My Best Friend Has Issues

by Laura Marney

  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

  Reading group questions

  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 bo
ok?

  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?

  Why I Wrote My Best Friend…

  LAURA MARNEY EXPLAINS THE INSPIRATION FOR THIS NOVEL. Back in the day, I lived in Barcelona. Now I live in Scotland. I have commitments: boring things like a job, a husband, a mortgage, so I can’t gad about the way I used to. I really, really wanted to return to my favourite Catalan city, so as a solution, I wrote a book set there. That way I could spend four hours a day, every day, in Barcelona – at least in my head. I wrote the novel from my bed on my laptop, looking up websites and all my old photos and mementos. I was in constant Facebook contact with my pals who still live there, asking them to check details for me. I even managed to squeeze in a cheeky visit, convincing my husband that it was essential research. The book is chock-full of everything I miss about Barcelona, and it was great fun name-checking all my favourite places, cafés and food.

  The friendship theme was inspired by real people and from two separate but similar incidents. The first happened when I was only seventeen (bless, I was only a kid). I decided to go alone to Paris for the summer, get a job and improve my French. First off, it wasn’t easy to get a job; I quickly discovered that Parisians have no patience for schoolgirl French. I also needed to find somewhere to live.

  I was from a working-class background with no experience in foreign travel or backpacking; if I’d known there were cheap and cheerful hostels full of other young people, I’d have gone there. Instead I took a double room, at a double room rate (apparently there were no single rooms) in an overpriced, run-down pension. At this rate my limited funds weren’t going to last long. If I didn’t find a job soon I was going to be down and out in London and Paris.

  One day I came downstairs to reception and met the owner on her way upstairs to do some long-overdue cleaning. As I reached the door a young girl with a backpack entered the pension and asked me in French if there were any rooms available. In my own faltering French I replied that I didn’t know, but I’d ask. I called upstairs to the owner and told her there was someone to see her. As she came clumping downstairs I had a brainwave.

  I realised that this girl was probably an English speaker, and that although travelling alone, like me, she too would have to pay for a double room. Before the owner arrived I sprang into action and explained my dastardly plan to the girl.

  ‘Why not pretend to be my friend and we can share my room? It’ll be half the price.’

  And when she didn’t seem interested I added, rather pathetically, ‘Please?’

  She looked me over.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘My name’s Laura, if she asks you,’ I whispered. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Jane.’

  ‘Jane!’ I cried enthusiastically, and swept her into my arms like a long-lost pal just as the owner reached the bottom step.

  Madame was not convinced, but what could she do? Jane and I shared the room, the bed and the bill, for the rest of our stay in Paris. Despite being total strangers thrown together we rubbed along passably well. Jane was a young, rich Californian whose parents gave her money and let her run wild. I thought that must be a fantastic life, but she complained that they didn’t care. Jane was into art and went to Le Louvre every day. I mean every day. She was also into boys, and when we walked along the street young Parisian men would fall into step with us and chat us up. It was brilliant. Jane (not her real name) was rich, a boy magnet, artistic with negligent parents – but otherwise, nothing like Chloe. I was a broke, naive, Scottish girl who had never been kissed. On reflection, maybe I had more in common with Alison than I’d care to admit.

  When I lived in Barcelona, again alone, again desperate for friends (how sad am I?), I developed another instant friendship with a girl my age and who shared my interests. We were a terrific find for each other until I began to realise that this girl, sweet as she was, had some sort of problem with men. For no good reason she often got into arguments with men she came across in the street and was always calling the police. Her problem was becoming my problem, and a potentially dangerous one. I realised then that friendship, when it’s born of mutual convenience, rather than respect and affection, doesn’t work.

  That got me thinking about the dynamics of such a relationship and the potential for drama it provided.

  Actually, I’m not that sad, I do have a few good friends, some I’ve known a very long time, one I’ve known since first day of school, but none of these deep friendships compare to the white-hot heat I had with my teenage pals. As a teenager I loved my friends, I would have willingly given my life for them, but at the same time, I hated them. I was jealous of them: their hair, their boyfriend, their duvet cover. I constantly looked for ways to be superior to them, as, I’m sure, they did me.

  Writing My Best Friend Has Issues was the first time I’d deliberately set out to write characters that had licence to be totally amoral – and what fun it was! Now, at least on paper, I could explore all the nasty things I’d always wanted to do to people who annoyed me. Oh, the power: it made me quite dizzy. How I wish I’d sent those postcards. Perhaps I was jealous of Alison and Chloe enjoying Barcelona while I was stuck in Scotland and that’s why I heaped on the misery, but in the end I felt sorry for these two motherless, daddy-obsessed waifs who, like the rest of us, just want to know that somebody cares. They were terrific characters for my book, but if I ever encountered them in real life and they wanted to be my friend – I think I’d run a mile.

  Also by Laura Marney

  NO WONDER I TAKE A DRINK

  NOBODY LOVES A GINGER BABY

  ONLY STRANGE PEOPLE GO TO CHURCH

  Published by Saraband

  About the Author

  Laura Marney tries to do a good deed every day. Occasionally bad deeds do accidentally slip in, but there you go, nobody’s perfect. She is the author of four novels: this one and No Wonder I Take a Drink, Nobody Loves a Ginger Baby and Only Strange People Go to Church. She also writes short stories and drama for radio and the stage. She lives in Glasgow and holds a part-time post at Glasgow University.

  Acknowledgements

  Laura Marney gratefully acknowledges the support of the Hawthornden International Writer’s Retreat.

  Copyright

  Published by

  Saraband

  Suite 202, 98 Woodlands Road

  Glasgow, G3 6HB, Scotland

  www.saraband.net

  Copyright © Laura Marney 2008, 2012

  A complete catalogue record for this book can be obtained from the British Library on request.

  The right of Laura Marney to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Copyright under international copyright conventions. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any m
eans, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage-and-retrieval system, without prior written permission from the publisher. Brief passages (not to exceed 500 words) may be quoted for reviews.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978–1–908643–07–0

  First published in 2008.

  This edition has been revised by the author.

  Editor for this edition: Craig Hillsley

  Cover illustration and design: Scott Smyth

  Text layout: Jo Morley

  Printed in the EU on paper sourced from sustainably managed forests.

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