Thirty Something (Nothing's How We Dreamed It Would Be) Read online

  And then I met an older student at a freshers’ party who swept me off my feet. He began by looking after me; protecting me from the usual ordeals they put the freshers through. Then he would ask me lots of questions about my life, as if he was genuinely interested. He wanted to know all about my hobbies, my favourite books, films, songs, he offered me a lift when he saw me at the bus stop on a rainy day or when there were faculty parties at night, although his house was in the opposite direction from mine. Above all, he paid attention to me and made me feel special. He was a posh kid from one of those families with three surnames. He lived in the smartest part of town and had a red Alfa Romeo convertible. With the ingenuousness of my eighteen years, I really thought he could be the man of my life, that we’d get married after completing our studies and live happily ever after. I fell in love with an intensity I’ve never felt since. Those butterflies in my stomach when I saw him coming into the faculty bar, the sleepless nights I’d dream about him, the notebooks full of hearts, the uncontrollable need to read poetry. Or maybe it was all just an adolescent daydream.

  One day we went out for a drive and he stopped the car on a cliff with a breath-taking view. He put some smooch music on and looked at me as if I was the most special woman in the world. I let him kiss me. In fact I let him do a lot more than that, for the next thing I knew I was down to my knickers. I asked him to stop; and on that occasion he was a true gentleman. He drove me home, said goodbye affectionately, and later he sent me an enormous bunch of flowers I had difficulty explaining to Daddy. I was more enchanted than ever, convinced that he was ‘The One’. It didn’t take long for me to give him my virginity, in the apartment he shared with his brothers and sisters. It wasn’t good, or romantic. He was rough, quick, and selfish. Not only that but I hadn’t even finished getting dressed and he was already sending me away with the excuse that his sister might turn up at any moment. I felt dirty and degraded and I went home to cry. And yet – and I think this happens with everyone who’s terribly in love – my heart invented excuses for his behaviour, dismissing all the bad things and playing up what little had been good about it. Either that or I was trying to persuade myself that it hadn’t been a mistake to give myself up like that.

  Meanwhile, the Christmas break came and he said he was going to Switzerland with his family and wouldn’t be back till January. Not even a phone call in a whole fortnight, but I kept on believing he loved me, that maybe he’d been unable to call from the place he was in, that when he came back we’d be the sweetest couple in the faculty. I already saw myself being introduced to his family, taking tea in his parents’ mansion. In January, on the first day of classes after the holidays, he appeared in the bar holding hands with a girl I’d never seen before. He looked at me without a word, and kissed her in a way I couldn’t avoid seeing. It was the biggest humiliation of my life. It was also the day I learned love hurts too much, and I’d rather live without it.

  A few years later I met André, and we’ve been together since. This time I waited quite a while before going to bed with him, and when I decided to do it; it was more a reward for his dedication than out of sexual desire. I mean, I liked him, I found him intelligent and good-looking, but I never felt anything like you could call desire, that thing that stops us from getting to sleep at night. According to the films the woman is supposed to moan and writhe in her mad desire to be possessed until she reaches the big O. Unfortunately, I don’t know what that is. Neither the mad desire to be possessed, nor the big O. Maybe they don’t even exist. It’s probably just a story they made up to make women feel insecure. I’ve had erotic dreams (none of which featured André) and woken up wanting to be touched and maybe make love. But if it happened in a dream it doesn’t count as sexual desire, does it? And anyway, on the rare occasions it’s happened, the notion passed as soon as I opened my eyes to André snoring with his mouth open, saliva dribbling onto my Designers Guild sheets.

