My Best Friend Has Issues (2 page)

I let myself be led out of the dungeon bar into the sunlight. Chloe walked me briskly across La Rambla and into the maze of narrow streets of Barri Gotic. This was a much nicer part of town.

At ground level the street was a corridor of bars, restaurants and shops. The shops sold mostly tourist stuff: fans, hats, rails of kiddies’ flamenco dresses, Barcelona football strips, wee models of the cathedral, fridge magnet lizards. Tourists clogged the confined space taking photos. Bored shopkeepers hung about in doorways, keeping an eye on their kids playing in the street. Chloe drew my attention to a shop with a dayglo sign in English. ‘Look!’ she said, laughing. ‘
Very cheap presents!
’

She caught me when I stumbled, my foot sliding out of my flip-flop on the cobbled street. I managed to avoid knocking over a big pile of stacked cardboard boxes full of rotting vegetables. Water occasionally dripped on our heads from laundry strung on balconies above. At street level there was a potent smell of urine but it was overlaid with the heavy chemical perfume of fresh laundry. We were at the bottom of a deep canyon. I had no idea where I was.

Chloe stopped outside an old building. She turned a key and we passed through a small wooden door within a much bigger wooden door.

‘I’m sorry, the elevator isn’t working. It hasn’t worked since I got here,’ Chloe smiled apologetically. ‘We’ll have to walk.’

She tried the light switch on the wall, popping it in and out three or four times.

‘Shit, the light’s bust too now. We’ll have to feel our way upstairs,’ she said in a thrilled voice. ‘It’s kinda spooky.’

I hung back.

‘It’s okay, it’s only this one that’s out. If you’re nervous, wait here and I’ll get it on the next floor.’

She sprinted up to the next landing and turned the light on. There was enough light to see all the stairs. There was nothing on them.

Chloe lived on the roof beyond the fifth floor. Five and a half flights of stairs, I was puffed out as she showed me in.

‘Sit down and relax, get your breath back, I’ll find the band aid.’

It was a wee cottage plonked on top of a block of flats. A penthouse. It wasn’t spacious; the kitchen and lounge areas combined were smaller than my bedroom in Cumbernauld. The walls were squinty, there were cracks in the plaster and bits had fallen off. The walls were painted with copies of famous paintings; I recognised one that I knew from a gallery in Glasgow. When I was nine I’d done a project on this painting when we’d gone there on a school trip.

As she rifled through drawers looking for the plasters I asked Chloe, ‘Is that
Christ of St John of the Cross
? ’

‘Hey, you know Dali, I’m impressed. I love his stuff.’

‘Mmmm, yeah,’ I said, nodding.

Some of the cracks and holes in the wall were incorporated into the artwork. There was one hole that had been filled with brightly coloured mosaic tiles and shaped like a lizard. I recognised that as the famous Gaudi lizard from Park Guell, I remembered seeing it in my Barcelona guidebook.

‘Gaudi,’ I said simply.

I wasn’t doing too badly. I knew more about art than I thought.

‘Did you do this?’ I asked. ‘Are you an artist?’

I’d never met an artist before.

‘Yeah, kinda, it’s what I do.’

I didn’t know much but I knew what I liked and I thought these were great.

‘You’re really talented.’

‘Aw, stop,’ she said, but I knew she was pleased.

‘You’ve made the most of this place, it’s brilliant.’

‘Yeah, thanks. I totally fell in love with this apartment as soon as I saw it, even if it does have roaches.’

‘Roaches?’

‘Cockroaches,
cucarachas
.’

‘How big are they?’

‘Oh don’t worry, just normal size. Don’t you have cockroaches in Scotland?’

‘No, it’s too cold, I think. Is this your own place?’ I asked,
wanting
to change the subject from cockroaches.

‘No. I was gonna buy it but there was a problem with the real estate survey. The building has subsidence, but most of Barri Gotic has, it’s real old. The Aged P wouldn’t release the funds.’

‘The Aged Pea?’

‘The Aged Parent. My dad. He’s such an asshole, he just doesn’t get it that I love this apartment
because
it’s cracked, it has
character
. I only have a short rental lease but I’m never gonna leave this apartment.’

‘Quite right,’ I agreed, ‘it’s lovely.’

She had found the Elastoplast now.

‘Come over here and I’ll put these on you.’

She indicated that I should sit on the couch. She knelt on the floor and dressed my cuts. I’d been out all day running around in the heat, I was dirty and smelly but she was determined to put the plaster on my leg.

‘So, you’re going away for a few days,’ I said. ‘Where are you off to?’

She pushed her breath through closed lips. ‘I have to go to Berlin.’

‘That sounds great.’

