Gem & Xander's Big Adventure

Let’s start with how fucked up the world is. About a year ago, my half-brother Xander, who lives in London, met this random girl in a bar in Texas. Xander’s best mate Mike - he kinda fell in love with her, but she was in love with someone else. She was in love with some guy from Sweden, who she’d met whilst she was visiting Scotland, a few years ago.

All I see is a Facebook update:

Olivia G and Xander X are now friends.

I freak the fuck out.

Olivia G. She’s the girl who posts really creepy stuff on Arvid’s profile. The one who moans in public when Arvid doesn’t reply to her mails. The one who gets really angry with him. What the fuck? When Arvid and I had some public banter going on, she’d jump in and interrupt and bitch and try to steer the conversation her way. She’d even tried to correct my spelling once.

So the natural conclusion, all I can think is: This girl is stalking me, she’s jealous of me or something like that, although why the fuck anyone would be jealous of me I’d never quite understood.

I text Xander straight away and demand to know how he knows her. I write to Arvid and demand an explanation as to why his creepy friend has added my brother as a Facebook friend.

But no, I was wrong to do that, and I should apologise: let’s recap. My brother, whilst three thousand miles from home, playing wingman, started talking to a girl in a bar in Texas. This girl’s heart was elsewhere, she had already met a Swedish guy whilst visiting Scotland, three thousand miles from her home, and fallen head over heels in love. This was Arvid, of course, the same Swedish guy I’d met in Norway, a thousand miles from my own home; the one that I’ve categorically declared I’m not in love with time and again.

That’s how fucked up this small little world is, and I didn’t apologise to anyone, because I still fucking hated her, whoever the fuck Olivia was.

My whole life was becoming a joke – depending on where your sense of humour was at. I was working at the global headquarters of a bank in Canary Wharf. The gleaming corridors of the 31st floor. My new London flat had an onsite pool, gym and sauna. I had suits. Nice suits. Shiny new shoes. I wore make-up to work every day. That kind of shit.

I was bored out my mind. I’d been there all of two weeks before I started doing a few lines through the day, just because it was the only way to function, the only way to pretend to be the money-making robot they wanted me to be. I had plenty of friends in London, but my soul was too drained to think about doing anything with them when 5pm rolled around. I woke up, got dressed up, went to work, came home, read a book, and slept. That was my life.

I started getting careless with figures, just for the fun of it, just to see if anyone noticed. No one noticed. Provided they got the reports sent through at the end of the working day, no one cared. I sent out blank reports one night on purpose – no figures at all. Still no one noticed.

The whole thing was fucked up and I was miserable. I was taking drugs for non-recreational purposes. They’d slipped back into my life so naturally, I don’t think I’d even realised I was taking them. I also hadn’t got laid in about three weeks, sex took energy – or at least some kind of connection – I was incapable of either. My life was turning to shit.

Then Xander texted me and asked if I'd like to join him on a roadtrip across the USA. Go on an adventure, spend some quality time with my brother, have some fun.

"You should just quit your job," he urged me.

I didn’t quit though. Quitting was cumbersome, there was paperwork involved, legalities, apologies, excuses. So when week five rolls around, I simply decide not to go to work. I changed my number again, too, so even a month later, I’m not sure if anyone’s noticed yet.