The Strange Year of Vanessa M

by Filipa Fonseca Silva

  The next morning Vanessa felt more conscience pangs. These meetings with her ex-husband really had to stop. A shared life and a divorce just didn't add up to casual sexual encounters where there was no place for conversation. As her ex-husband was getting dressed, Vanessa asked, “What are we going to do?”

  “About what?”

  “About these meetings.”

  “Not this again.”

  “Of course this. Or do you want to go on being just lovers?”

  “It suits me fine, it’s been the best sex we’ve ever had, hasn't it?”

  “Stop it. I don't just want sex.”

  “Wasn’t that why you moved out, to experience new things and not have the routine of a marriage? There you go then. You’re experiencing being an adulteress.”

  “You know that isn't true. Don't say that.”

  “So what do you want me to say? That I still love you and want you to come home? That’s what you’d like to hear, isn't it? Let’s just forgive and forget, is that it? Well I can't tell you that, because the truth is I don't love you any more. I’ve learned not to love you these last few months. And most of all I’ve learned how to stop you from hurting me.”

  Vanessa was lost for an answer. She was shaking at the brutality of his words, and all the truth they contained.

  “Come on Vanessa, we’re adults, we have an adorable daughter, we can be friends. Of course we can. But I’m not going to let you mess my head up again just because of a few nights of sex.”

  “Is that all it was, then? Sex?”

  “Yep.”

  Vanessa sat down on the bed, looking at the floor.

  “Right, I have to get going; I’m having lunch at Sheila’s today. And don't you be like that. Call your engineer. He’ll pamper you and you’ll feel better. When you want another kind of pampering, I’m all yours.”

  He walked out without looking back. Through the attic window, Vanessa saw him get in the car, pick up his phone and drive away at top speed. No. It hadn't been just sex. He was lying. He had to be lying.

  3.

  “You’re mad, so you are,” said Diana. “A man like that, an engineer, a real tasty piece and you’re going to finish with him?”

  “Diana, let it go, will you,” Vanessa answered, irritated. “It isn't working and that’s all there is to it.”

  “But why not?”

  “Because we don’t get on well in bed,” said Vanessa. She hadn't told Diana, and had no intention of telling her, about what had happened with her ex-husband.

  “Ah, in that case, I understand. If it isn't happening in bed it isn't happening anywhere, that’s why I’m still married, because in that department at least I can't complain. When are you going to tell him?”

  “After Christmas?”

  “You’re terrible, you’re going to keep his hopes high all over Christmas and then kick him out?”

  “Of course I am, that way his Christmas isn't so bad and he has a good excuse to get drunk at New Year.”

  “And where are you going to spend Christmas?”

  “We’re having dinner with my Auntie and Frank, at some party they’re throwing in the Sunshine Centre and then he’s going to spend on Christmas day with his family and I’m going to get Mimi for lunch with my mum.”

  “And why isn't your mother having dinner with you? Is she going to spend Christmas Eve alone at home? Listen, if you want I can take her to my house, it’s always company for my mother and the pair of them can sit at the fireside and talk about their illnesses and all the hard work their children are once they’ve grown up.”

  Vanessa hadn’t thought much about it, but it was true; why leave her mother alone? Obviously she was going to say she didn't at all mind being left on her own and she’d rather be dead than spend Christmas in the Sunshine Centre with a bunch of old hippies, but deep down she was hoping Vanessa would remain with her. A supper just the two of them, like all those other silent suppers she’d had in her lifetime, wasn't an option. She decided she’d have to kidnap her mother. She’d tell her they were going for dinner somewhere special and suddenly they’d find themselves outside the Centre and there would be no escape, not even a taxi. She still had a few days to make up some story. She’d say her future-ex-boyfriend was going too. Her mother would be happy her daughter had finally found a boyfriend. A lonely divorcee in her thirties brought shame on the woman who’d borne her.

  She got rid of Diana, who’d come to the shop to pick up an order, and concentrated on her work, the only thing that saved her from regretting that kiss that had brought months of peace and tranquillity crashing down.

  4.

