My Best Friend Has Issues Read online

  I pulled out the tin to get at the pants. It was an old-fashioned biscuit tin with a picture of a flamenco dancer on the lid. The dancer’s dress was vivid red and yellow.

  ‘So, do you have plans today?’ asked Chloe.

  ‘Yes, I’ve got an interview with the Valero Business English centre.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  As I reached in behind it the tin fell off the cupboard shelf and on to the floor.

  ‘I’m so jealous. I’m stuck with old Aged P and he is just sooo depressing. I swear to God, he’s actually wearing golf slacks. Golf slacks in Berlin, what a moron.’

  The tin had emptied at my feet. As we chatted I bent to pick up and replace the contents.

  ‘Thanks for looking after everything, Alison, I really appreciate it.’

  Amongst other stuff there was a small plastic bag with maybe eight or ten bright pink pills. I didn’t know for sure what these were but I had a pretty good idea. I knew immediately what the other stuff was. Money. The box was full of it, large solid bricks of cash, all in crisp, clean, hundred-euro notes. Juegita waddled across and sniffed at it.

  ‘Are you comfortable in the apartment?’ asked Chloe. ‘You got everything you need?’

  There must be thousands of euros here. I pushed the dog away and began to gather the bundles of cash.

  ‘Alison?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I reassured her.

  I didn’t know Chloe at all. I didn’t know how she might react to her stash being uncovered and her underwear being defiled.

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine, absolutely fine.’

  ‘Well, just make yourself at home. You want anything Alison, just help yourself.’

  ‘Cheers Chloe,’ I said, feeling the weight of the cash bundles in my hand. ‘I’ll do that.’

  Chapter 8

  The only person in the Valero Business English Centre was the man himself, Señor Jorge Valero. He welcomed me warmly. It was a relief to find he knew who I was and why I was here.

  ‘Ah, Señorita Donaldson, so nice to meet you,’ he said.

  The first thing he did was pour me a coffee and insist I try a piece of ‘turron’, a soft nutty sweet. He watched my face closely while I nibbled at it. It was okay, if a bit oversweet, but I nodded and made appreciative noises.

  With the niceties taken care of Señor Valero got down to business. He didn’t seem too bothered that I didn’t yet speak Spanish. He said that this was sometimes advantageous, forcing the students to find ways to make themselves understood in English. Señor Valero complimented me on my charming Scottish accent but admitted to having a little trouble with it. This alarmed me.

  Since arriving in Spain I had been forced to abandon my broad west coast brogue. Nobody understood me. In the last few days I had begun to speak slowly and carefully, softening my vowels and rounding out my consonants. Now I sounded more like a posh BBC newsreader. But, Señor Valero reassured me, it was good for students to be exposed to all kinds of regional English accents. I explained that Scotland was a separate country with our own Scottish parliament and judiciary.

  ‘It’s quite a different culture,’ I told him in my new cut-glass Home Counties English accent. ‘We’re very proud of our Scottish national identity.’

  ‘Bueno,’ said Señor Valero, looking bemused.

  To change the subject I handed over a copy of my CV. I’d spent ages padding it out and paid a fortune for the folder. I hoped this would distract him from the absence of any teaching qualifications and experience. It seemed to do the trick. Except for a nod to the obvious quality of the expensive folder, he barely glanced inside. It was exactly as Sarah Anderson had said: all you needed to teach English was to be a native English speaker.

  Señor Valero appeared to be satisfied and went on to discuss terms and conditions.

  ‘Your N.I.E. number?’ he asked, having progressed to filling in a form.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘N.I. E. employment number.’

  ‘Oh right, my National Insurance number? It’s WE 74…’

  Señor Valero looked up and put down his pen.

  ‘Is your English number, no?’

  Not wanting to quibble about the nationality of my insurance number I simply nodded.

  ‘You have Spanish number, from Spanish government? You no have N.I.E?’

  ‘Well, not at the minute,’ I blustered, ‘I wasn’t aware…’

  Señor Valero smiled.

