Scandalous (3 page)

4 October 2006

I
GET HOME FROM
lectures exhausted. I finish at eight
o'clock on Wednesday evenings, then I have about
forty-five minutes on the Métro. I'm tired from yesterday:
I finished work at nine. On the journey I think about
Manu, I can't wait to get back to him. I think about the
meal he'll be putting together for me. Maybe he will have
laid the table too, and lit a few candles.

When I get home this evening I know we'll also be
talking about this month together. I'm worried about it
because I know we've both got things on our minds that
we're not saying. Our life together feels more and more
like a flat-share. We only see each other in the evening
and, when I get home, I gobble my supper so that I can
get down to studying.

At first Manu was OK with it, sometimes pulling a bit
of a face, but he would just say, 'Go on, go and work,
you've got stuff to do.'

He would spend the evenings in front of the TV,
hardly doing any work for uni. I would give him one last
kiss and shut myself away in the bedroom.

Manu is one of that tiny proportion of people who
have natural ability. He excels in his field but I've never
really seen him work. Sometimes I'm jealous of him, of
his intelligence and his ability to cope with things as they
come along while I often have to study late into the night.

When he felt like going to bed Manu would come into
the bedroom quietly: that would be my signal to go and
work at the plastic table in the kitchen. Manu would
already be sound asleep by the time I got into bed next
to him, worn out. In the morning I would head off to uni
or to work, depending on the day of the week.

Till now this routine has been fine for me because I've
been with him. I earn about 400 euros from the telesales
company. I handed over the eagerly awaited 300 euros
for September's rent, pretending I didn't know he would
blow it on evenings out with his mates, mostly spent
smoking. I now haven't got much left for the rest of the
month, nothing to have a bit of fun myself, do a bit of
shopping or even go out with some girlfriends. Still, I
don't want to ruin anything, we're too good together.
I've never loved anyone as much as Manu.

But very soon, in less than a month, things have turned
sour. Bored of having to spend every evening in front of
the TV, Manu's started going out a lot, sometimes not
getting home till the small hours. I put up with it at first
because I didn't have anything better to offer him
between my books and my job. I'm also happy to keep
my independence and freedom but, just recently, time
seems to be going so slowly for me. When I get home in
the evening Manu's very often already gone out to meet
his friends. I've got no way of knowing how long he'll
be: sometimes all that's left of him is the tail end of a
joint smouldering in an ashtray in the living room. He
hardly devotes any time to me. Exhausted by my tough
routine, I don't have the strength or the heart to stay up
for him and I go to bed alone virtually every evening. I'm
often tempted to lie down on the sofa and finish his joint,
but I've never done it. Firstly, because he might be
annoyed with me, but mostly because I wouldn't be able
to work properly afterwards.

As time goes by Manu is getting more and more bitter
and tight-fisted towards me. All his money is devoted to
his evenings out and his spliffs. At first I couldn't come
to terms with this so I convinced myself I was wrong, but
the facts are clear to see: Manu can't bear what's turned
into a boring flat-share, and he makes the point to me
every day. I can't take life so lightly now, not like when
I lived with my parents.

The worst thing is I get the distinct impression Manu
looks down on me. He's always wearing new clothes –
basically, he can afford all the things I can't. A rift has
developed between us, and it's no longer just a financial
rift, even if initially it was based on money. I can feel us
getting a little further apart every day, and there's
nothing I can do about it.

But this evening we had a date to have a special meal
together. I've been asking to do this for a week because
I know we need to spend some time together. He gave
in, and even offered to cook so all I need do is sit at the
table. I've been getting ahead with my work all week on
purpose. When I left uni I reapplied my make-up, using
the window in the Métro as a mirror, so I'm pretty for
him when I get home. Nothing much, just a bit of
eyeliner.

As I step through the doorway I can tell something's
not right. The apartment's far too quiet for Manu to be
here. I've got to face the facts: he's not in. I have a look
in the kitchen, trying to convince myself he's nipped out
to buy some bread, but it's empty and there are no signs
to suggest preparations for any meal. My tummy
rumbles, I'm really hungry – I didn't have enough money
to buy a sandwich at lunchtime so I stayed in the library
and carried on working.