  It wasn't easy on Christmas Eve getting her mother to get in the car, let alone putting up with her during the journey, listening to her moaning and threatening to throw herself out of a moving vehicle. After that it took half an hour to persuade her to enter the Sunshine Centre.

  “Mum, please. Do it for me,” Vanessa pleaded. “One hour, we’ll eat and if you’re not feeling all right we’ll leave.”

  “Only if you come to midnight mass with me.”

  “Mum, I haven't been in a church since I got married…”

  “All the more reason, maybe that’s what you’re needing, knock a bit of sense into you.”

  “All right then, I’ll go to midnight mass,” Vanessa gave in. It was an excellent way of getting rid of her boyfriend right after dinner.

  She’d decided to put an end to it, even if she stopped the meetings with her ex-husband. At least that disastrous affair had been good for something, to show her she still wasn't ready for a serious relationship with anyone. She’d settle everything before the end of the year. It had been a terrible year, and she wanted to but it behind her and forget it, enter the New Year with a new spirit, without the burden of old problems.

  The engineer was outside, waiting for them. Vanessa’s mother perked up a little when she saw him. At least that was one other normal person here. They went inside, feeling like they’d walked into Father Christmas’s house, except not in Lapland but San Francisco in the 1960’s. The decor was so overblown and kitsch that Vanessa could scarcely stop herself from laughing. And not to mention the company, who were all wearing wizard’s hats, reindeer antlers or crowns of holly. There was mulled wine, vegetarian snacks and a kind of ersatz cod made out of tofu. There were water pipes, and incense sticks burning. There was Christmas music played on an Andean flute and a life-size nativity scene with human figures, with Joseph and Mary played by the couple that sold macramé handicrafts on the beach. Mary really was pregnant, and approaching term, and there was no knowing if a real Nativity wasn’t about to happen.

  Vanessa’s mother wouldn’t let go of her arm, like if she feared if she did so she’d get lost forever, even though the centre was no more than seventy metres square. But as time passed and the mulled wine flowed, she began to loosen up a little and the next thing Vanessa saw her mother was chatting away with two women, the Tarot reader and the yoga instructor, and she could almost swear she’d seen her sharing a bong with her aunt. Not something she would ever have imagined. In fact the two sisters were getting on so well her mother would have missed Midnight Mass if Vanessa hadn't reminded her. And knowing that bringing her mother to the Sunshine Centre had turned out to be the first step towards peace between her and her sister made Vanessa utterly happy.

  “Thank you for making me come,” said her mother as they were getting into the car. Vanessa said the same thing later when they were coming out of mass, shrouded in carols and candlelight. In the immensity of the church, with all its angels and saints that seemed to smile on that special night, Vanessa had felt protected. The human warmth of the packed faithful, the rhythm of the mass marked out by organ and choir, brought her a sense of calm she could hardly explain. And suddenly she heard a phrase that awoke her from her state of enchantment. ‘And if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.’

  It was like an epiphany. The tears
streamed down her face as she took each word in. What was she doing? What had she done? After church she took her mother home, then drove to her ex-husband’s house, two blocks distant. She parked the car and sat there looking at the house, trying to divine what was happening behind those half-open curtains. Mimi would be in her room, pretending to sleep while she played with her new toys under the quilt. Sheila and her ex-husband would be clearing up the kitchen; Sheila’s kids playing in the living room. Her father- and mother-in-law asleep on the sofa, each leaning away from the other; being stuck with the same person for over forty years was like that, you might as well sleep to make the time pass quicker.

  Vanessa was shaken from her thoughts by a beep on her phone. It was a text message from her boyfriend. ‘Are you home yet? Can I visit?’ he asked, with ulterior motives. ‘No. I’m not going home tonight. Sorry’ she replied switching off her phone when she’d finished so she wouldn't have to get involved in an exchange of messages whose outcome she already knew. That was something she’d deal with the next morning.

  She stayed in the car until she saw Sheila coming out, ushering her sleepy-headed children into the car. Her in-laws had taken Sheila’s exit as the cue for their own departure and came out immediately after her, carrying containers with leftovers of cake and Christmas delicacies (‘Spare and spare alike and we’ll eat the rest tomorrow’). The house fell silent, the lights on the ground floor went out and her ex-husband went upstairs. Screwing up her courage and saying to herself over and over as if it was a mantra ‘If I do not have love I am nothing’ Vanessa rang the doorbell. Her ex-husband opened the door, surprised.

