Page 121 of Big Sexy Love
I look pointedly at his hand luggage – a briefcase, and the book he’s taking onto the plane calledThe Visual Display of QuantitiveInformation.
‘I beg todiffer.’
As we sit in the airport bar, nursing our pints, Alex keeps looking worriedly out of the huge windows. ‘It’s definitely goingtosnow.’
‘It might,’ I agree. ‘It is Christmas. Snow tends tooccur.’
‘But will it affect theplane?’
‘If it does, they’ll just cancel it. Show somechill!’
Alex laughs. ‘I never thought I’d hear Olive Brewster instructing someone to “Show somechill!”.’
I grin thoughtfully. ‘Me either. I like it. I likesayingit.’
‘Itsuitsyou.’
The airport speaker blares out, announcing boarding for Alex’s flight. As we head to the gate, I notice that his hands are trembling. I stop him andgrabthem.
‘You are going to be fine. You are going to be absolutely fine. If I can do it, lord knowsyoucan.’
Alex takes a deep breath. ‘Thanks,Sis.’
‘Have fun, okay. And keep me updated with absolutelyeverything. But not, like, sex stuff, obviously.’ A nearby couple give us an odd look. ‘He’s my brother,’ I explain. To which they make a horrified sort ofnoise.
‘And you too!’ Alex calls, as he hands his tickets, boarding pass and passport to the pretty young flight attendant. ‘Okay! HereIgo!’
‘There you go!’ I yell back. ‘GoAlexgo!’
As he disappears through the gate, off on an adventure that will change him in ways he can’t even fathom yet, I find myself smiling thoughtfully into mid-air. The pair of us are firmly back on a good footing with each other. I’m not saying it had anything to do with Donna leaving but… oh heck, I suppose Iamsaying that. She was pretty terrible. Living with Alex while we spruced up and sold the house turned outnotto be the awkward tedium it was before I went to New York, but a sweet, comfortable time, full of long conversations, laughs and the watching of anything other thanThe Big BangTheory.
My phone alarm yanks me out of my thoughts, buzzing incessantly from inside mybumbag.
Ooh! That’s my reminder! Shit! I best get amoveon.
I have my own flight tocatch!
* * *
Nine hours later,I step out into the arrivals lounge wibbly-legged from a tumultuous flight. This time I didn’t need alcohol or Rescue Remedy or Xanax to get through it – I just used every anxiety-reducing trick in my newly equipped mental arsenal. And it worked.Mostly.Hence thewibblylegs.
My cases have already been couriered over from Saddleworth and so the only luggage I have is my beautiful pink bumbag, wrapped snugly around mywaist.
I walk through the melee of chauffeurs and reuniting families to a soundtrack of Christmas carols playing over the tannoy system. My eyes flick from left to rightsearchingfor…
‘Olive!’ I hear his thin, reedy drawl before I see him. I peek up and Anders is there, looking insane and a bit terrifying in tight white jeans, a tight white jumper and ginormous grey scarf, his icy hair in a quiff, his pale eyes super wide with excitement. He’s holding a home-made cardboard sign that says ‘Welcome (back) to NYC,Darling.’
Beside him, dressed in a rainbow-striped dress and with a very sleek new silvery bob is Mrs Ramirez. She waves madly as I approach, a big smile stretching her wrinkled cheekssmooth.
It’s been over eight months since I’ve seen them. I can’t believe I’mbackhere!
‘Anders!’ I yell as they embrace me. ‘MrsRamirez!’
‘You’re here, Chica! You arefinallyhere!’
‘I love your bob. It looks great,MrsRami—’
‘For goodness sake, call meGlorita.’
