And that’s when I hear it. The sweet sound of Morrissey – floating down the tunnel to platform four. Someone’s got a guitar that’s way out of tune, but it’s the first decent thing I’ve heard since I started. So much so that I’m tempted to quit right there and then, just so I won’t have to can the guy.
With Rob right behind me (Bill style – clump, clump, black lace-ups, theme tune) I make my approach. And I’m just about to steel myself for some elbow-touching when I realize it’s him again. Tweety. My fate. My nemesis. My karmic punishment.
He’s not on the bongos this time (well thank God for that, Morrissey was never meant for a jungle beat). He’s in charge of a saxophone instead, but I’d spot him anywhere – it’s the hip movements. ‘What happened to the cat?’ I say.
Tweetie tilts his head quizzically.
‘Take your thing off. What happened to Sylvester?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ comes the reply.
And off comes the head, and it’s Paul.
‘I bought it off him,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘I bought it off Tweety. After we arrested him.’
‘Oh.’
‘I wanted to serenade you,’ he says.
‘Oh. Thanks.’
His red hair is all sweaty and sticking up from the bird head, and his Brainsy glasses are starting to go misty.
‘Are you going to touch me on the elbow and ask me to go?’ he says, trying to make a joke of it.
‘No, Rob is,’ I hear myself saying..
And I leave them to it.
Patricia Scanlan
Patricia Scanlan was born in Dublin, where she still lives. Her books, all number one bestsellers, have sold worldwide and have been translated into many languages. Her most recent title, A Time For Friends, spent four weeks in the Sunday Times top ten. Patricia is also the series editor and a contributing author for the Open Door series which promotes adult literacy. Find out more about Patricia on Facebook: www.facebook.com/patriciascanlanauthor.
Fairweather Friend
Patricia Scanlan
‘Why do you bother going on holidays with Melissa Harris? She’s such a cow. She only uses you, you know,’ Denise Irvine said crossly as she forked chicken korma into her mouth and took a sip of white wine.
Sophie glowered at her sister. ‘She’s not that bad!’ she snapped irritably, dipping a piece of nan bread into her tikka masala sauce.
‘Oh come on, Sophie, she’s a walking bitch and always has been. She drops you like a hot potato as soon as there’s a bloke on the scene and then you don’t see her for dust until she’s ditched and needs a shoulder to cry on. You’re too soft with her and always have been. It’s time you told her where to get off. Remember last year you were supposed to go on holiday with her and then she dropped you at the last minute because she met Mister Wonderful, and took off to Ibiza with him?’ Denise pronged a stuffed mushroom and ate it with relish.
Sophie looked at her younger sister with envy. Denise could eat and drink all round her and not put on an ounce. She’d be up two pounds at least on the scales after this pig out.
‘What happened to Mister Wonderful anyway?’ Denise topped up their wine glasses. ‘I thought they were going back to Ibiza.’
‘She found out that he was two-timing her. She’s in bits, really she is, Denise. I’ve never seen her this bad,’ Sophie said earnestly. ‘She was crazy about Tony, really nuts about him. He was the love of her life.’
‘Don’t be daft, Sophie!’ Denise scoffed. ‘How could he be the love of her life? She’s so passionately in love with herself, there’s no room for anyone else.’
‘Oh, leave her alone,’ Sophie muttered.
‘Well I would have told her where to get off, if she’d asked me to go on holidays with only a week’s notice after her behaviour last year,’ Denise retorted, helping herself to a portion of aloo saag.
It’s all right for you, Sophie thought glumly, as she studied her bright-eyed, immaculately groomed, supremely confident younger sister.
Denise had friends to beat the band and men fell over themselves trying to get a date with her. She breezed through life with not a care in the world, the epitome of the nineties woman about town. She revelled in her busy career as a publicist in a large publishing company and, at the age of twenty-two, drove her own company car.
Sophie, two years older, drove an ancient Fiesta that she’d had for the last six years. She was a paediatric nurse and while she enjoyed her job, she felt that her life lacked the glamour and excitement of her sister’s.
Her two closest friends had got married within six months of each other and in the last two years she’d had no one to go abroad with. The idea of going on a singles holiday filled her with dread. Hence the acceptance of the offer of two weeks in Majorca with Melissa Harris.
