s a prolific womaniser. He picks up a pen and reaches for a form to fill in.
‘She’s not my lady-woman, I mean my… I mean we’re not together. Tell him I was just being polite. Tell him it’s not me who upset you,’ he says, turning to me horror-struck.
I stare blankly for a second while I experience an out-of-body encounter. I see myself hunched over the box of tissues, all damsel in distress, while these two men regard me as some suspicious package about to explode at any minute.
I shake my head sadly.
‘He’s right. He was just being nosy.’
Somehow, the police officer misconstrues this and tuts, causing Oliver to beg me to be a little clearer on the matter. I have a quick think about giving them the full lecture on my family politics. It might be good to get a military perspective.
‘You see, it’s my sister’s fault. She takes everything that is mine.’ I watch their jaws slacken as I sniff loudly a few more times, and settle back in the chair. ‘She’s always been the favourite child. A menopausal ‘surprise’ according to my parents.’
The word menopause has deeply unsettled them both but I continue with my harrowing narrative.
‘She exploded into our lives like a pink, fluffy grenade and grew up expecting the world to be at her beck and call.’ Childhood memories come flooding back of a mini despot wearing spotted wellies, a frown and a tutu, terrorising my every move. ‘She gets everything she wants, even though it’s me who is the nice one and runs around after them all. She’s selfish and controlling and vain. Unbelievably vain. She has nearly a million followers. Look, I’ll show you…’ I dig around for my phone.
Half an hour later and the Spanish have decided that they no longer think I am a threat to national security or well-intentioned males, and even though I’ve come clean about my deep disappointment in my family and of people in the workplace, they have seen fit to release me into the wild. Oliver could not get away from me fast enough. From the way he kept rudely sighing and checking his phone every two minutes, I’m not convinced he was paying full attention to my upsetting autobiography anyway.
I have a sharp word with myself as the heatwave encompasses me on leaving the cool airconditioned security office. I pick up my heavy case and lug it over to the bus stop to check when the next bus to Albir is due. I must get a grip. This is not the time to be having a colossal breakdown. I must stay positive, but the more I think about returning back home, facing my family and the endless scrolling for jobs, the longer it makes me want to stay away. The sun is shining, the early evening sky is an amazing cobalt blue. I feel calmer just looking at it. Maybe I should stay here. Permanently. Everyone is too busy to visit our holiday villa these days, so it seems a waste not to use it properly. Besides, what have I got to lose? There’s literally nothing and no one to go back for.
I sit down at the bus stop and get straight onto Facebook to check what local groups there are and what jobs are going. If this is going to work, then the first thing I need is to replace the job I’ve just lost with a much better one. One that doesn’t involve people this time.
Say what you like about Millennials, we may all still live at home with our parents but if there’s one thing we are bloody brilliant at, it is stalking people on the internet and turning our hands to any, and I mean ANY, job going that will pay cash. Anything. Anything at all. I flick through the adverts. Unfortunately, it’s very slim pickings jobs-wise. I could teach English for 2 hours a week. I could work in a restaurant or bar for 96 hours a week. I could sell mojitos on the beach for 140 hours a week. All involving too much people-contact for my liking. I see an urgent vacancy for a naked cleaner.
Stay positive. Think positive thoughts. Send positive vibes out into the universe.
Within minutes, I find the only thing remotely doable that seems like a step up. It’s an advert for someone to join a coaching company. They are looking for a life coach who can help expand the business by guiding people to be the best versions of themselves, flexible hours. If there’s one thing I’m an expert in, especially after today, it is not living your best life. I’d totally understand people who feel that life is passing them by. That they are only ever living their second best life. It might even be quite nice to listen to people moan about not achieving their goals. I might meet others who feel like a complete failure. I can tell them they are not alone and that people do hit rock bottom at times. I quickly search ‘Life Coach’ and get reading.
‘Hello again.’
It’s Oliver, looking awkwardly down at me. I scootch up the bench so he can sit down. Typical. I would never have told him intimate details of my personal goings-on if I’d thought I’d ever see him again.
‘Feeling any better?’
