My Best Friend Has Issues (24 page)

It’s not that I’m scared of going to hospital. It’s pain and sickness and knives slicing through my skin that worry me. You of all people must be able to understand that.

It’s not just the surgery, it’s the shape I’m going to be in afterwards: swelling, scarring, bits popping out or dropping off. Okay, maybe not dropping off exactly but you know what I mean. It’s gonna do ugly things to my body, that’s for damn sure. My legs are already getting criss-crossed with blue veins. I look like one of those three-dimensional road maps of California they sell in truck stops.

Of course, Aged P is delighted, you know what he’s like. This is exactly where he’d like to have me: flat on my back, under his control. D’you know he even had the gynaecologists gang up on me? They told me I’m ‘elderly
prima gravida
’. Elderly! How can thirty-four be elderly?

I’m still a kid. I’m more of a kid than you are. Sure, I have botox but think about it: I get a lot more exercise than you do and my diet is way healthier. But even though I’m fresh and lovely on the outside, my insides are officially elderly. It’s not fair.

P wants to hire a team of nannies to look after ‘the little man’ as he’s calling it. I said knock yourself out. The fewer diapers I have to deal with the better. Oh, and wait till you hear this: he asked when the baby comes if I could please stop calling him Aged P. He doesn’t want the kid to grow up hearing it. Okay, he’s kept in shape, must be all the golf he plays, he still looks pretty good naked and, sorry, I know this is a bit gross but it has to be said, he’s no slouch in the sack either, but he’s sixty-six with a serious heart condition, I mean, that seems pretty damn aged to me. If I’m elderly, he’s gotta
be aged. But it gets worse: he started on again about me giving up work. I told him no deal. I didn’t spend four shitty years at college to give up everything because a kid comes along.

Remember how excited we used to get talking about college? What a letdown that was. I wasn’t cut out for medicine. One sick person in my life is plenty for me. If P hadn’t got me switched to corporate accountancy I would’ve dropped out. And we never did do that frat party stuff, did we? The other students didn’t get my Scottish accent and they were just so cliquey. The social life was juvenile anyway, sad little cheese and wine parties hosted by the phrenology society or the Klingon Language Institute. Duh, no thanks. That was when I first got a therapist, d’you remember? She still goes on about my trust issues. It’s probably true; I think I do have trust issues but I’ve got you to thank for that. Actually having trust issues hasn’t done me any harm. It was probably due to not making friends that I graduated top of my year. So thanks for that, Chloe.

If I hadn’t done so well at college, P might not have taken me into the company and I wouldn’t be on the board right now. I know he said that he just needed someone on the board he could actually trust but don’t you think I’m the best person for the job? Believe me, I work hard, you know I do, but I don’t think the other board members will ever accept me. Of course it’s awkward but I love my job so fuck them.

Oh, I knew there was something else I had to tell you! This morning I had a meeting with a private detective. When I say private detective, you think ‘gumshoe’ don’t you? But she was nothing like that. This detective is a woman, Mrs Colette Sam. Apparently she’s the best in the business. If it’s done nothing else, accountancy has helped me appreciate attention to detail and Mrs Sam left no stone unturned. Honestly, you’d have been impressed. Oh yeah, her report was very interesting. Very interesteeng, Meester Bond.

There was a copy of a twelve-year-old newspaper article, with a translation from Catalan to English. It was an account of an incident in an apartment block at Fifteen Calle Hierba, Raval, in Barcelona. Ring any bells, Chloe? Fifteen Calle Hierba was the apartment block I’d just run out of when you first met me, remember?

A young man, William Fenton, aged nineteen, a US citizen, fell to his death over a banister. William Fenton, was he the one you were going to Vietnam with? Was he your boyfriend, Chloe? He was, wasn’t he? The report said William Fenton was a student visiting Europe for the summer before returning to California to continue his studies. Everything was in the file: the police report, medical records, the autopsy. It was very detailed.

There was a pretty gory account of the location and severity of William Fenton’s wounds, an analysis of the alcohol and drug levels in his blood, and a list of the contents of his stomach. There was a lot of boring technical data I didn’t understand so I skimmed through to the summary and conclusions, which I’m sure you’re as keen as I was to know.

