My Best Friend Has Issues Page 3

  ‘Check out these colours!’ she said, as excited as a kid.

  The tiles were iridescent blues and greens and yellows.

  ‘Oh, they’re absolutely gorgeous!’

  ‘You like ‘em?’

  ‘I love them!’ I squealed.

  ‘I’m gonna do una chiminea.’

  ‘Cool. What’s that then?’

  ‘A chimney. This one. I’m going to have my own Gaudi chimney up here.’

  The chimney was square and boring, nothing like the ones in the guidebook. There were pages and pages of colourful, mosaic-tiled Gaudi chimneys in the guidebook. I knew nothing about Gaudi except that he had designed a fancy cathedral that, a hundred years later, was still nowhere near finished, oh, and that he was a maniac for mosaic. And chimneys. There were lots of Gaudi’s crooked chimneys on the posh buildings around Barcelona, buckled mosaic things shaped like ice cream cones or turrets on a fairy tale castle. I couldn’t see how this ordinary straightforward chimney was going to look like one of those but I didn’t say so.

  ‘That’s a great idea.’

  ‘It’s not the right shape, obviously, yet. It’ll be based on one of the padrera chimineas, but different. Mine’s gonna be unique.’

  Chloe took out a metal hammer from the toolbox and balanced a green tile on two bricks. With a decisive tap the tile fell into sharp-edged pieces.

  ‘Now you try,’ she said, handing me the hammer and a shimmering blue tile.

  I lifted the hammer and started to bring it down but I couldn’t follow through.

  ‘It’s too beautiful, I…’

  ‘Go ahead, it’s fun.’

  I brought the hammer down hard. Pieces of tile flew out and ricocheted across the terrace.

  ‘Wow! You’re meaner than you look! Fun, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I smiled.

  ‘And, when the work gets too hot, I cool off in my nice new rooftop pool,’ Chloe boasted.

  ‘You have a pool on the roof?’

  ‘Who doesn’t? It’s right over there, right behind the yurt. I got it yesterday in Corte Ingles.’

  She led me behind the tent and showed me a large plastic kiddies’ paddling pool, filled to the brim with water. The insides of the pool were a pale blue colour which made it look really cool and inviting.

  I laughed. ‘Another great idea.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’m full of ‘em.’

  Chloe seemed pleased that I liked her little joke.

  She lifted the coffee tray and we went back to the yurt. The hot dirty smell was still as strong but Chloe didn’t mention it. To avoid gagging I had to mouth breathe. In the tent Chloe turned around slowly all the while looking down at her feet. She seemed nervous of lowering herself on to a cushion while holding the hot coffee. Trying to help I reached to take the tray but she continued to turn.

  ‘Where is she?’ she said, ‘Juegita, Juegita, where are you, darling?’

  Before she’d finished saying it a sweet-faced little dog had emerged from a sleeping bag bundled at the back of the tent. The dog approached and flopped down beside Chloe. It was a lovely little thing, a mongrel with delicate intelligent features. Underneath, along the length of her chest and belly, she had two rows of large droopy teats. Juegita lifted her head to be stroked but her body lay splayed out uncomfortably on the rows of breast.

  Chloe put the tray on the table. ‘Poor Gita, your titties are too hot,’ she said, caressing the dog’s head and breasts.

  ‘What a rack, huh?’ Chloe joked.

  ‘Massive mammaries, poor dog,’ I said.

  Chloe laughed and opened out the sleeping bag.

  ‘Ta da!’

  This at last explained the smell. Inside the bag there were eight tiny, squeaking puppies.

  ‘And every one of ‘em female.’

  ‘They’re so cute!’ I blurted.

  All of them were, like their mother, chocolate brown with white patches. They were chubby little ladies with huge eyes, big heads, short legs and round little tummies. At first glance they all looked the same but after a few moments I could see each one’s distinguishing marks: white socks on their legs, or patches on their heads or backs. I couldn’t decide which one was the cutest and I’d stopped noticing the smell. When they walked, or waddled, they lurched to the side like drunks. They were great fun to watch, climbing over each other, pulling each other’s tails. They fought for access to their mother who sat patiently while they tugged at her swollen breasts.