  I’ve looked for answers to my lack of sexual desire in magazines and on the Internet. The other day I read an article that had lots of tips on how to have more pleasure, but all of them involved sluttish lingerie and masturbation, which is the right word for that nonsense about ‘knowing your body well’. For the love of God. I’m not going to start with that nonsense in my thirties. And where are you supposed to do it? In the shower? In bed? And what if André notices? The shame! What’s more, if God had wanted the sex life of couples to be like a porn movie, there would be at least one passage in the Bible explaining that. No. I’d rather keep it this way. Sex once a week. He does what he has to do and that’s that. It isn’t that bad. There are things about him that annoy me much more than sex. Like the way he always prefers shopping in discount stores, or the way we only stay at hotels that accept air miles or one of his five hundred customer cards, or choosing a wine by its price, or taking his own sunshade to the beach instead of hiring sun loungers, or laughing too loudly, or starting to talk about football when he doesn’t know what else to say... Lord God give me patience.

  Sometimes I wonder how we’ve been together for so many years. I know there was a time I was a little in love; if not with him, with the idea of being in love. When he brought me flowers, made me laugh, took me to romantic restaurants. When I appreciated his aplomb and the feeling of safety he gave me, mostly because I was already twenty-four and terrified at the thought of ending up alone. It’s just that the admiration is gone and I don’t see the appeal in half the things he says or does any more. I’ve also discovered that marriage doesn’t stop me from being alone.

  Well, maybe I’m being unfair. André couldn’t be better as a person and I know he’ll be a fantastic father to our children. He’s no lout, he dresses well, doesn’t drink too much, doesn’t embarrass me in public... Oh well. The problem is, this isn’t what I thought married life would be like. I thought the romantic dinners would continue and I’d find flowers at the door from time to time. I thought we’d have friends round for cocktails at glamorous parties where the ladies wear long dresses. That we’d have a smoking room where we’d spend hours in conversation, savouring malt whisky and Cuban cigars; all elegant, like in Mummy’s house. But no, André prefers beer and hates cigars, walks around the house in flip-flops and lets everyone put their feet up on the sofa. It’s no use me wearing my best dress to welcome him home, at the most he’ll change into a shirt instead of a faded old t-shirt. And what’s more and for my sins, our friends have been practically the same for years and only dress decently to go to a wedding. Note that I say decently and not elegantly.

  If Mummy were still here to see what I have to put up with, she’d take a fit. Mummy was elegance personified. She was the consummate hostess and I never saw her with anything but a smile on her face for Daddy. Even when Daddy got home late at night, there she was, impeccably dressed and made up, sitting at the dining table, the tablecloth immaculate and without the slightest crease. How did she manage it? When André’s late I just feel like dumping the vichyssoise on top of him and calling him an unfeeling egoist. Mummy used to explain the how and the why of nearly everything she did, from her mushroom soufflé to that trick for stopping red lipstick from smudging; unfortunately she passed away before I got to the age where she could give me some tips on married life.

  And this isn’t the image I have of myself when I close my eyes or daydream. Pale, serious, careworn, with rubber gloves up to my elbows. In my daydreams I’m always smiling... in Chanel outfits and flying first class.

  Maria

  I miss you.

  I miss the way you looked at me while I was dressing. The heat of your body when we would lie on the couch watching television. The way you squeezed my hand tighter when we were stranded in boring company. And the hardest thing is that I can’t share this with anyone. You’re the villain of the piece. Your name is unspeakable in my presence. People look at me with a mixture of pity and, “How didn’t she notice?” They don’t know how much I miss you, how I’d like to tell your – our – stories, h
ow these four years were so important in my life.

  It had to end this way, didn’t it? I knew the moment we started going out together. You never gave yourself completely. We were happy, but there was always a limit there, a line I couldn’t cross. A place I couldn’t enter. I got used to not trying to enter, without wondering what was there. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when you left me. Even though everyone else was.

  You hated the others remember? You believed we should live for ourselves, ignore social convention. The thing that irritated you most was hearing someone say, “What will other people think?” – even when it was a legitimate question. That’s why you didn’t like my mother. She’s the queen of, “What will other people think?” Sleep together before we’re married? Rent a dirty movie? Serve lunch with plastic cutlery? For your information, she never liked you either. In fact, now I see in her look another one of her favourite expressions, “I told you so.” Although all mothers use that expression, I reckon. But anyway, after Ricardo, none of my boyfriends was ever good enough for her.