I sit down opposite the TV and cry. An hour goes by
and Manu hasn't come home. So I try to do some work
but I can't seem to concentrate. I can't even watch TV,
my retina won't assimilate the sequence of images. Call
a friend? What for? She'd only laugh at me and tell me
boys are all the same and you can't trust them. Manu's
not like that, Manu really loves me and cares about me.

But it's nearly midnight and Manu's still not back. I'm
too proud to call him on his mobile and I haven't got any
credit, anyway. I've smoked all my tobacco and the
packet of roll-up papers is sitting uselessly on the table.
Why's he doing this to me? Why me? Aren't I having a
hard enough time as it is? It's only been a month and I've
had it already, I'm exhausted the whole time trying to
earn a measly bit of spare cash because I never actually
get to see my own money.

All of a sudden there's a key turning in the lock. I hold
my breath, I hadn't contemplated confronting Manu this
evening. I quickly dry my tears with the back of my
hand; I don't want to face him like this, my make-up
must have run.

The next minute Manu's in the kitchen. I stare at him
and he looks at me with his own eyes reddened by joints.

'How are you?' he says casually. 'Not working?'

I feel as if my body's going to explode. He can't be
serious. He's stoned, I can tell that.

'What? Are you taking the piss? Where were you?
Weren't we supposed to be having supper together this
evening?'

I'm screaming, completely out of control. I'm so tired
that, even while the words are spewing out of my mouth,
I wonder where I'm getting the energy.

Manu looks away, he knows he's hurt me.

'Listen, Laura, I don't know what happened but I
didn't want it to, I swear. I was here in the kitchen and
I really was going to make you supper. I opened the
fridge and saw you hadn't bought anything. It
was
your
turn to do the shopping, wasn't it? Yes, it was your turn
and you didn't do it.'

'So that's why, is it? So you decide to leave me here all
evening crying just because of that? Is that how you want
to punish me?'

'No, Laura, it's not just this shopping, it's everything.
I know you haven't got any money, but we had an
agreement about splitting expenses. On top of everything
else, I got the gas bill today and that made things worse.'

He's looking me right in the eye and not raising his
voice at all. However hard I try, I can't understand what
he's saying, I can't see how he can dare to say all this
when he knows I'm doing everything I can to help
financially. I've always been embarrassed talking about
money.

'And, like last time, it was me who had to go shopping
because, otherwise, we'd have nothing to eat. I've had
enough of giving in, I've had enough of you leaning on
me the whole time. So I went out for a bit, to see a couple
of friends, to cheer me up . . .'

I don't say anything, I can't really think what to add.
Manu has reached the pinnacle of tightfistedness. He
asks me for money for the rent, the shopping, the bills –
which adds up to about 450 euros a month. I haven't got
enough from my salary so I fill the gap with the bit of
pocket money my mother gives me every month. It's not
much: what little she can afford she gives to me. I
stopped the contract on my phone a month ago, putting
expenses from the apartment as a higher priority. On top
of that, I work fifteen hours a week in the telesales place
and twenty at uni, plus all the hours spent going over my
coursework. He doesn't even work, and he spends the
money his mother puts into his account for the rent on
joints and clothes, and he's cashing in my share too. So,
in fact, I don't see that I'm exploiting the situation, I pay
my way and deserve my place in this apartment just as
much as he does.

But, in spite of everything, I still adore him and, even
now, I can't hate him. I'm too smitten to find any reply.
I'm ashamed of myself for being so weak when it comes
to a handsome face and devastating eyes.

Manu takes me in his arms at last, very gently, and I
accept the hug. It's not a dramatic moment at all, it feels
good being in his arms, that's all that matters. He loosens
his hold a few minutes later, looks at me with those big
dark eyes and suddenly says, 'Look, in future, to avoid
this sort of situation, I think we should do our shopping
separately, each do our own. It'll be easier for everyone
and we won't have any more rows like this.'

I can't get over it. So everything that's happened this
evening still isn't enough? He wants to make it even
worse?