  ‘You guys should leave mommy alone,’ Chloe gently berated them, ‘give her a break.’

  While we watched the pups Chloe told me the story of how she came to have so many dogs. Juegita, meaning ‘little toy’, had apparently been abandoned. Chloe had found her on the beach looking sad and bedraggled and brought her back to her flat. She hadn’t realised at the time that Juegita was pregnant.

  ‘I thought she needed to lose a few pounds. What a doofus! She gave birth two nights ago, in the middle of the night. I was supposed to be vacationing this week in Vietnam with my dad and my boyfriend but I couldn’t leave her.’

  ‘You gave up a holiday in Vietnam?’

  ‘Yeah, Dad was pissed about that. He’d already bought the tickets.’

  ‘D’you make a habit of rescue missions?’

  Chloe laughed, ‘I’m starting to.’

  First impressions are lasting ones, so they say. What with the horrible hostel I was staying at and the grotty flats I’d viewed, not to mention the murdered boy with his head stoved in, I’d had a rough few days. Chloe, with her overflowing kindness to waifs and strays, and her shining beauty, seemed to me like an angel.

  ‘These are nice,’ I said, pointing to neat rows of identical pot plants.

  ‘Maria,’ she said offhand, ‘it’s going to be a bumper crop.’

  ‘Maria?’

  ‘Marijuana,’ she said with a strong Spanish accent. It took me a moment to realise what she was talking about. She was growing hash in her home, lots and lots of it, there were ten or more big leafy plants.

  ‘This is the highest terrace around here so I have privacy but the police helicopters sometimes buzz the neighbourhood. They don’t care, everybody does it.’

  ‘Everybody does it?’ I asked, careful to use the Spanish pronunciation. ‘Everybody grows marijuana?’

  I pronounced it ‘mareehwhana’.

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Cool.’

  We giggled.

  ‘Man, I love Barcelona,’ said Chloe.

  Once all the pups had taken a turn feeding from poor exhausted Juegita, I helped Chloe put them back in their little bed in the yurt. Just as we popped the last one in, Chloe’s phone rang. When she saw who the call was from she rolled her eyes.

  ‘Yeah, I picked up the ticket, Dad, I told you already.’

  It wasn’t so much what she said but the way she said it: bored, impatient, barely tolerating him.

  ‘Duh, same terminal it always comes in.’

  Rather than eavesdrop, I lifted the coffee tray to take the cups back to the kitchen. I could make myself useful and wash up; I’d linger there until she’d finished her call. As I started to move out of my cross-legged sitting position Chloe held out her hand, a signal: halt. She held my eye forcefully. With the tray in my hands, I froze. She raised her voice, ‘I told you, Daddy, the puppies stay with me.’

  It felt like she was shouting at me. I smiled but she wouldn’t release me and there on the floor, halfway between sitting and standing, back aching and legs quivering, in a weird yoga position, I was forced to squat.

  ‘Of course I’ve made fucking arrangements!’

  Chloe barely allowed a reply and then crowed triumphantly, ‘Yeah well, you’re so wrong, Dad, as usual. My friend Alison is going to feed Juegita.’

  She nodded to me for confirmation. Without hesitation I nodded back.

  ‘I am not! She’s right here.’

  Chloe suddenly thrust her phone at me but as my hands were full with the tray
I couldn’t take it from her. She held it to my ear.

  ‘Alison?’

  Considering the venomous way she had spoken to him I was surprised by the friendliness of Chloe’s dad’s tone. He had a nice voice, grown up and laid back American.

  ‘Eh, yes.’

  ‘Chloe says you’ve offered to feed the little dogs?’

  Chloe was still holding my eye with an intense stare.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Alison,’

  He sounded surprised. ‘That’s very kind of you. Chloe’s not always quite so organised. That’s an interesting accent, where are you from?’

  ‘Thank you. I’m from…’

  Chloe pulled the phone away from me and put it back to her own ear.

  ‘Satisfied?’

  I stood up and took the cups into the kitchen. I was rinsing them under the tap when Chloe came in.

