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‘Ah,’ she sighs unnecessarily loudly, ‘that was so good.’

After a few minutes, I slide my eyes over to her. I can’t help myself. My tongue is literally glued to the roof of my mouth.

‘All right then, I’ll have one,’ I say, reluctantly swallowing my pride. It takes every ounce of restraint I have left.

‘Too late. I’ve eaten them both,’ she announces.

Rise above it.

I simply.

Breathe, two, three…

Can’t stand.

My.

Fecking.

Sister.

20

We reach the villa in mercifully quick time, due to not much traffic and me breaking all the speeding laws that the European Union has imposed.

‘Do you think you could help me unload my bags?’ Ava asks.

I jump out of the car, shaking my head.

‘I am now very late for work because our mother ordered me to pick you up, without any regard for either my professionalism or my clients, whose shit lives deeply depend on keeping their appointments with me,’ I say, turning briskly to thump through the open-plan villa to my bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me.

Luckily, my room is the only bedroom, apart from our parents’ room, to have an ensuite bathroom. My sister, who will take the guest bedroom, which of course I’ve left entirely unmade up without so much as a sheet on the bed (not because I’m being childish but because I have been very busy), will have to trek down the hall to the small shower room every time she wants the toilet or to wash. It is also freezing in there, no matter what time of year.

I shed my clothes and step into my white-tiled, pristine, cosy bathroom. When I get out of the shower, I feel much better. I towel myself down and brush my wet hair. My scalp feels relieved. I poured tons of conditioner on my poor, raw skin. I decide to treat the rest of my body to the same and take a few moments to smother myself in thick, creamy moisturiser. The cool luxurious cream I ‘borrowed’ from Ava feels like nectar to my skin. I instantly feel revitalised and much firmer than usual, and my face looks its age for once. As I stare at myself in the mirror, I decide to up my game with a bit of make-up and some nice hairstyling for a change. Just so my sister knows exactly how professional and important I can be. I do run my own business, after all (according to my fictional Instagram grid).

I quickly click on Ryan Reynolds’s Instagram profile to see what he’s up to. And even though he’s still, disappointingly, very much happily married and isn’t angry at anything at all, just the sight of his handsome smiling face soothes me instantly. I take a few minutes to do some deep nostril breathing.

I must admit, seeing my sister after two weeks of seething is not as bad as I feared, despite her not throwing herself at my feet to beg my forgiveness. I’m glad I haven’t embarrassed myself by acting too bitter and will continue, as the older sibling by seven years, to show nothing but dignity and poise from now on. After all, it is me who has the moral high ground.

Once I’m happy with my face and hair, I walk over to the wardrobe and pull out a shortish denim skirt and one of Ava’s tops that I ‘borrowed’ when I packed to come over here. I slip my feet into a pair of flat pumps and give my legs a quick extra coat of moisturiser to highlight my tan. At least my legs are much browner than hers.

I make my way through to the living room, passing by the door to the master bedroom. I have kept it closed out of respect for our parents, as it is their room, and I’m still very angry at them for not seeing my side of the whole ‘my sister making me redundant, stealing my boyfriend and ruining my life’ saga, but the door is wide open. I peer in to see my sister making herself at home, unpacking her cases, clothes and make-up all over the place, music blaring out and the patio doors wide open. This bedroom has its own private patio and terrace area, ideal for relaxing in peace and enjoying cocktails at sunset because of the wonderful view. I stand in stunned silence watching my sister prance about, wiggling her pert bottom and shaking out clothes as she hangs them in the wardrobe. The white linen toile curtains billow softly as fresh, pine-smelling air fills the room and sunshine pours through the doors like a luxury holiday villas advert.

‘What the shitting hell do you think you are doing?’ I bellow loudly over the music. Ava jumps a mile as she turns swiftly towards me.

‘Unpacking,’ she says, a little too defensively for my liking.

‘Your room is down the bottom of the corridor, remember?’ I state bluntly. Surely she can’t have forgotten where the guest bedroom is? We spent every bloody summer here growing up.

‘But that’s only a single room and it’s always freezing cold in there.’ I know what’s coming. I feel the familiar gurgling of dread forming knots in my stomach. I watch her calmly continue. ‘Mum and Dad insisted I have their room, if you hadn’t taken it already. Otherwise, I would happily have had our old room,’ she explains unnecessarily. ‘You know, the one you’re in?’ Then she screws her eyes at me. ‘The one you share with my GHDs, that top you’re wearing and my gel nail kit?’

I’ve longed to stay in this room since I arrived, but I couldn’t bear the thought of having to ask my mother. And here is Ava, waltzing in, taking it over. Just like that. Just like bloody that. All this time, it could have been mine. I could have had the sophisticated patio and the enormous ensuite and walk-in friggin’ wardrobe and the TV that hides at the end of the massive bloody bed and slides up from the massive bloody film-star size bedframe.

‘I’ve always loved this room.’ She sighs, sweeping her gaze over the twinkling chandelier, the luxurious rugs scattered on the marble floor and the twin his and hers designer chairs that occupy a little snug area with a glorious silver lamp and matching table. The whole room oozes charm and sophistication.

‘I’m amazed you didn’t move straight in here yourself. It’s so spacious and…’ I watch her search for the right word. ‘Indulgent!’ she declares, flopping down onto the sumptuous bedding, oozing over the sides of the Hulk-sized bed. She whips out her phone and looks sultrily into the camera, lips pouting, eyes half-closed – click, click, click – before turning her gaze back to me.

I take in her wide eyes and fake innocent expression. I smile blankly at her, as if the thought had not even occurred to me to want our parents’ magnificent boudoir.