'What?'

'Yes, I really think it would be better for both of us.
And with our different timetables we hardly ever eat
together, and we don't like the same things, anyway.'

I still don't say anything – although that doesn't mean
I'm not thinking. It's just, what is there to add? I'm not
going to try convincing the biggest skinflint on earth. The
very fact that he's bothered about this is enough for me
to know I can't do anything to change him. He's
tight-fisted and too spoilt, and he'll stay like that a good
while yet. Meanwhile, he doesn't realise how much he's
hurting me. My relationship is slowly falling apart.

I nod my head and force a smile, but we both know
that something's wrong between us. Something to do
with money. Perhaps something to do with different
social backgrounds which, it turns out, he can't take. His
mother often says I'm not good enough for him.

The next day, when I get home from work, he's made
some room for me in the cupboard where we usually put
tins.

26 October 2006

M
Y MOTHER DOESN'T TAKE
her eyes off me as she
hands me the plate of chicken. She hasn't stopped
since the beginning of the meal. It's the
Toussaint
bank
holiday and I'm spending two or three days with my
parents; I haven't yet decided exactly how long I'm going
to stay. We're sitting at the table, me, my mother, my
silent father and my sister who won't stop talking.

'This chicken's good, isn't it, Laura?'

I know she's watching my every move. I drive my fork
into the chunky thigh and, using my other hand, bring it
up to my mouth and eat it like an ogre. I've got a huge
appetite today, I'm so hungry. This supper is unquestionably
the biggest feast I've had for a month.

'Yes, it's delicious,' I say, savouring it.

My sister is the only one making any conversation, and
I'm the only one listening to her. I know the fact that I'm
here is disturbing my father as he sits there thinking. He
doesn't speak much, anyway, but when I'm here he
becomes completely mute.

Our relationship has always been difficult; we've
always loved each other, but in silence. My father's
someone who commands respect. When he was twenty
he left his native Spain to escape abject poverty and the
dictatorship, and to try his chances in France. He was
brought up in a very strict family which put a lot of store
in respecting tradition. He's never lost that in-built
coldness towards us, his daughters, particularly towards
me, just like his own father with his children before him.
I've always accepted it, because that's the way he works.

I know he loves me but he's never told me so, he's
never put his feelings into words. I'm the oldest and I
know I was a longed-for child. My parents really
pampered me when I was tiny, but as I grew up and
developed such a bond with my mother, my father
retreated into silence, perhaps not knowing how to
approach me. He probably thought it was abnormal and
disrespectful that I kept my composure when he wanted
to punish me. He's gradually shut himself away in his
own world, which amounts to ignoring me. When I'm in
the room he'll only talk to me if he really has to. I know
my behaviour has disappointed him on several occasions;
the lowest point was when I walked out on my last year
of school.

My sister and I have always known that there was
favouritism in the family: with me it was from my
mother, and with her my father. But we can't do
anything about it, and the fact that we've accepted this
inescapable truth has meant there's been no resentment
or jealousy between us.

I remember one time, when I was sixteen, leaving
home for a month. The four of us were in the living room
and I was looking at the sofa we were sitting on. It was
a very old sofa covered in green fabric, and it's always
been there. It was so old that, when I was still quite little,
my mother decided to dye it dark red to hide the obvious
wear and tear. As I sat listening to the television, I
scratched at part of the armrest where the dye hadn't
taken.

'Maybe we should dye it green again,' I said suddenly.
'It's been red for a long time now and could do with a
new lease of life.'

'This sofa's never been green,' my father said without
even looking at me. He spoke curtly and contemptuously
as if I'd said the stupidest thing he'd ever heard.

'Of course it has, Dad. I can still remember when mum
dyed it.'

I spent several minutes trying to prove it had and that
I remembered it clearly. I even resorted to old photo
albums to find proof of the case I was putting forward.
When he saw me rummaging through the shelves my
father flew into a furious, unjustified temper.

'Oh, you always have to be right, don't you? You
always have to be so clever, Miss Know-it-all!'