  ‘Juegita isn’t the problem,’ she explained.

  She didn’t seem angry any more. I was relieved.

  ‘So long as I leave her enough food and water she can take care of herself and the pups. She’s still feeding them so they pretty much get everything they need from her. I can’t tell him that I need someone to water the Maria. In this heat the plants need watered at least once a day. If I left them three days, I’d come back to a bunch of dried up stalks.’

  Chloe was leaving me in charge of her flat, her dogs and her drugs. Dear Lisa and Lauren, staying at my American heiress friend Chloe’s penthouse in the fashionable Barri Gotic area of the city.

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  ‘You sure? You don’t mind staying a coupla days?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘You can’t smoke the maria though, you know that, don’t you? It won’t flower for weeks yet.’

  ‘I know.’

  I didn’t.

  ‘But you get first toke of the first joint. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘And we’ll get so stoned!’

  Sangria laced with kick-ass gin might have been a bit much for my delicate recovering liver but Dr Collins hadn’t said anything about smoking dope, moderately or otherwise.

  Juegita staggered in from the terrace, her multiple nipples scraping the ground. She made a beeline for me and began nuzzling me like an old friend.

  ‘She loves you!’

  Just playing with gorgeous puppies, watering the hash plants, chilling out and enjoying the sunshine and the rooftop view. Is it drizzling again in Cumbernauld? The dampness gets to you after a while, doesn’t it?

  Chloe rummaged in the kitchen drawer and tossed me a set of keys.

  ‘You’re happy with this, looking after the farm? I’ll be gone three days max.’

  ‘Sure, if you think you can trust me,’ I said.

  She was so open-hearted, leaving her home and her pets in the hands of someone she’d only just met.

  ‘Sure I trust you. If you trust me,’ she said with a wink.

  Chapter 5

  Having friends had not been something I’d excelled at so far. I blamed my family. If it wasn’t for their overprotectiveness I would’ve had the normal healthy relationships I was supposed to have. Instead of which I’d hung around with my mum and my brothers. Or, not so much hung around with, just hung around and watched while they got on with their normal healthy relationships.

  Their relationship with me was not so normal: Charlie babied me, Joe and Jim resentfully gave in to me and Mum quietly ignored me. It had been like that since Dad died. But of course it was Dad who started all the unhealthy relationship stuff. I blamed him, even if he was dead. Especially as he was dead.

  By meeting Chloe I’d increased my circle of friends by one hundred per cent. Alone in this big city it felt good to have a pal. The last time I’d had friends was at college.

  Cumbernauld College didn’t offer me much of a challenge academically. Within the first month I’d read the course books cover to cover and started wading my way through the library stock. I only went to classes so I’d qualify for the study grant but they were boring. The most interesting thing about college was the social life. For the first time since primary school I was socially sought after and quickly acquired two friends. Both were marginally less fat than me.

  The first, Lisa, a girl in my economics class, was obviously in the market for a best friend. Those who had arrived at college knowing no one had circled each other warily, checking for signs of best friend material or at least compatibility. I didn’t. Too shy to actively participate, I let them circle. Unfortunately for her, Lisa didn’t shop around sufficiently, panicked, and settled too quickly on me. We had a lot in common: we were both the same age, on the same course and on the same high-carb, low-veg diet. We were similarly unattractive but while I was fully aware of my lack of allure, Lisa was blissfully ignorant. She drew attention to herself with a high pitched laugh and a nervous habit of touching her chin when she spoke as though she was afraid that, with the movement of her jaw, her chin might drop off.

  Another chubby girl in our class, Lauren, at least to begin with, had loftier ambitions. She wanted to move amongst the Beautiful People. Having fumbled a few overtures: keeping seats, sandwich bribes at lunch, overeager giggling at weak jokes, the Beautiful People rejected her and quickly froze her out. Adrift and friendless, by the end of the second week Lauren had attached herself to Lisa and me.

