Irvine Welsh - The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins

I feel myself backpedaling. — I’m sorry. . l was in a hurry. Things have been hectic. .

Sorenson pushes the box aside with her foot. — You know what this is? This is fucking shit! And she grabs the box and tips its contents into her toilet bucket. — That’s where that crap belongs! You fucking kidnap me to force me to lose weight and then you feed me THAT FUCKING SHIT! How am I gonna lose weight eating that fucking shit?

— But there was nothing else open—

— You could have gone to Lime and got me a low-carb burrito with Baja fish, or something from Whole Foods! If you’re going to be a twisted kidnapping bitch, at least do it right and get me some fucking food , cause I’d rather starve than eat that fucking crap!

And there’s nothing I can do but concede. — You’re right. I’m sorry.

So I dump the bucketful of crap down the toilet, then get back out and into the car. When I return half an hour later with the low-carb Baja-fish burritos, Lena is doing push-ups. — . . eighteen. . nineteen. . twenty, she gasps, catching her breath.

— This food is getting cold!

— One more freakin set. . she puffs, and goes through another twenty reps. She finishes and sits up, peels the foil back from the fish burrito, holding it in her cuffed hand, eating it slowly and deliberately. I didn’t get lunch thanks to my fucking unreliable clients, so I’m ravenous and can’t hold out till dinner with Dad later, so I’m packing my own one back. Sorenson looks up at me with a startling glare. — Slowly! she ticks.

— I’m in a hurry!

— Where are you going?

— Over to the Gables, to my dad’s book presentation at the Biltmore.

— Oh yeah, the crime writer, Lena laughs, throwing back her head, exposing capped teeth, — he should know plenty about that, having produced a psychotic criminal bitch of a daughter!

— Look, Sorenson—

— No, you fucking look, Brennan! Don’t kid yourself this is about me. She rattles a cuff again. — This is about your fucked-up shit!

— You were dying! You were eating yourself to death—

— And you have the nerve to go on about my issues with my mother, she spits. — Sort out your own fucking shit! Does somebody without issues behave like this?

— Fuck you!

— Just fucking go, and she leans back on the mattress, clicking on the TV at the remote.

I let go a ton of breath I never realized I was holding back. I keep telling myself that her behavior is normal; she’s gone from dependent child to rebellious, acting-up teenager. She’s testing boundaries, and it’s all just part of her journey back into functioning adulthood. I feel like taking the remote from her, telling the dwarf bitch that she’s lost privileges. But all that would do is relegate me to her level. I can take her shit. But boy, am I glad to get out of there and away from the crazy hoe! I don’t like taking backward steps, and Sorenson, a chained Sorenson , is pushing me around! Jeeze, it’s true what they say: fat people, even ones in recovery like Sorenson, really are hard to kidnap!

It took me ages to get a decent parking spot at the Biltmore, the lot was crammed with gas-guzzling behemoths. I walked toward the uplit Spanish cathedral-like tower, a golden palace against the blue-bruised sky. There’s quite a crowd and it seems that they’re all heading to Dad’s event. I get inside the hotel lobby, and although I’ve been here a couple of times for presentations and seminars, I never fail to be awed by this building: its huge marble pillars and arches, expensive floor tiles, mahogany fittings, antique furniture, and towering palm trees housed in giant pots. I walk straight through, out onto the terrace looking over lush, lamplit gardens to a massive pool and, beyond that, a golf course.

I was supposed to meet Dad in his suite but I’m running late so I text him and go straight to the hall, which is filling up with a mix of old white-haired suburbanites, walled-and-gated retirees, and several autistic-looking crime-fiction geeks. And most of all, a shitload of the spry, superannuated Irish-American Massachusetts transplants who make up Dad’s core readership. The place stinks of the entitled reek of expensive cologne and cigar smoke.

I head up to the bar. I’ve probably drunk more in the last month that I have in the previous ten years, but I need a glass of red to calm me. A saggy old soak, who looks like JFK or Bobby might have done had they managed to duck WASP-funded shrapnel, fixes me with a gaze of lecherous cheer. And fuck me, as I pick up my comp ticket and drink, and take my seat, I see Mona stage-waving at me then coming over and plonking herself down by my side. — Hey, you!

— Nice of you to come, I spit through my clenched teeth.

— I’ve always been too embarrassed to tell you that I really love your dad’s books. I can just hear those voices in my head, like how you talk when you get mad. I paak my caww in a Bawwwston street.

I try to smile but feel my face crushing like a discarded bag of potato chips, as Dad emerges through a curtain to polite applause. He’s being led by a middle-aged academic type, who’s dressed like he’s just left the adjoining golf course. Dad’s studiously casual, sporting a gray New England Patriots sweatshirt, and he’s lost about thirty pounds since I last saw him. Not only has he grown his hair longer, he’s run some dye through it, retaining some strategic gray at the temples. He sees me close to the front and gives a mock salute.

— Your dad looks so well, Mona says. — How old is he?

— Fifty-eight, I tell her.

— Wow! He looks sooo much younger! Is it wrong of me to say that he looks quite hunky?

— If by wrong you mean inappropriate and gross, yes, it fucking is, I snap, watching her head shrink into her shoulders. Bitch had to eat that one up like a one-thou-cal slice of Key lime pie.

I vaguely hear a mumbled qualifiction, but it isn’t hitting home. All I’m aware of is the feeling of my hair standing up on my body and my skin breaking out in goosebumps. Because I see Mom and Lieb in the audience! They’re settling down a couple of rows in front of us. I can’t fucking believe it! They’re supposed to be away for eight more days!

I don’t know what to do, and my overwhelming impulse is to run out of there right now, and I actually go to rise, with Mona still jabbering in my ear. But Mom turns at that moment, registering me, smiling and slightly taken aback by my undisguised horror. I’m panicking, my skin’s frozen, as an image of a chained Sorenson floods my brain. No time to run the fuck out, as Mom and Lieb come over to us, another couple grudgingly sliding down the row to let them in. I make a clumsy intro to Mona, trying to get a hold of my breathing. Now it’s so fucking hot in here, and I’m aware of the smell of those surrounding clammy old bodies as Mom and Lieb greet me amicably. To my monumental relief, they obviously haven’t been up to the apartment and found Lena. Yet.

The academic approaches the microphone and clears his throat, the static crumbling the rest of the room into silence. — Welcome to the Biltmore Hotel. I’m Kenneth Gary, from the department of English Literature, University of Miami.

As I’m thinking: I didn’t even know the University of Miami had a department of English Literature , Lieb leans over to me. — This was not my idea, Lucy, he emphatically states. I’ve forgotten what a nice guy he is. He tried to be a stepdad, but I guess I never gave him that much of a chance.

— I know, Lieb, enough already. Mom shakes her head and playfully pushes him back into position, then slides closer to me. — Morbid curiosity got the better of me, pickle, she grins. Then her face takes on a serious hue. — How are you?