Sophie sighed and took a slug of her Australian sauvignon. She’d known Melissa since her schooldays. Blonde, blue-eyed, bubbly, and indescribably self-centred.
Melissa was the centre of the universe in her own eyes, or, as Denise cruelly christened her, The Queen of the Me, Me, Me, Planet. An only child, spoilt by doting parents, Melissa swanned through life accepting adoration as her due.
In Sophie, she had the perfect handmaiden. It had been so from the moment in junior choir when Melissa decided that she preferred Sophie’s little black velvet bow to the red ribbon that adorned her own golden ponytail.
Sophie had handed over the bow unquestioningly, mesmerized by the baby-blue eyes batting perfect long black lashes at her and thrilled beyond measure at the invitation to join Melissa’s gang. Although the entire class aspired to be a member of Melissa’s entourage, only the chosen few were given the honour.
The honour was withdrawn regularly according to Melissa’s mood and whim, and Sophie would find herself on the outside of the golden circle until Melissa had need of her services again. This was the pattern of their friendship, through childhood, teens, and while Melissa studied to become a beauty therapist and Sophie was a student nurse.
‘Weeks could go by and Sophie wouldn’t hear a peep from Melissa and then some crisis would occur and Melissa would arrive at Sophie and Denise’s flat in search of TLC and sympathy, while she sobbed over her latest heartbreak and declared that ‘All Men Were Bastards.’
Tony Jenkins was the most recent addition to the AMWB’s list. He and Melissa had been scheduled to take Ibiza by storm again until Melissa had discovered him in a steamy clinch with a beautician colleague at a friend’s engagement party. It seemed they were having a rip-roaring affair.
‘I really loved him,’ Melissa wept. ‘I just don’t understand what he sees in her, Sophie. She’s an awful airhead and she’s got cellulite! When I think of all the times I did electrolysis on her – she has a terrible hairy lip – I should have let the needle slip and scarred the fucking bitch for life.’
Sophie made a mental note never to have Melissa do electrolysis on her. Not that Melissa ever did beauty treatments for her, now that she was qualified. It had been a different kettle of fish when she’d been training and needed guinea pigs. Sophie had been manicured, pedicured and French polished, not to mention tweezed and waxed within an inch of her life. That had been painful!
‘That tart is going to Ibiza with him. Can you believe it?’ Melissa was incandescent with rage, her usually flawless porcelain skin mottled red with temper. ‘Soph, you simply have to come on holidays with me. I’m damned if Jayne’ – the cellulite afflicted ‘other woman’ – ‘is going to come into the salon sporting a tan and showing off photos of her and The Rat.
‘We’ll go somewhere and get the best tan ever and find the most gorgeous hunks to take care of us and our photos will make that fucker pea-green with jealousy. I’ll make sure he gets to see them. But even if he comes crawling on his hands and knees, he’s history, Soph. I’ll go straight to the travel agent’s tomorrow and book a holiday for us.’
Melissa assumed automatic
ally that Sophie would drop everything and be thrilled to go on holiday with her.
‘I don’t know, it’s very short notice. I wasn’t planning to go abroad,’ she’d protested. ‘I’m a bit skint.’
‘Don’t be silly, Sophie. What do you mean short notice? You’re not doing anything, are you? You weren’t planning on going away, were you?’ Melissa scowled. ‘I’m skint too. When I found out about The Skunk and that two-faced so-called friend, I went out and blew a fortune on this gorgeous Frank Usher two-piece. It’s to die for, Sophie, but my Visa card is having a nervous breakdown, so it will have to be a cheapie for me too. But who cares? We’ll strut our stuff on the beach and we won’t have to spend a penny,’ Melissa retorted confidently, her eyes beginning to sparkle at the thought of her next conquest.
A fortnight in the sun would be nice, Sophie thought dreamily. Lazing on a lounger with a big fat blockbuster novel and a Pina Colada or a dressed Pimm’s, while Melissa strutted her perfectly toned and sculptured stuff. Sophie would be quite content to lie on her lounger, her flabby bits not being at all suitable for strutting.
Two weeks later they were sitting in a bar at the airport waiting to board a TransAer flight to Majorca. They’d been delayed for three hours and Melissa was frothing at the mouth.