He was bellowing, and my mother and sister stared at
him, paralysed. I didn't move either, not sure what to do,
still with a photo album in my hand.

'I've had just about enough of you, your attitude and
your behaviour. You have no respect for other people,
everything revolves around you, you're the centre of the
universe. In fact, I can't stand you any more, you're just
a . . . a little shit! That's it, a shit!'

He whispered the word hoarsely and went out to the
kitchen. My sister cried out when she heard it. My father
in all his glory, my father who doesn't mince his words.
In spite of everything, it still sticks in my throat. I
clenched my fists and started to run. My mother got up
and tried to stop me as I grabbed for my bag. She cried
and begged me not to go, and my sister hung on to my
arm. My father didn't move a muscle from the kitchen.

'Mum, I can't, not any more. Look what he's like, I
can't put up with it. I'm off.'

'But where to? How are you going to manage?'

'I'll find something.'

And I did. I lived with a friend, in her parents' house,
for a month. They didn't really try to get to the bottom
of it, just made a bit of room for me in their house – it
was big enough. I went to school with my friend every
morning, and called my mother once a week to let her
know how I was.

I came back after a month; I didn't want to abuse the
kindness extended by my friend and her parents. When I
got home my father ignored me, as usual. He even went
on ignoring me when the whole business had blown over.
It hurt me terribly but I didn't know how to tell him or
show him. I found out later he'd had tears in his eyes the
day I left.

So the situation we're in now, this bank holiday, isn't
at all unusual. My sister's talking to break the silence
which she finds awkward but she eventually gets fed up
with making all the conversation and stops. We finish
our meal in silence.

My mother takes me to one side later in the evening. I
know she's been wanting to talk to me ever since I got
here.

'Laura, tell me something, are you eating all right?'

'Yes, Mum. You saw for yourself, I had three helpings
of chicken this evening.'

'No, Laura, that's not what I mean. Do you eat
properly when you're not here? Do you and Manu have
enough to eat?'

She couldn't help but notice. I've lost a huge amount of
weight in a month, since Manu and I have each had our
own food cupboard. I weighed more than sixty kilos at the
beginning of September, I was even a bit chubby, and I'm
now down to fifty. I get in late and tired every evening and
I often don't have time to cook anything because I have to
study. I spend all day running from one place to another,
from lectures to the library to work. I haven't got anything
in my cupboard, anyway, apart from a half-used packet of
pasta that's been there a couple of weeks. I often don't
have lunch at uni, and by the end of the week a sandwich
can feel like an extravagance. I've got so used to not
eating, I don't really feel hungry any more. Well, almost.

Manu, on the other hand, often eats out with friends.
I imagine he uses my share of the rent to splash out on
good food while I'm buried in my books. Apart from
that, we get on pretty well, no real rows. Mind you,
that's no surprise because we hardly ever see each other.
But I still love him with all my might . . . Even when I
open his food cupboard and drool with longing at his
tins of pâté and his jars of pesto which would make my
pasta so much more appetising.

One time I took a slice of his Parma ham, thinking he
wouldn't notice. Just my luck, he must have counted
them because he noticed the theft straight away. I
apologised at length, explaining that I was just hungry
and would buy him some more, which I did the next day,
blowing my five-euro note which was supposed to last
me three days. I could have laboured the point and just
given him back one slice – perhaps he would have
realised how ridiculous he was being. But I don't want
to play his games, it's not my thing.

I definitely can't tell my mother all this. She'd go mad
and call Manu every name under the sun. She'd make me
come home, which is completely out of the question.

'Don't worry, Mum, everything's fine.'

'You would tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't
you?'

'Of course I would, Mum. Don't fuss.'

She gives me a long look so I have plenty of time to
see how sceptical she is. She doesn't believe me, but she
can't do anything if I don't tell her the truth.

Two days later when I leave my parents' house, my
mother gives me a whole bag full of provisions; she's put
everything she can lay her hands on in there. She gives
me a wink as she hands it to me.

'Have a good trip, my darling, take care.'

My father just waves at me and doesn't kiss me. We
haven't kissed for years now.