Well, apparently William Fenton’s wounds were consistent with a fall of twenty metres. There was no evidence in the form of contusions or otherwise to suggest that he had been coerced or pushed. He had drugs in his bloodstream but these were found to be prescribed medication. On further investigation his medical records showed that he’d been diagnosed with labyrinthitis, a condition of the inner ear affecting balance, the chief symptom of which is dizziness. The autopsy report concluded that William Fenton had most probably suffered a dizzy spell and fallen over the banister.

Most probably, that’s what it said, but we know different, don’t we Chloe? Don’t we Chloe? Did you know he had labyrinthitis? Oh, you’re a slippery one. Mrs Sam, the finest detective money can buy, and even she can’t catch you out. It’s okay. I don’t mind if you pushed him, really I don’t. It’s just that I’d like to know. I wasn’t trying to get you into trouble; I only wanted to close the book on Bashed Head Boy but you’re never going to crack, are you?

The company is giving Philip a dinner, a ‘Goodbye, Good luck and Thanks for everything’, as he calls it. He’s promised that this’ll be the last of the retirement parties, thank God. I don’t mind this one so much; he’s going to announce his successor. That’ll be fun, seeing all their wrinkly old faces.

I’ve come a long way. Who would have thought that a wee heifer like me from Cumbernauld would end up running one of
the top US companies? I know I’m lucky, more than lucky I suppose: blessed. Just think of all the crazy dangerous things that have happened and yet I’ve always come out okay. Spooky, isn’t it? It’s as though I’ve had an angel watching over me.

The very first time I saw you I thought you were an angel. In those first weeks in Barcelona, when you shared your apartment with me, brushed my hair and looked after me; when you lay softly snoring on the pillow beside me, you were like a beautiful angel.

But let’s face it, Chloe, you were out of control. That childish nihilism couldn’t last; you wouldn’t have got away with it forever. You’d have ended up on a murder charge. Your inheritance couldn’t have bought you out of that. You’d have spent years in some Catalan prison or worse, back in the US on death row with only Philip to visit you, pitying you through the bars.

When the chimney fell on us I thought I was dying. I thought we were going to die together. I didn’t mind, it meant we’d be together in the afterlife and when we met my dad, you’d kick his balls.

It was a weird thing to happen, the chimney to fall on us, but I guess it was to be expected: all that rain and all, all that unbalanced weight. The first thing I remember was the weight shifting above me, bricks and rubble, and your weight on top of me. When I dug out to the light there was blood pouring from between your legs and your body was twisted like a broken Barbie doll or something. ‘Flail chest’, they said it was. The top half of your body was facing the opposite direction from your bottom half, it was totally gross.

I suppose your body saved me from the worst of the damage. But that’s only fair, isn’t it? After all, you started it. You tried to smash my head in with a hammer. If the chimney hadn’t fallen on us you might have killed me, d’you ever think of that?

Oh yeah, and who got us out of it? Who clawed us both out of the rubble with her bare hands? Who crawled across the terrace and called the ambulance? That would be me.
De nada
. My pleasure. Alison Donaldson at your service.

You don’t know this but as soon as they’d plastered my wrist and strapped up my shoulder, I asked to be allowed to see you. I sat all night with P. We watched over you in the private room on
the top floor of the hospital, sitting together in silence, the only noise the swish and bleep of your life support machines. You were pretty messed up. It was horrible when they told us they had to amputate your arm. We both cried. For the next four weeks we took shifts sitting by your bed, talking to you, waiting for you to wake up. D’you remember any of it? Probably not. P called your mom dozens of times. She was busy with a new art installation down in Mexico. She sent flowers. I know you don’t like hearing this Chloe but she’s a fucking bitch.

While we were in Barcelona, P and I shared the apartment. He could have stayed at a hotel but he wanted to be near your things, he said it made him feel closer to you. Isn’t that sweet? I didn’t mind, we were rarely in the apartment at the same time. One of us was always at the hospital. A few times, when the doctors took you away to do more tests, P and I would eat together in the hospital restaurant. My wrist was still in plaster and P cut up my food for me. Four weeks later, when you were well enough to travel, we transferred to St Bartholomew’s in Los Angeles where, again, we sat by you while the doctors went through all the neurological tests.