‘No, I have to go see The Aged P. I have to spend the fourth of July holiday with him. It’s a duty call.’

She pronounced it ‘dootie’.

‘If I don’t check in with him, he stops my allowance. He likes to keep me on a tight leash. Fucking pervert.’

Alarm must have registered on my face because then she said,

‘No, I don’t mean like that. I mean he’s a control freak. I’m twenty-three, for Chrissake. I inherited my estate when I was twenty-one but my dad told the court it wouldn’t be good for my health. So now, thanks to Aged P, I’m dirt poor. I mean, hello? Like, being a multi-millionaire is
bad
for your health?’

‘Are you mega-rich then, like Paris Hilton?’

‘Paris Hilton doesn’t have to live on a lame allowance like a little kid, it’s embarrassing.’

‘That must be tough.’

As soon as it was out I realised she might think I was taking the piss but I hadn’t meant it that way.

‘Yup,’ she said cheerfully, ‘I suppose there are worse things.’

She finished putting the Elastoplasts on and eased my leg down to the floor. She had a very gentle touch.

‘There you go, all done.’

‘Thanks very much, Chloe.’

I sat back in the huge couch piled with luxurious throws. There was a huge plasma TV and, on the shelf beneath, a digital frame flashing up different photos every few seconds. All the photos were of the same person. At first I thought I recognised her, a film star I couldn’t quite bring to mind, but I didn’t know her. They were simply high quality photographs of a very beautiful woman. These weren’t snaps from the family album, they’d been taken by a professional photographer in a proper studio. In every shot the woman was alone. She was stunning: long blonde hair, pale blue eyes, full lips, perfectly proportioned cheekbones, nose and chin. Some of the shots were slightly soft focus but even in the close-ups she had not a line or wrinkle or sag, and she was pretty old, she must have been over forty, at least.

‘Is this your mum, Chloe?’

‘Yup, that’s my mom.’

She sounded proud.

‘You look like her. She’s beautiful.’

‘Yeah, well, she gets her looks from me, but thanks, I’ll be sure and pass her the compliment,’ she said, getting up from her knees. ‘You look like you could use some coffee.’

Chloe gathered the bits of backing paper from the plasters off the floor and went back to the kitchen. She immediately came back and turned a switch that began a low hum.

‘Thank God for air con, huh?’ she smiled.

The air was suddenly noticeably fresher.

‘Help yourself,’ she said, ‘check the place out.’

Compared to the other flats I’d seen in Barcelona, this place was fabulous. The bedroom had a huge bed, king size or even bigger. It was the biggest room in the flat and the most untidy. There were three empty glasses on the bedside table and the easy chair was buried under a pile of clothes, but it was a great room. There was what looked like an antique wooden bedroom suite with a massive carved mirror. On the unmade bed lay a small backpack with its contents spilling out: pants, a bra and two crumpled tops. Beside that, an airline ticket. I could hear Chloe banging about in the kitchen so I risked a quick peek and saw that the ticket was made out to Miss Chloe Taylor. First class. It was for Berlin. First class. One way.

My inspection of the flat only took a few minutes but I was
looking
forward to moving in here, even if it was only for three days.

‘Take a look at the terrace,’ Chloe called from the kitchen. ‘I’ll bring the coffee out there.’

The terrace was three times the size of the flat. Glass sliding patio doors led out to the roof from the living room. There was a massive chimney with four chimney pots that rose up out of the terrace, it was about eight feet tall. I had no idea chimneys were that big, I’d never stood next to one before. There weren’t any roof terraces in Cumbernauld. All the roofs in Cumbernauld had steep gradients to let the rain drip off the mossy tiles. But the most impressive thing about being up here, apart from making me feel like Mary Poppins, was how quiet it was. There was no more than a background buzz from the noisy street five flights below. From up here it was all neat squared-off terraces. Beyond the pleasantly hazy green patches of roof gardens, there was a thin bright blue line on the horizon. A stripe of Mediterranean. It was close enough to smell, a nice change from the rank street smell.

Along one side of the terrace Chloe had rigged up some kind of shade with white sheets pegged across two washing lines, making a ceiling and three walls. Inside the makeshift tent there was a low table and another pile of large silky cushions. I poked my head inside but was quickly driven out again by the strong musky smell. It smelled like something nasty had crawled in there and died.

Chloe brought out the coffee on a tray.

‘Ah, so you’ve found my Bedouin yurt,’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘it’s brilliant.’

‘If you liked my lizard you’re gonna love this.’

Chloe led me round the other side of the chimney to a pile of stuff: a pair of ladders, dust sheets, bags of plaster, cement, a basin, a tool bag and a bundle of ceramic tiles.

She bent down and fanned out the tiles like cards in a pack.

‘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.