‘This is bloody ridiculous. The plane hasn’t even left Palma yet. We’re going to be here for hours. That’s a whole day wasted. It will be the middle of the night before we get to … Portal … Portal … wherever that place we’re going to is.’
‘Portal Nous,’ Melissa murmured.
‘I hope it’s going to be a bit lively. It’s three miles from Palma Nova. It was all I could get at such short notice,’ Melissa fretted.
‘It will be fine, Mel, stop panicking,’ Sophie placated. ‘Now, let’s have coffee and a sandwich, I’m a bit peckish.’
Her nerves were frayed. Three hours of Melissa whingeing and moaning about their delayed flight and the devastating betrayal she’d suffered at the hands of The Unmentionable was doing her head in.
‘Oh no, not coffee. Let’s go and get pissed.’ Melissa flung back her golden hair and uncoiled herself from the hard chair she’d been sitting on, quite aware that every male eye in the vicinity was upon her. She undulated towards the bar in her skin-tight white jeans and tightly fitting black halterneck.
Sophie’s heart sank. If Melissa went on the sauce, she was in for a load of hassle. Melissa, unfortunately, could not drink, and always needed looking after when she was the worse for wear. Many were the times Sophie had hauled her into loos, or shoved her head out of taxi windows as she threw up all round her.
‘Now, Melissa, go easy, you’ve already had three tequila slammers,’ she warned.
‘Oh quit it, Soph! You’re not my mother!’ Melissa snapped as she ordered another drink. ‘Do you want one?’ she asked ungraciously.
‘OK, I’ll have a Bud,’ Sophie agreed. It might shut Melissa up for a while. Personally, she’d be happy enough to sit in the boarding area and read one of the six books she’d brought with her. She couldn’t decide which to start with. The new Bridget Jones or Memoirs of a Geisha. She was so looking forward to getting into them.
Three hours later, Melissa was well and truly plastered and had upchucked twice. She was draped across a tall, dark, arty type who was waiting for a flight to Crete.
‘We should shange our flight and go to Schrete …’ she slurred gaily.
‘Off you go,’ muttered Sophie, utterly pissed off.
Two hours later they finally boarded their flight. Melissa promptly fell asleep and snored loudly for the duration, her head lolling on Sophie’s shoulder. Sophie couldn’t believe her luck. She pulled Bridget Jones out of her travel bag and chuckled her way across France and Spain as Melissa’s musical snores drowned out the roar of the jet engines.
Unfortunately a bumpy descent into Palma Airport revived both Melissa and her stomach and, for the third time that day, Sophie resisted the urge to drown her in a toilet bowl.
It took another hour to collect their luggage and find the coach that was to take them to their apartment. Sophie found it hard to keep her eyes open as the air-conditioned coach sped along the motorway towards their destination. She half-listened to the forced jolliness of the rep as she reminded her clients to use lots of sun factor and not to imbibe too much San Miguel.
Melissa, green-faced, once again found refuge in sleep.
By the time the coach pulled into the small, two-storey apartment block, Sophie was whacked. It didn’t look ultra-modern, she noted as they stopped outside a building that had white flaking paint and two pots of dried-out wilting flowers at the entrance. She was too tired to care as a sullen receptionist took their passports and handed her the key to room 103. They were the only passengers to get off the coach, so at least the check-in was quick, Sophie thought wearily as they click-clacked their way down a tiled floor, dragging their luggage behind them.
‘It’s a bit kippy,’ Melissa moaned as Sophie struggled to get the big black key to turn in the lock.
Basic, was how Sophie would have described it, she reflected as she surveyed a white-painted room with a shabby sofa and two chairs, a pine table and chairs, and an alcove that housed a two-ring cooker, sink and fridge.
The bedroom had a built-in wardrobe whose doors didn’t close properly, two divans, and a small bedside locker each. The bathroom, decorated in mustard tiles, was not a place she’d spend too long in, she decided. It was 3 a.m., she was exhausted and Melissa’s shrieks of dismay were the last thing she needed.
‘Let’s go to bed. You chose the apartment, Melissa. It’s not my fault. I’ve had a long day. I don’t want to hear any more about it. I’ve had enough, so zip it,’ she exploded tetchily as she pulled off her T-shirt and jeans and dived into the nearest divan.