  Lauren was almost as fat as me but she had beautiful thick black hair and ownership of such glossy tresses made her eligible for an attitude. This amounted to her widening her eyes, tilting her head and prefacing everything she said with ‘I’m sorry, but’ even when what she was about to say was in no way controversial and no apology was required. For instance she’d say, ‘I’m sorry, but X Factor was the best programme on telly. And I mean ever.’ Or ‘I’m sorry, but I use hot oil on my hair. I only use hot oil.’ Her delivery was challenging, she was anything but sorry.

  It was my own fault. Courted by Lisa, unused to this kind of attention, or any attention, I overplayed my hand and made the extravagant gesture of inviting Lauren into my gang. For a brief three-week period I was Queen Bee, both of them jockeying to become my best friend. At the time I thought my mistake had been to hesitate too long in choosing one over the other, but with hindsight I realised that it would’ve happened anyway.

  Lisa began to talk about us all getting a flat together. Lauren was the keenest, phoning the agents, arranging viewings. Once, between classes, I was in the ladies toilets and Lisa and Lauren came in. I was already in the cubicle and they didn’t know I was there. I overheard them talking, I could have announced my presence but I was interested to know what went on between my acolytes when I wasn’t around.

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s a brilliant flat,’ said Lauren, ‘but how are we going to afford it?’

  ‘We can afford it,’ said Lisa.

  ‘And more to the point,’ continued Lauren, ‘what the hell are we going to tell The Hump?’

  They both giggled.

  ‘It’s not The Hump, you idiot, it’s The Hulk,’ sniggered Lisa. ‘We’ll tell her it’s to do with fire regulations, that only two people can live there and she can’t come.’

  The Hulk.

  I was only marginally more obese than those two great fucking fatties.

  Holding the moral high ground, I bowed out gracefully. I told them I’d thought about it and preferred to stay at home with my mum and my brothers. Lisa and Lauren never bothered to disguise their relief. They gushed and showered me with invitations to their new flat that I never took up. A new order was established. It was okay. I was glad I’d overheard them. It was more comfortable returning to the hanger-on zone than being centre stage on a wobbly throne. At least I still had lunch with them.

  That was the important thing, to be seen to be part of a group. Hanging around the edges of their bestfriendship was a humiliating reminder of my lower status but it was better than being a friendless freak. By the time we got to
third year, Lisa and Lauren could barely conceal their embarrassment at being seen with me. We were all relieved when graduation came. Of course they made effusive promises to stay in touch.

  When I suddenly became gorgeously thin the first thing I did was join Friends Reunited. I posted photos of me in tight jeans and a gypsy top and mailed them to every name I recognised. I was disappointed that Lisa and Lauren weren’t registered but I looked on the bright side. Perhaps they were still lard-arsed losers and were too ashamed to join. Friends Reunited did hold one surprise.

  Sarah Anderson, the mousiest girl in my primary class, was now a seasoned world traveller. She casually listed Morocco, Western Samoa and Vladivostok as places she had worked teaching English. She even boasted that she didn’t have any proper teaching qualifications. All she had was a degree, and not even an English degree, hers was an even more Mickey Mouse degree than mine: hers was media studies.

  ‘It’s just an accident of birth that I’m an expert in English, the language that is, luckily for me, the world’s most important business language,’ said her profile. ‘It’s such a great gift and I love passing it on with my teaching.’

  I’d been blessed with the gift of English too, and more abundantly than her I seemed to remember. I was the best reader in the class, way ahead of Sarah Anderson; she was in the remedial group. I could use my gift and teach English abroad.

  Perhaps Western Samoa was taking things a bit far. What I needed was somewhere they didn’t speak English – the poor unfortunates – but near enough that I could come home if it didn’t work out. Sarah had been generous enough to attach links to English language schools and agencies all over the world.

  Within two days I had received notice of my interview with a business school in Barcelona. Booking a flight took about twenty minutes. It was that simple. Rather than have another pointless argument with them all again I copied an email to Charlie, Jim, Joe and Mum. Mum was downstairs watching Coronation Street but she’d read it later.

  I was on the point of booking a hostel when Charlie, my oldest brother, phoned.

  ‘Good stuff,’ Charlie conceded graciously when I told him, ‘Barcelona’s a brilliant place.’