It took for ever but eventually they let us take you home. And we rub along all right, don’t we Chloe? I know you miss P and I when we’re at work, but the nurses keep you company. Come on, be fair, even when I’m rushed off my feet I make time to pop your aspirator in your mouth and tell you about my day, don’t I? What am I doing right now? I know that crying is part of your condition but it’s pretty upsetting for us Chloe. Things were better before they changed your medication, when you dozed all the time. My dozy little Bashed Head Girl. I’m going to ask the doctor to change it back. I can’t bear to see you crying like this.

Cheer up, we still have fun, don’t we? What about last week when Phil went to London? I knew you’d like that new night nurse, James. He’s pretty tasty, isn’t he? He’s a great kisser. Although I think it freaked him out when I held your hand. He thought it was just going to be me and him. James said what we were doing was sick but I could see he got pretty excited when I opened your nightie. You’ve still got great tits.

I saw James at the case meeting after that. I winked at him and that freaked him out too so I don’t think we’ve anything to worry about, he’s not going to tell. Maybe James and I’ll put on another show for you next time P is out of town. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You dirrrty girl.

These case meetings annoy me, they always put P on a downer for weeks and you know how boring he is when he’s like that. As usual, the doctors had no good news. I don’t know why we bother. It’s always the same story: core brain damage is irreparable,
unresponsive
to functional neuromuscular stimulation, Locked In Syndrome, blah blah blah. And when we ask they always say that most probably you’ll stay locked in for the rest of your life.

Most probably.

They suggested, again, a resolution: a muscle relaxant. You’ll be so relaxed, you’ll stop breathing. You won’t suffer. Don’t worry, we told them it’s not an option. P said he’ll fire every one of them if they ever suggest it again. You’re part of this family, Chloe, and we want you with us.

Old Aged P is almost as stubborn as you. Look how long it took for him to name me executor of your estate. P knows as well as I do the tax benefits of doing it this way. I don’t know why he resisted so long, he’s just mean I guess. But now that I’m carrying his baby - your little brother, he can’t deny me anything.

When we found out I was pregnant, P was keen to tell you right away. I think he thought the shock of it might snap you out of your locked in syndrome, that you might suddenly come to your senses and throw a hissy fit like in the good old days but of course you cried. It’s the only thing you can do.

I don’t think you’ll ever have a hissy fit again but I suppose we’ve both changed. I’m not the fat stupid Scottish girl I was. Haven’t you noticed? I don’t even have a Scottish accent any more. Sometimes I wish the chimney had never fallen on us, that we had gone to college together like we were supposed to. You’d probably be a famous artist by now. But you wouldn’t have wanted P and me getting together and you’d absolutely hate that I’m the executor of your estate. I know you do, I can see it in your eyes. But lighten
up, eh? We’re family now, as well as being best friends. We’ve been through so much together. I have you to thank for all the good things in my life. It kills me to see you like this. We have to face the facts: aged P is sixty six, he’s old and ill, he won’t be around for ever. But we’ll still have each other. I’ll never leave you, Chloe, I promise. And I know you’ll never leave me. Pretty much the only good thing about your locked in condition is that, whatever else might happen, I’ll always have you with me, my Chloe, my angel.

THE END

Alison and Chloe share more similarities than differences. Would you agree?

What issues does Alison have? What issues does Chloe have? Have their issues changed by the end of the book?

Why does Ewan’s attitude towards Alison change when he discovers who she is?

Alison quickly moves in with Chloe. Apart from the practicalities, why are they both so keen on rushing into this when they know nothing of each other?

How does the location of Barcelona affect their relationship? What advantages and disadvantages does it confer? Does Alison’s experience in the hostel while flat-hunting expedite matters?

Although Alison claims to be interested in men and sex, she never sees it through. Why do you think that is?

How much do Alison and Chloe trust each other? And does this change through the story?

How much does Alison’s/Chloe’s relationship with her mother/father affect her behaviour?

Who are the mother and father figures in the story?

Why do you think Chloe adopted a pregnant dog?

How does the balance of power switch between the girls?

Why is Alison reluctant to leave Chloe and stop sharing the flat?

Who is most guilty of using the other?

Is Alison right to suspect Chloe of murder?

Do you think there is poetic justice in the end? Do they both get what they deserve?