  Ricardo was a medical student. Ricardo played tennis. Ricardo came from a respectable family. Ricardo brought her flowers when he came to the house. Ricardo listened to opera in the car. Ricardo was such a nice boy. “Maria, you don’t find men like that any more, my child. Don’t you let him get away!” And I didn’t. I was the one who got away from him. I’d had enough of the foibles, the whole upper class mentality, the way his life had been mapped out since the day he was born. One day I’d be Dr. Ricardo’s wife; we’d have three awfully well mannered blond children, and I’d play hostess to the cream of society at afternoon teas, soirées and gala dinners. And I’d also be anorexic, puffed up with Botox and profoundly unhappy.

  It was because I’d seen what lay in wait for me that, to my mother’s great disgust, I left it all for a skinny guy with plastic-framed glasses and an undistinguished surname, family and future. A sweet guy who cooked exotic dishes for me, that we’d eat sitting on a gritty old mattress in a one-bedroom flat that needed repairs. The same mattress where we’d make love, smoke cigarettes and write poems.

  In just four years with you I became a more confident and open-minded person. You showed me things I’d never have discovered on my own. Underground authors, Indie bands, Japanese architects, villages that don’t even appear on the map. You showed me how beautiful my body is, despite my stretch marks and muffin top; how there are far more important things than following the path everyone expects us to follow. Apparently they were only theories. You took too long to put them into practice in your own life.

  I miss you. I miss your voice.

  I couldn’t even say goodbye to you properly. The anguish was so great, the pain so deep, all I wanted was to get away. No, that’s a lie. First I wanted to grab hold of you, hit you, and shake you until the answer to my gigantic ‘Why?’ fell out. Why did you do it? Why did you live with me for so long? Why did you let me build up my hopes? Afterwards, I couldn’t even stand the sight of you. Not even photographs. Especially photographs. All I saw in them was sweet and happy moments that turned out to be lies.

  I don’t know what you were thinking when you asked me to marry you. Or even more, what possessed me to say yes. Things were just fine between us, really fine. But sadly we let ourselves be influenced by our friends, who were busy marrying themselves off all around us at the time. The questions, the pressure, just because we’d been living together for so long; it was the normal thing to do next; we were the right age. It wasn’t to be a big do. Just friends and close family, in an old country manor. You didn’t even pop the question the conventional way, with rings and violins (and my mother won’t forgive you that one either). We were at André and Joana’s wedding and when you saw how moved I was you just asked, “Why don’t we get married too?” I could have said no. You would have shrugged and five minutes later you wouldn’t even remember asking. But I wanted it so much to be true, I wanted so much for you to love me as I loved you, for you to want me as I wanted you, that I didn’t hesitate in saying yes. It was my spoiled-child, narrow-minded side coming to the surface. No matter how liberal and modern I acted, hidden somewhere inside me was that dream of my Prince Charming, a white wedding, living happily ever after. And my mother’s voice, saying only loose women lived in sin.

  Throughout our engagement I felt your anxiety growing, and several times I even asked you if you wanted to pull out. I lied through my teeth, saying it didn’t matter, I didn’t mind just living together like before, no pieces of paper, no conventions. But my eyes could never lie to you. You could see my despair in them, and nothing’s sadder than a desperate lover. I think it was only then you realized that marrying me was going to be a big mistake. The unhappiness you’d perpetuate in our lives. It was too high a price to pay for fantasies of white weddings, our own little home and beautiful children. Much higher than telling the truth, confessing your secret. Only then did you have the courage to leave.

  It was my fault. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I loved you too much. I’m sorry I didn’t see the signs. I’m sorry for demanding more than I knew you could give me. I don’t bear you any grudges. I just miss you.