  ‘Is no problem. Scotland is same as England. Is in European onion, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded enthusiastically.

  Never before had I felt so grateful to be a member of the European onion.

  ‘Bueno, no problem,’ he said with a careless wave. ‘There is time; I give you letter and you get N.I.E. for September, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, letting out a long-held breath.

  ‘Your address, please?’

  I gave him Chloe’s. I’d amend the details when I found my own place.

  ‘Okay, you sign here.’

  At this stage, the form was only partially filled in. As it was written entirely in Spanish it didn’t make much difference anyway. I could have been signing permission for open-heart surgery without anaesthetic for all I knew, but I signed.

  ‘Bueno,’ he said, placing the form with my CV. ‘Good.’

  Señor Valero saw the look of expectation on my face and was quick to react.

  ‘Sorry. You have questions?’

  I smiled as I said it, the old job interview cliché:

  ‘When do I start?’

  ‘Si,’ said Senor Valero, ‘classes begin in September.’

  ‘September?’

  I’d wondered earlier why he’d mentioned September. It was now only early July, two months until the beginning of September.

  ‘But I’m available to start now. I’d hoped I could start immediately, or at least soon.’

  Señor Valero laughed. ‘No classes in summer, is impossible,’ he chortled. ‘All is on vacation, at the beach. You want to teach English at the beach? In the sea? With the swim clothes on?’

  I laughed too. How silly of me.

  Señor Valero showed me out of the office, still chuckling at his little joke.

  ‘You call beginning of September, when you have N.I.E. We fix classes.’

  As I walked back to Chloe’s apartment I calculated how much money I had and how long I could make it last. Not till September. Even if I found a cheap place and I lived very carefully, it probably couldn’t be done.

  I dug out my phone card and phoned home. After a few minutes small talk I asked Mum.

  ‘It would only be a loan; I’ll pay you back as soon as I get paid.’

  ‘What did I tell you? I told you you didn’t have enough money, didn’t I? I bloody told you.’

  ‘I’ll send it in September.’

  ‘Alison, you’re not fit for this. Are you forgetting that a couple of weeks ago you nearly died of glandular fever? You have my heart roasted, so you do.’

  ‘It’s only a few hundred.’

  ‘A few hundred! D’you think I’m made of money? This is a piece of nonsense. You get yourself on a plane home right away, young lady.’

  ‘I’ve told you, Mum, I’m not coming home.’

  ‘Look, come home and get yourself up to that hospital for your check-ups. If Dr Collins gives you a clean bill of health and you’re still hell-bent on it then you can always go back in September.’

  ‘Please Mum, I wouldn’t ask but…’

  ‘Then don’t. Don’t do this to me. You can’t be gallivanting about Spain, not with your liver, and I can’t be encouraging you. You know I’d do anything for you Alison but this isn’t good for your health. It’s not good for mine either, I’m worried sick, you’ve got my heart roasted.’

  She was about to start moaning again about how she missed me, how the house was empty witho
ut me, I could hear it in her voice.

  *

  When I first saw the money I put it all back in the tin the way I’d found it: fat bundles of notes held together with elastic bands, just chucked in higgeldy-piggeldy. Now when I looked at it again and began to count it I realised that what had looked like solid blocks of notes was a mixture of fives, tens, twenties and even the occasional fifty or a hundred. There was no order to it. Chloe probably had no idea how much was there.

  She’d get it back, I wasn’t a thief. In September I’d find a way of getting it back to her. She’d have to visit her dad again sometime. Wasn’t Thanksgiving around that time? I’d offer to look after her plants again. I could put the money back then.

  Dear Lisa and Lauren, gallivanting around Spain with my liver. Essential kit, I wouldn’t be without it. Had to decide whether to become a pavement vagrant or a high society thief. Guess which one I picked? Life here is filled with exciting challenges. Only yesterday I saw a murdered boy with his head stoved in. Brains looked like raspberry jam. You couldn’t make it up. Are you still so into sudoku?