‘There’s no need to be like that,’ Melissa sniffed huffily as she undressed. ‘Can I have some of your bottled water to wash my teeth? My mouth tastes horrible.’ Melissa, of course, would never be so organized as to have bottled water. That’s what Sophies were for.
‘Help yourself,’ Sophie yawned as she pulled the white sheet over her and buried her head under the long thin pillow on the narrow divan. At least the sheets were crisp and clean, she thought drowsily. Minutes later she was fast asleep.
She awoke, she had no idea how much later, to high-pitched screeches emanating from a frantic Melissa in the other bed.
‘Getawayfromme! Getawayfromme!’
Dazed, Sophie sat up, trying to remember where she was. Melissa was shrieking like a madwoman, arms and legs flailing in the dark. The unmistakable buzzzzz of a mosquito gave a clue to the cause of the drama.
‘Oh for God’s sake, Melissa, it’s a mosquito. Spray some stuff on yourself and go to sleep,’ she snarled, finding the light and snapping it on.
‘I think it’s a bat!’ wailed Melissa.
‘It’s not a bat, it’s a mosquito. Here.’ She sprayed mosquito repellent over the distraught Melissa, then over herself, and switched off the light.
‘You’ve got really grumpy, these days. You used to be much nicer,’ Melissa said in her little girl voice.
Spears of guilt prodded Sophie. She was being a bit of a bitch. Melissa had a fear of insects. ‘Sorry!’ she apologized. ‘PMT,’ she fibbed.
‘We’re going to have a good holiday, aren’t we?’ Melissa asked anxiously.
‘We’re going to have a great holiday. You’re going to get a MEGA tan and find a hunk for your photos, and The Skunk is going to be the sorriest idiot in the world.’
‘Yes, he is an idiot, isn’t he? But I’m not taking him back. Definitely not.’
‘No, you’re not. He’s not worthy of you. There’s a much nicer man waiting for you out there,’ Sophie said kindly.
‘Yes there is. A millionaire, possibly,’ Melissa agreed. She always thought big. ‘There’s a marina around here somewhere, where the crème de la crème of the Mediterranean park their yachts.’
>
‘Berth,’ Sophie corrected sleepily.
‘What?’
‘Berth their yachts, not park,’ Sophie explained.
‘Oh! Right, I better remember that.’ She leaned on her elbow and stared over at Sophie. ‘You know Majorca is very “in”. Don’t forget Princess Di used to come here. The Spanish royal family come here and Michael Douglas brought Catherine Zeta Jones here. He has a huge villa in Deya. I’ve read about it in Hello! Maybe we should go there for a day. We’ll hire a car.’
‘Fine,’ murmured Sophie, wishing Melissa would go back to sleep.
‘Imagine, if I met a millionaire, I might even invite Tony and Jayne to the wedding,’ she fantasized. ‘That would really rub their noses in it. Wouldn’t it, Soph?’
Silence.
‘Sophie?’
But Sophie was asleep. A deep and dreamless sleep.
Sophie came to, to find sunlight dancing through the green shutters and Melissa standing on the patio, arms akimbo as she surveyed the scene in front of her.
‘We can’t possibly stay here, Sophie!’ she declared, aghast. ‘It’s in the sticks. We don’t even have a sea view, which I specifically asked for, and the swimming pool – if you could call it a swimming pool – is no bigger than a bath!’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers, Mel, and after all it was a cancellation – we might not get anywhere else at such short notice.’ Sophie scrambled out of bed and went to join her friend on the postage-stamp patio. The sun was shining. That was all that mattered!
She gazed around at the dry, barren scrubland that backed on to a scree-filled cliff dotted with pine trees. They were perched on a small hill. Below she could see other apartment blocks nestled among trees, and in the distance the glittering, silver blue sparkle of sunlight dancing on water.
‘There’s your sea view.’ She grinned, stretching and breathing in the warm scented Mediterranean breeze.
‘This is the pits! The pits!’ Melissa moaned. ‘And look at those kids jumping up and down in the pool. Horrible little beasties. Urrgh.’ Melissa was not at all the maternal type.
Girls' Night In Page 17
