Health Care
Chapter Two
“Christopher said it was nice to see you today,” my mum tells me, raising her eyebrows and taking a sip of wine. It’s 7.45pm and we’re sat in The Black Dog’s beer garden. I chose this pub on account that their chips are divine.
“As if!” I scoff, drinking from my own glass of Diet Coke. Unfortunately for my mother, I am her daughter while Christopher is her work colleague. She is forced to act moderately subjective. I don’t mind. After all, she has to remain professional.
“It’s a known fact that any boy who is mean to a girl, it’s only because they like them,” she says. A known fact, whatever. “After all, Alex, you did break his heart.”
“Break his heart!” I cry. My voice is growing ever more hysterical. “He has no heart!” My dad stifles a laugh.
“Yes he does have a heart, Alex!” my mum retorts. “What he doesn’t have is the ability to know what to do with it.”
“Yes, and I can’t be dealing with that,” I say obnoxiously. My mum grins. Perfect timing, as the stuttering waiter arrives with dinner plates balanced precariously on his arm. Within what seems like three bites, my lasagne, salad and chips has been completely devoured.
“It’s like you haven’t eaten for a week!” my dad remarks. He is still ploughing through a hearty steak and ale pie. He stops after every ten mouthfuls to exhale deeply and start again. My dad hates seeing food left to waste. It’s a trait he’s passed onto me.
“As if I could manage a week!” I cry. “I don’t know, the food just isn’t so heavy over there. It’s too hot for pastries and potatoes and all that stodgy kind of grub.” I’m taken back to the strip itself: lines of takeaway shops, kebab shops, pubs, beach bars, breakfast bars. I even spent one night devouring a Big Mac in McDonald’s. It tasted even better seeing as I didn’t have to pay for it. It was Sam’s treat; in exchange for letting him walk me home, apparently.
On the way home, my tongue begins to ache from the constant stream of anecdotes I have been relaying to my parents. They're quizzical about almost every factor of bar work in Majorca. I've told them how much cash I made, and how many colourful people I’d met. I assured them that it was an incredibly safe place to work.
“There are bouncers everywhere,” I say. “Ours was called Jerry, and nobody would mess with Jerry.” A small pang of melancholy twinges in my stomach as I remember Jerry’s kind face. He was a gentle giant, as long as you got on the right side of him. He didn’t let anyone take the piss out of us Banana’s girls.
In a brief moment of silent, I pull my phone out from my bag. It was a cute bag, brown leather and hung across my body. It had cost a mere five euros in the local market. Not that I’d paid for it. Sure enough, I had one unread message from Sam.
Hey you. Hope you’ve enjoyed your first day back and you’re all settled in. Would be great to see you sometime, maybe we can arrange something next week? I have a few days off, so whenever’s best for you. Text me when you can!
I smiled to myself. Wrong move: Mum’s visor was down.
“What are you grinning about back there?” she asked, her intonation rising dramatically.
“Just a message from a friend,” I replied. I knew full well she wouldn’t believe me. I just liked playing her along anyway. Mum’s eyebrows almost disappeared into her hair. In my head, I briefly tried to draft the sort of introduction I would give for Sam. Eventually, Mum got the story out of me. I told her that Sam was twenty-three, and an Estate Agent from Swindon. He came on holiday with four other friends to celebrate a Stag Do. I set him and his friends up with free drinks in Banana’s and they became regulars, until one them admitted that it was because Sam had ‘his eye on me’. We swapped numbers and at the end of the night, he escorted me back to my hotel, via McDonald’s. We’ve been texting ever since. Miss out the part where you passionately kissed for around forty-five minutes, still with fucking Big Macs in your mouth, my conscience reminds me. What can I say? It was gone 5am, we both slightly intoxicated, and we were both very hungry.
Mum’s ‘maternal instinct cogs’ whirred around as she tried to picture the situation. In the end, she gave me a slight nod of approval and plainly informed me that she would not say anything to Christopher. Obviously.
“Can’t kick a man when he’s down,” she said, somewhat sadly.
My mum seems to find my break up with Christopher difficult to comprehend as she harbours a ‘soft-spot’ for him, like most women her age seem to. Whether it’s his looks, or his charm, or perhaps even his arrogance. Christopher would make the right sort of girl very happy, providing she was a soul-sucking consumerist as well. Truthfully, Christopher was very nice: he bought me expensive gifts, he took me out for expensive meals, he discouraged me from drinking or partying excessively, he encouraged me to study, he opened car doors for me, he didn’t let me out alone after dark, he rang me most days and most nights, he wrote me love letters, he gave my friends strict instructions to ensure I arrived home safely, and ensured that every ailment I had was treated with the finest medicine he could recommend. Altogether, Christopher was so exceedingly lovely that his treatment became insufferable to endure. Perhaps he would be a wonderful husband, if we lived in the 1800s. But being a twenty-first century boyfriend was certainly not his feat.