  I’d already binned the Victoria’s Secret underwear and box. The bra was beyond repair, the pants slightly soiled. There was no way I could put them back in the drawer. Chloe had so many clothes and posh underwear sets I’d have to hope she wouldn’t miss it.

  My heart was racing. I took four fifty-euro notes, each from a different bundle. Two hundred euros wasn’t a huge amount, and nothing compared to what was in the tin. I’d still have to live carefully, but at least this way I might not starve.

  Chapter 9

  I remembered the first time I found out the truth about sex. I would have been about nine or ten at the time. My brothers had rented a DVD and were watching it in Isabelle’s house. Isabelle was our next-door neighbour and Mum’s best friend. She didn’t have any kids of her own. Dad was away on the rigs, Mum worked full-time at the bakery and Isabelle childminded us after school until Mum came home.

  Me and my brothers and Isabelle would watch The Simpsons every day. The boys only ever wanted to watch TV but Isabelle and I did loads of things together. We talked about everything: school, my teacher, class projects, Mum and Dad, her husband Graham, visits to my Nan. Every day she brushed my hair, one hundred strokes to bring out the shine. Sometimes we went out to the shops or the spiritualist church. Occasionally Isabelle let me bake cakes so long as we ate them up before Mum got home. If mum brought cakes home that night from the bakery, Isabelle told us we weren’t to say anything. She didn’t want Mum’s feelings hurt. Isabelle was considerate, a warm loving person in my life. She was a wee fat woman, always tickling me and hugging me tight and she was always honest and open. I could ask her anything.

  ‘Go on,’ she’d say, ‘ask me anything.’

  One day I asked her about sex. My brothers were watching a DVD and laughing.

  ‘Isabelle,’ I asked, ‘why are the boys laughing at that film?’

  I already knew why they were laughing, it was because I’d said that the man in the film was doing press-ups on top of the lady, but I couldn’t understand what was so funny about that.

  Isabelle made the boys turn it off and whisked me into the kitchen and gave me a Caramel Log.

  ‘He isn’t doing press-ups, Ally love, the lady and the man are having sex.’

  Isabelle assured me that this was nothing to worry about.

  ‘Sex is when a man and a lady who love each other very much have a special cuddle,’ she said.

  I thought about this while I scraped the coconut off my Caramel Log with my teeth.

  ‘Did you have a special cuddle with Graham?’

  ‘Oooh! Many’s a time and often,’ Isabelle said laughing.

  Isabelle’s husband Graham was dead but we often discussed him. She loved to talk about how Graham died. I knew the story well but I always enjoyed it. A lady was crossing the road and she had a wee baby in a pram and the bus driver lost control of the bus and drove straight at the lady and the baby but Graham ran on to the road and pushed the lady and the baby away and the bus ran over him and he passed.

  ‘He died a hero, you can’t ask any more of a man than that,’ Isabelle would say.

  During the school holidays, if there was a visiting medium, we sometimes went to the spiritualist church for the afternoon sessions. Isabelle often got messages from Graham, usually telling her he was well and not to worry, but one day he sent a message for me.

  The medium was a small beak-nosed lady. Her method was to move around the hall trying to pick up messages as though she was trying to pick up a radio signal.

  ‘I have a message for someone in this row, someone in green, no, that’s it, green eyes. The little girl on the end there. I have a message from, I think it’s Gordon, or is it Graham? Yes, Graham. Graham sees an illustrious future for this child; she will travel far and know riches beyond her wildest dreams.’

  Delighted, Isabelle dug me in the ribs.

  ‘What’s that, Graham?’ said the medium. ‘Yes, thank you. Graham sends a warning: but first she will be deceived, she must face many trials and betrayals but she will triumph! She shall be entered into glorious halls and receive bounteous riches!’

  I wanted more but the medium collapsed and had to be brought a glass of water. Isabelle said we should go.

  ‘I think we’ll give the spiritualist church a miss for a wee while, eh Ally?’ Isabelle said as we walked home. ‘Some of those mediums talk a lot of nonsense. Don’t say anything to your mum, eh pet?’

