Fragment #2 - One week later

My mobile was ringing.
My sister. I had forgotten that I was going to meet her today.
“Hello?”
“Ed?”
“Yes this is Ed, you are calling my phone!”
“So when are we meeting?”
“Café Cherubini in half an hour?”
“Sure.” And with that she rang off.
Half an hour gives me enough time to ensure three things: 1. I can get a shower and get changed which is very important when you smell as bad as me just now. At the moment I’m trying to stand back from myself in as polite a way as I can. 2. I can find my wallet and what remains of its contents. And finally 3. Plenty of time for her to be late. Oh yes she can be in a terrible emotional state but then you have to remember that she like all women has the obsessive compulsive disorder that she must look absolutely perfect before going out. Preening, brushing, exfoliating, deciding at length what to wear etc, even if it’s just to go and buy bog roll from the corner shop, I figure I’ll have time to look at the newspapers and see if anyone I know wrote anything, then nit-pick their article apart to make myself feel better.
First on my list is have a shower, this is one of the things I love about living on my own, when it comes to bathroom use you can’t beat it. You don’t have the interesting smells associated with other people, you don’t have to wait on someone coming out and hoping to God that they flushed. You clean the place when you want to and you don’t have that ominous sinking feeling about that gunk clogging the plug when you have to clean it out, but most importantly you know that those curly hairs on the soap belong to your crotch and not your flatmate(s). When this happens reader all you can do is try and get revenge, send his/her credit card statement with details of the deviant and, how shall we say… specialised websites he/she subscribes to to his/her Girlfriend and or parents anonymously.
The café is only down the street from me so I have a very short walk. I live in the middle of the city so I have to wander very little to get anywhere. This has its ups and downs, firstly I save a fortune not having to own a car or use public transport too much, but this also means that the people whom I may at some time or another have antagonised by writing a less than flattering (savage, unrelentingly cruel, petty and vicious) review, get to see me more often than I would like, which is to say ever.
It’s one of the few safe places for me to go and enjoy a coffee without running the risk of being drugged, dragged round the back, savagely beaten to death with a bag of medium roast decaffeinated coffee from the misty mountains in some godforsaken country nobody has heard of, chopped up and served as little entrees in the local art gallery showing some piss poor artist I wouldn’t even trust with whitewashing the walls in a public shit-house. This is due to the establishment opening after I stopped (got fired) being a critic locally. Nice place, quiet, relaxed and you get a really good view of any street crime for entertainment.
I get to the café expecting a good fifteen minutes to compose myself for the inevitable PMT barrage from my sister only to find that she is already there, waiting for me. The coffee shop is a small place, square tables with some hideous floral print vinyl coverings and the customary arrangement of plastic foliage seen throughout the world, the décor consisted of little imitation trinkets in a vane attempt to give it an old European bistro feel, all it did was to make you feel slightly uncomfortable amongst the sea of fake 1950’s Italian posters advertising Espresso makers and sports cars all enclosed with badly painted wood panelling giving the effect of being buried alive. Not that I’m complaining.
I moved over to her table to ensure that Lynne knew that I was there and just as importantly, had not as yet made any rash decisions such as wanting that really expensive chocolate cake with her coffee.
Ordering at the till to assure some privacy from the staff, I tried to work out a game plan. How to find out what’s wrong and instigate any damage control without making too much of a scene.
“Thank you Ed.” Small smile, her eyes telling a very different story. Better say something smart and comforting.
“Uh, it’s just a coffee.” Clever, real clever. But is it truly my fault? I, as a man have been brought up with the emotional IQ of the ‘Die Hard’ films. I continued, attempting to stop flogging the rotten corps of the horse. “What’s wrong…are you all right?” stupid question.
“Its Mum and Dad.”
“What about them?” I knew it! She’s been staying there for three weeks now and they’ve already fucked it up. I just won the bet I made with myself.
“They want me out.” I’m not on the best terms with my Dad; her Mum isn’t my Mother, but not a bad person from what little I take interest in, I cant think what my sisters done… set fire to the cat?
“Look Lynne, I’m sorry but I’m not any good at playing this game, why don’t you just bite the bullet and tell me what’s up, then I’ll see what I can do.” Going for broke here, this can go in one of three ways; she could tell me what is wrong and I can try and help, she could empty the coffee cup in her hand on my face, which might I add is obviously full of very hot liquid or she may just start shouting at me for my insensitivity. The last two options have merits in their favour, such as not having me try and sort out the problems of others when I have plenty of my own to ignore, but I need to remember that I have got to at least make an attempt.
“I told them.” This was the apparent bombshell, I decided not to show my ignorance.
“And what happened?”
“They said that they no longer had a daughter.” Ouch! That’s a biggie. I think for about thirty seconds I just sat there and gawked. Can I fake it any further? Normally that’s not a problem, I specialise in bullshitting to save my scrawny arse. Give up Ed just come out with it.
“Look, sorry, but I’ve no idea what you’re on about. I honestly can’t think of anything that could make them do that. Dad's a wanker yes, but why? What did you say? Was it the cat?” Possibly the wrong idea here, I could see anger building in her. I put up my hand in what I hoped looked like a placating manner, but really it was more of a desperate and feeble defence from the cup I expected to hit my face. She just started to cry, the waitress on cue started to fire venomous glances in my direction and all I could do is look pathetically sheepish. “What did you tell them?” I had a good idea of what she may have said, but wanted to hear it.
She just sighed and said two words “I’m gay.” Bingo! It sometimes takes a while for my brain to function; I hasten to add that this was not a natural time for me to be awake.
“Yes?”
“I told them I’m gay…” She looked at me as if to say ‘React!’ then it dawned on me.
“You didn’t know that I know?”
“No… how?”
“Forget it, tell me all.”
“I’ve nowhere to go.” I knew what she was getting at and I had no choice, in my lack of common sense I had ended up not being anywhere near as non-committal as I should have been, now here she was, wanting her big half brother to save her in her moment of need. Bollocks! My mind at this point was ringing with logistics, I would have to tidy, find out what and where that smell is coming from in the spare bedroom, cancel my subscription to the Adult channel (For educational purposes only)… well, we’ll see about that one.
Stalling tactics, what I needed to do was give myself time to think, my coffee was finished, downed in more or less one gulp as soon as she asked for help.