Page 34 of The Christmas Express
‘I’ve only just got to sleep.’
‘I slept really well.’
‘I don’t give a shit.’
I pull the curtain back fully, making sure to make a racket as I do so, and she growls like a vampire caught in a sunbeam.
I smirk.
Sometimes I remember that we thought it would be a good idea to work together, and wonder why I was such a naive little twat. I’d come to live in London following a stint backpacking, and after working for a couple of years, I’d shared my idea with Joss – a website that helped people create their own travel journals. We both worked to earn more savings, before chucking in our jobs, and for months we toiled together in harmony, a proper little powerhouse family. We rented office space, bought advertising, Bryn and Sara had even both invested.
Then a week after opening, it was like the rose glasses came off and both of us suddenly realised working together meant spending all day, every day, together. And when you already share a flat, and then an office too, well, let’s just say cracks in our plasterwork appeared super-fast.
We started a business together, and it failed. It’s not a new story, it’s not groundbreaking, but it happened. We lost money, and we lost our friends’ money, and we never should have been so gung-ho because neither of us really knew what we were doing. Neither of us. And yet (thanks, pride) Joss seems to blame me. Maybe because it was my idea? And I’m guilty of blaming her, sometimes . . . maybe because it was my idea.
We haven’t spent much time together since we both went our separate ways after London. The odd family gathering, sporadic holidays. We were never super-close, but it’s almost like when we chose to live together in London we were both riding on a high of having that brother–sister camaraderie we’d always wanted.
‘You snore,’ Joss says now, out from under the arm which is dramatically slung across her face.
‘You fart, like all night,’ I retort.
We dig and snipe at each other all the way out of bed, through getting up and dressed, as we’re putting the chairs back and throughout breakfast, which we eat in silence in our compartment. Silence until Joss lobs a butter pat at me.
‘Can you stop chewing so loudly? Close your mouth.’
I chew wider, showing her every flake of croissant.
She shakes her head. ‘I am so glad you skipped Mum’s birthday dinner this year. The less time I have to spend in my life watching you eat, the better.’
‘I skipped it so I wouldn’t have to hear you whining, constantly, about everything.’
‘I don’t whine! I do not whine!’
‘You haven’t stopped whining since we left the UK, can’t you see you’re driving everyone wild?’ My voice raises a notch.
‘Me?’ she shrieks. ‘I don’t whine, I get angry. You’re the one who whines. Or just lets people walk all over them.’
I feel myself flush. ‘Like you?’
‘Like them. I’m trying to protect us from getting sucked into what was clearly a fake, expired friendship, and you’re just tiptoeing about, acting like nothing happened.’
‘I’m acting like someone who just wants to let it go. It was five years ago. I don’t care what they think of me any more.’
Joss tilts her head to the side, and mimics wiping her shoes on a doormat.
I grab my phone and my wallet, stuffing them in my pocket. We’re pulling into Sioux Lookout shortly for a break, and I for one need some fresh air.
‘That’s right, run away,’ my sister says in a sing-song voice.
‘Grow up, for God’s sake.’ I sigh. ‘Don’t you think everyone else just wants to move on and be civil, for the sake of Bryn?’
‘The problem is—’
‘You are the problem!’ I cry. ‘I know you’re embarrassed about what happened. I know you feel let down and left out by things that weren’t in your control, but your ego needs to chill.’
‘I am not embarrassed.’
‘Really? Because everyone can see you’re deflecting like a toddler midway through a tantrum. Even Luke looks fed up with you.’