  Isabelle never took me with her again to the spiritualist church but she continued to go alone in the evenings and she always told me whenever she got a message from the other side.

  That day after she had explained what the man and lady in the DVD were doing and she was brushing my hair, I asked Isabelle another question.

  ‘Isabelle, when you pass to the other side?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will you be able to have special cuddles with Graham on the other side?’

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ said Isabelle, and then seemed a bit uncomfortable,

  ‘if Graham still wants to. Now come on, finish your biscuit. The Simpsons will be on in a minute.’

  Chapter 10

  Ewan took me to a noisy café.

  ‘This okay here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  The place was busy but it was nothing to look at. The tables and chairs were old dark wood and the only planned decor seemed to be the ornate blue and yellow ceramic floor tiles. Along one wall were stacked dark wooden wine casks with silver taps and names and prices chalked on them. Wine dripped from the taps and a dark, reddish-brown stain built up on the floor. I couldn’t look at it and had to turn away.

  I’d have gone crazy if I’d had to stay alone in the flat. Mum ranting down the phone at me about check-ups and Dr Collins hadn’t helped; she was going on as if I was about to drop down dead. With Chloe away Ewan was the only person I knew in Barcelona. He was also the only man, so far, ever to have asked me out.

  No doubt this would turn out to be, like my relationship with Lisa and Lauren, a friendship of convenience, but I wasn’t in a position to be fussy. Ewan was from home, if we ran out of things to say we could talk about Cumbernauld.

  Ewan ordered two glasses of wine from the most expensive cask.

  ‘Thank you. Mmm, lovely wine,’ I nodded.

  Ewan nodded back. He smiled at me and I smiled back. We both spent a few minutes nervously looking at everything all around the bar, then we smiled at each other again.

  ‘How are things in Raval?’ I shouted into his ear.

  ‘Smelly backpackers coming and going.’ He shrugged, ‘It never changes.’

  ‘Yeah, but in Raval, anything interesting happened lately?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Are you okay, Alison?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  We looked around the bar again.

  ‘We could reminisce about the Nauld,’ I said.
/>   Ewan looked confused.

  ‘The Nauld, you know, the old country, Cumbernauld.’

  ‘Cumbernauld!’

  Ewan laughed. He laughed hard and for ages, which relaxed me. Somebody in Barcelona got my jokes.

  ‘I haven’t heard that for years. The Nauld.’ He shook his head appreciatively. ‘What would I know about the Nauld? I haven’t been back for years. You know more than me, you tell me.’

  So I did. I told him about the sad gits he remembered from school. They were all still living in council flats, still working in the same shops and call centres. They were still meeting the same grey faces every weekend in the local pubs, breeding a new generation of sad-git, grey-faced Naulders. Ewan laughed his head off.

  The wine had gone straight to my legs. I wanted a seat but the place was packed, three or four deep at the bar. All the tables were taken. At each small table people were huddled together over shared dishes, stabbing at communal plates with toothpicks. Even on the bar, space was mostly taken up with food, which was displayed in a long glass case.

  The air was clammy with fried fish and cigarette smoke. Plates clattered, Spanish was called from table to bar to kitchen and back again.

  ‘This shouting-the-orders-in system they’ve got,’ I said, ‘it’s very atmospheric.’

  ‘That gets on my tits,’ said Ewan. ‘It’s noisy enough in here with everything else that’s going on. But that bawling for the food makes you feel like you’re in court when the judge is calling the witnesses.’

  I laughed.

  ‘Call Patatas Bravas!’ he shouted above the other noise.

  People around us stared but Ewan didn’t give a toss.

  He was right, there was a lot happening in the crowded bar. Not everyone standing around was waiting to be served. Some were waiters, moving amongst the tables, stopping to chat and joke, aware of waiting customers but apparently immune to pressure.

  Some were strolling musicians, three of them with guitars and accordions, servicing the tables playing old international hits that everyone could join in with. While one table sang ‘quizas, quizas, quizas’ the next sang, ‘perhaps, perhaps, perhaps’.