My Best Friend Has Issues (4 page)

Bad dreams, too much excitement, but as I woke up I remembered I was now in Barcelona. The light was different here, the sunshine bright and cheerful. I lay enjoying my privacy and celebrated my solitude with a long, plangent fart. I could see myself reflected in the big carved mirror.

I saw a girl, a Euro-traveller. A girl who’d grow dope and live in Barri Gotic; who’d have American girlfriends and Spanish boyfriends. A girl with green eyes and a great figure.

I hooked my toe round the sheet and stretched, pulling it down, slowly, teasingly revealing the slim body that was attached to my head.

I was still getting used to the slender arms and legs that had emerged from the sausage casing they’d been trapped in for so long. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. I turned sideways to give the mirror an appreciation of my peachy bum. Glandular fever had been the best thing that ever happened to me.

Juegita was on at me as soon as I got out of bed, so I filled her bowl with the dried cereal Chloe had showed me and topped up her water. The pups were still sleepy and lay curled in comical
upside-down
positions in the sleeping bag. When they woke they clambered over each other, tiny paws on tiny necks, tummies and ears. They squeaked with the high-pitched tone of soft toys. While Juegita
suckled
them, one of the pups was too sleepy to open her eyes. Instead of her mother’s nipple, she sucked happily on one of her sister’s tails.

The earth in the marijuana pots slowly stained an inky black as I watered them. I pulled out weeds as I went. It was pleasant work, before I’d even finished I was looking forward to the next watering.
The next job wasn’t so pleasant. I swept up the cockroach bodies from outside the front door and shook out more bug powder the way Chloe had shown me. I was careful not to drop any inside the flat. It could poison the puppies, she’d warned me.

The chores done, I began sorting my own stuff. In my hastily packed rucksack my dirty clothes had got mixed up with my clean ones. I started to sort through them but then gave up sifting and slung everything in the washing machine. I didn’t know when I’d have access to such good facilities again.

She probably wouldn’t mind if I borrowed something of hers, just until my own stuff was dry. I looked through the cupboards and drawers. I didn’t really have to look in the cupboards; there were plenty of Chloe’s clothes on the chair and on the floor but I wanted to find out about her. All her clothes were gorgeous. Even the names I didn’t recognise looked like they were designer:
Balmain,
Valentino, Mui Mui, Mulberry.
Dear Lisa and Lauren, what to wear, what to wear? Will it be the Alexander McQueen dress or the Marc Jacobs skirt with the Prada top? Oh, what the hell, everything looks good on me now. Are the market stalls still selling those cheap Burberry fakes? How I pity you, you sad losers.

I tried her perfumes and found a make-up bag full of expensive products. A bottle of foundation had burst in the bag. Everything was stuck together and a grey-green fungus was growing in the gunge.

It was easy to tell which clothes Chloe had worn and which were clean. The dirty ones smelled like the inside of the yurt: a
powerful
doggy stink. Most of her clothes needed washed. I considered putting a load of hers in the machine when mine came out but I didn’t want her to think I’d been snooping.

Some skirts were a bit long on me but otherwise everything fitted. Chloe was at least six inches taller than me but we were the same size everywhere else, even shoes. I tried tops and skirts and trousers in different combinations. If they looked this good on me, how amazing did they look on her? In the bottom drawer there was a gorgeous white lace bra and pants set wrapped in tissue inside a Victoria’s Secret box.

My phone rang.

I panicked.

I had to get out of the bra and pants. If I answered the phone in them I might give myself away. I whipped the pants off and threw them across the room, distancing myself from the evidence. They landed somewhere at the back of the shoe cupboard. The bra was too tight to come off easily. My fingers fiddled behind me but I couldn’t unfasten it. I pulled the straps, yanking my arms free and forcing the delicate material down. The elasticated bra was dragging and becoming embedded in my belly flesh. I tugged at it again and heard the expensive white lace rip.

‘Hello?’

‘Hey! How’s my darlin’ girl?’ said Chloe.

‘Eh, fine, I just woke up,’ I said, trying to disguise my fright as sleepiness.

‘Actually I meant Juegita,’ Chloe laughed, ‘but okay Alison, you’re my darlin’ too.’

She laughed again and I felt an unpleasant flush across my naked skin.

‘Juegita’s fine,’ I said, all bumbling. ‘I’ve filled her bowl and given her fresh water. And the pups. They’re fine too. Everything’s fine.’

At the mention of her name Juegita toddled into the bedroom and looked me over, her expression hovering between confusion and envy. She must have longed for some multi-cupped dog bra to support her long pendulous breasts.

‘Great,’ said Chloe, sounding relieved. ‘And the other matter?’

Dizzy with confusion, I had no idea what she meant. The lacey bra cups drooped like empty holsters from my hips.

‘The other matter?’ I repeated.

‘The
vegetable
matter.’

Finally I hauled myself clear of the torn bra, the elastic snapping painfully against my skin. I lifted it at arms length and moved to the shoe cupboard to recover the pants. Chloe was still talking.

‘You know, the vegetables I’m growing,’ she said, putting extra emphasis on the word ‘vegetables’.

I rummaged in the back of the cupboard, pulling a tin box aside to get at the pants.

‘The ‘vegetables’ in the pots on the terrace. The ones I asked you to water?’

‘Oh!’ I said, ‘
that
vegetable matter! Yes, yes, I’ve watered the mareehwhana, it’s fine too. Sorry, I was thinking of another matter entirely.’

Chloe laughed again.

‘British humour, I love it!’

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.’

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 without 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.