  Joana

  I can’t stand this anxiety any longer. I’m going to tell him today. I had to wait a few days; otherwise it would have looked too suspicious. Especially after that terribly serious conversation we had about his career, not even a month ago. I’ve no idea how he’s going to react, but I have to tell him right this instant. I won’t be able to hide it for much longer. And today’s a good day, as his friends are coming and he won’t be able to sulk even if he tries. He’s home.

  “Honey, I’m home!”

  How it grates, that expression, like a line from a cliché American movie.

  “Where are you? Making dinner already?”

  Of course I am, dearest, your slave’s doing everything without assistance, for a change. I go to meet him.

  “André, I’ve something important to tell you.”

  “Don’t tell me I have to go to the supermarket?”

  “No…” Hasn’t he noticed how I’m a bag of nerves? Does he really think this is about some cooking ingredient? “It’s serious. Very serious.”

  “Serious, very serious? Out with it then. I’m all ears.”

  Liar. He never listens to me.

  “You know I went to the doctor recently, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I remember you mentioned that, why? Is something the matter?”

  “Calm down now. Remember how I mentioned she was going to put me on a new type of pill?”

  “No... Maybe. I don’t know. But what is it?”

  “I’m pregnant!”

  There. I’ve said it.

  “What?”

  “Seems like the new pill isn’t as effective as the old one. So, I’m pregnant.” Or more accurately, you’ve made me pregnant. Oh yes. This thing takes two. He’s pale, silent and pale. Is he feeling all right? “Haven’t you anything to say, then?”

  “Er... of course... er... Pregnant? Well I... now of all times... I mean that’s great isn’t it? Us having a baby?”

  “So you’re happy with the news, then?”

  “Well... It’s not exactly what I was expecting to hear, but of course I’m happy. Pregnant? You’re pregnant…”

  “Oh darling, how lovely. I was so worried, especially after our talk about putting off having a family for a few years. You see? God didn’t want us to put it off any longer.”

  God and my thermometer, no way I was putting off my dream for who knows how many more years. Me, whose wanted to have children since I was sixteen.

  “Sure...”

  “I was so afraid you wouldn’t want it...”

  “Oh Joana, how could you? Of course I want it! I’m going to be a father. We’re going to have a baby. That’s fantastic!”

  Now, that’s the reaction I wanted. Phew.

  “How lovely we’re having dinner with your friends tonight.”

  A
s if!

  “We can tell them the news.”

  “That’s true. But do you want to announce it already? Isn’t it better to wait till you’re three months gone and that?”

  “I already am three months gone! I just had no idea, until I got the test results back this morning. There I was with my mind at ease, thinking the new pill was working properly and the delay was nothing to worry about,” I lie.

  “So in other words there’ll be a baby in the house in about six months’ time?”

  “Yes!” I say, jubilantly. “And now we’ve lots of preparations to make! Decorate the room; choose a pushchair, the clothes… It’s going to be wonderful!”

  “I’m madly happy. I’m going to take a shower to calm down and I’ll be right back to help you. I love you, Joana.”

  I pretend not to have heard.

  I knew he’d be happy deep down, although I can tell by his expression he’s already calculating how much he’ll have to spend on the baby. I was nervous, I’ll admit, but I couldn’t see him making a scene about it either. And even if he did, that’s his problem. Let him go wherever he wants with his career, I’ll stay here with my baby and the bills paid. I could even go and live in Daddy’s house for a spell. He’s so keen to have grandchildren he’d love the idea.

  Men are so ingenuous. A new type of pill! I stopped taking it when we got married. It wasn’t easy conceiving, though. I’m sure it’s because I began trying so late. They do say it’s best to have your first child before thirty, after all. In other words, I should have begun years ago. But he took so long to ask me to marry him. And obviously I wasn’t going to have children without being married. Perish the thought! Daddy would kill me. Now I’m going to have them all one after the other. I want to have three before I reach thirty-five.