“As if!” I scoff, drinking from my own glass of Diet Coke. Unfortunately for my mother, I am her daughter while Christopher is her work colleague. She is forced to act moderately subjective. I don’t mind. After all, she has to remain professional.
“It’s a known fact that any boy who is mean to a girl, it’s only because they like them,” she says. A known fact, whatever. “After all, Alex, you did break his heart.”
“Break his heart!” I cry. My voice is growing ever more hysterical. “He has no heart!” My dad stifles a laugh.
“Yes he does have a heart, Alex!” my mum retorts. “What he doesn’t have is the ability to know what to do with it.”
“Yes, and I can’t be dealing with that,” I say obnoxiously. My mum grins. Perfect timing, as the stuttering waiter arrives with dinner plates balanced precariously on his arm. Within what seems like three bites, my lasagne, salad and chips has been completely devoured.
“It’s like you haven’t eaten for a week!” my dad remarks. He is still ploughing through a hearty steak and ale pie. He stops after every ten mouthfuls to exhale deeply and start again. My dad hates seeing food left to waste. It’s a trait he’s passed onto me.
“As if I could manage a week!” I cry. “I don’t know, the food just isn’t so heavy over there. It’s too hot for pastries and potatoes and all that stodgy kind of grub.” I’m taken back to the strip itself: lines of takeaway shops, kebab shops, pubs, beach bars, breakfast bars. I even spent one night devouring a Big Mac in McDonald’s. It tasted even better seeing as I didn’t have to pay for it. It was Sam’s treat; in exchange for letting him walk me home, apparently.
On the way home, my tongue begins to ache from the constant stream of anecdotes I have been relaying to my parents. They're quizzical about almost every factor of bar work in Majorca. I've told them how much cash I made, and how many colourful people I’d met. I assured them that it was an incredibly safe place to work.
“There are bouncers everywhere,” I say. “Ours was called Jerry, and nobody would mess with Jerry.” A small pang of melancholy twinges in my stomach as I remember Jerry’s kind face. He was a gentle giant, as long as you got on the right side of him. He didn’t let anyone take the piss out of us Banana’s girls.
In a brief moment of silent, I pull my phone out from my bag. It was a cute bag, brown leather and hung across my body. It had cost a mere five euros in the local market. Not that I’d paid for it. Sure enough, I had one unread message from Sam.
Hey you. Hope you’ve enjoyed your first day back and you’re all settled in. Would be great to see you sometime, maybe we can arrange something next week? I have a few days off, so whenever’s best for you. Text me when you can!
I smiled to myself. Wrong move: Mum’s visor was down.
“What are you grinning about back there?” she asked, her intonation rising dramatically.
“Just a message from a friend,” I replied. I knew full well she wouldn’t believe me. I just liked playing her along anyway. Mum’s eyebrows almost disappeared into her hair. In my head, I briefly tried to draft the sort of introduction I would give for Sam. Eventually, Mum got the story out of me. I told her that Sam was twenty-three, and an Estate Agent from Swindon. He came on holiday with four other friends to celebrate a Stag Do. I set him and his friends up with free drinks in Banana’s and they became regulars, until one them admitted that it was because Sam had ‘his eye on me’. We swapped numbers and at the end of the night, he escorted me back to my hotel, via McDonald’s. We’ve been texting ever since. Miss out the part where you passionately kissed for around forty-five minutes, still with fucking Big Macs in your mouth, my conscience reminds me. What can I say? It was gone 5am, we both slightly intoxicated, and we were both very hungry.
Mum’s ‘maternal instinct cogs’ whirred around as she tried to picture the situation. In the end, she gave me a slight nod of approval and plainly informed me that she would not say anything to Christopher. Obviously.
“Can’t kick a man when he’s down,” she said, somewhat sadly.
My mum seems to find my break up with Christopher difficult to comprehend as she harbours a ‘soft-spot’ for him, like most women her age seem to. Whether it’s his looks, or his charm, or perhaps even his arrogance. Christopher would make the right sort of girl very happy, providing she was a soul-sucking consumerist as well. Truthfully, Christopher was very nice: he bought me expensive gifts, he took me out for expensive meals, he discouraged me from drinking or partying excessively, he encouraged me to study, he opened car doors for me, he didn’t let me out alone after dark, he rang me most days and most nights, he wrote me love letters, he gave my friends strict instructions to ensure I arrived home safely, and ensured that every ailment I had was treated with the finest medicine he could recommend. Altogether, Christopher was so exceedingly lovely that his treatment became insufferable to endure. Perhaps he would be a wonderful husband, if we lived in the 1800s. But being a twenty-first century boyfriend was certainly not his feat.