Page 8 of ReTreat Yourself

‘I said sister,’ I tell them firmly. ‘Back-stabbing bloody sister – not cyst!’

They look confused.

I’m going to have to spell it out. ‘It’s my bloody sister, Ava. She’s the reason I’m so upset!’

‘Oh.’ My nosy do-gooder sounds almost deflated at the lack of emergency. ‘So, there’s no actual cyst.’ He shrugs apologetically at the doctor.

‘There’s no medical emergency? I see. So, this is more of a tantrum?’ The doctor gives us both a withering stare as he backtracks away as though we’re a pair of complete NHS timewasters.

Tantrum? Tantrum? Unfortunately, the combination of embarrassing myself in front of these heroic do-gooders and the confusion on the faces surrounding us acts as a tipping point.

I develop what I can only describe as sudden-onset ‘persecution complex’. These random strangers all need to understand the gravitas of what my sister has done. The catastrophic set of events she has put in motion. This is no effing tantrum.

I take a ginormous breath in, filling my lungs. ‘She’s ruined my whole feckin’ life!’ And although that feels good, I can tell that it’ll be a very, very temporary release.

My nosy companion looks like he is about to have a triple heart attack as we hear heavy footfall.

Armed guards charge in our direction and immediately manhandle us out of the queue and over to a small, very official-looking room, to face a very severe, moustachioed police officer. He is not happy.

I look at my Good Samaritan. He is not happy either.

Once again, I burst into noisy tears.

4

‘Sorry!’ I say repeatedly, wiping my tears with the back of my hand and blowing my nose with the box of tissues pushed in front of me. ‘It’s my birthday. I’m supposed to be hap… hap… happy.’

‘Names!’ the police officer shouts.

‘Oliver,’ blurts the nosy guy immediately.

They turn to look at me.

‘Nell.’ I sniff. ‘As in short for Eleanor.’

Say what you like about the Spanish, but they take crying damsels in distress very seriously. The officer turns sharply to Oliver. ‘Why have you upset your lady-woman? On her birthday?’

‘I didn’t know it was her birthday,’ Oliver explains as the policeman offers me more tissues.

The officer glares at him as though he’s a prolific womaniser. He picks up a pen and reaches for a form to fill in.

‘She’s not my lady-woman, I mean my… I mean, we’re not together. Tell him I was just being polite. Tell him it’s not me who upset you,’ Oliver says, turning to me, horror-struck.

I stare blankly for a second while I experience an out-of-body encounter. I see myself hunched over the box of tissues while these two men regard me as some suspicious package about to explode at any minute.

I shake my head sadly.

‘He’s right. He was just being nosy.’

Somehow, the police officer misconstrues this and tuts, causing Oliver to beg me to be a little clearer on the matter. I have a quick think about giving them the full lecture on my family politics. It might be good to get a military perspective.

‘You see, it’s my sister’s fault. She takes everything that is mine.’ I watch their jaws slacken as I sniff loudly a few more times, and settle back in the chair. ‘She’s always been the favourite child. A menopausal “surprise”, according to my parents.’

The word menopause has deeply unsettled them both but I will continue with my harrowing narrative for all our sakes.

I pause, wondering where to begin.

‘She exploded into our lives like a pink, fluffy grenade and grew up expecting the world to be at her beck and call.’ Childhood memories come flooding back of a mini despot wearing spotted wellies, a frown and a tutu, terrorising my every move. ‘She gets everything she wants, even though it’s me who is the nice one and runs around after them all. She’s selfish and controlling and vain. Unbelievably vain. She has nearly a million followers. Look, I’ll show you…’ I dig around for my phone.