  “What are you doing here at this time?”

  “You were lying, weren't you?” she asked, crying.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The other day at my shop, I know you were lying. I know you too well.”

  “Listen, Vanessa, if you came all this way…”

  “Shush… Don’t say a word,” she asked, taking his hands. “Let me speak. I know I don’t deserve it, I know I sound crazy, but I came to say I love you and I want to stay. Please let me stay.”

  “Stay? You mean tonight?”

  “No. Forever.”

  Without waiting for an answer Vanessa threw herself into her ex-husband’s arms and kissed him passionately. He didn’t push her away. They kissed and loved and kissed again until dawn was approaching and fatigue overtook them.

  Mimi woke early the next morning, as kids do on Christmas day. She went into her father’s room without knocking and stood there for a moment when she realized her father wasn't alone in bed. Vanessa raised her head from her pillow and smiled at her daughter, who ran to hug her like she’d never hugged her before.

  “So Father Christmas does exist! I knew it! I knew it!” she shouted, jumping up and down on the bed.

  Happy at her daughter’s excitement, Vanessa’s hand found her husband’s hand and squeezed it tightly. She didn't want to let that hand go, ever again. She never wanted to leave these people again, these people her world made no sense without, for all the adventures and travels and excitement she experienced. Almost a year had passed since she’d succumbed to that depression which she’d found so difficult to explain. One year, in which she’d managed to dump her daughter in the middle of the street, undo a marriage without a second thought and abandon a career she’d devoted ten years of her life to. Maybe everyone has moments like these, thought Vanessa. Moments we feel we’ve made all the wrong choices and need to redo everything to be happy again. Moments of doubt, tedium, selfishness or mere anguish at life being too short to experience all the worlds we’d like to experience. But it isn't always a case of changing everything, as Vanessa had discovered. After all there’s one thing we can't change, whether we like it or not, the people our days are built around. And after all, what’s the point of experiencing any world at all if we have to do it alone?

  The End

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  About the Author

  Filipa Fonseca Silva was born in Barreiro, Portugal, in 1979. She has a degree in Communication by Universidade Católica, and works as an advertising copywriter since 2004. She dreams about making the world a greener place and writing memorable stories. “The Strange Year of Vanessa M.” is her second novel. The first one, “Thirty Something – Nothing’s How We Dreamed it Would Be”, was published in 2011 by a major Portuguese Publisher and was widely praised.

  Besides writing, Filipa loves painting, collecting shoes and eating watermelon. She lives in Lisbon with her husband, son and Gucci, the cat.

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  Sample of “Thirty Something – Nothing’s How We Dreamed it Would Be”

  Joana

  Take a good look at me. Stuck here between these four walls, scrubbing the floor. What have I become? A desperate housewife, just like on the TV show. High heels, smart dress, impeccable hairdo and rubber gloves that ruin my nails. All because his lordship André doesn’t think we need a cleaning lady every day. Well of course he doesn’t; it isn’t him who does the cleaning. I don’t know what kind of pigsty he was raised in, but he’s too tolerant of dust on the shelves and finger smudges on the windowpanes. When I told him I’d give up my job to look after the house, this wasn’t what I had in mind. Sometimes I wonder if he’s expecting me to turn into his mother. Next thing I know he’ll be buying me a pinafore and a pair of slippers. No offence to the old lady – she’s sweet enough – but spare me that fate.

  I know it’s just the two of us and the house isn’t enormous, but even so, the cleaning lady should come every day. “When we have children,” says he. Well, exactly. If he has his way we won’t have children for another ten years. “We’re still young, we still have so much living to do”. So much what? He spends his life at the office and at weekends hardly leaves the computer. I wouldn’t mind if he made some decent money... Well might I treasure the mink coat and designer clothes I’ve had since I was single, because if I’m waiting for him to buy me a nice outfit the chances are he’ll come home with something from the clothes section of the hypermarket. Tightwad.

  One of these days he’ll tell me to look after the garden too. But I refuse to do without my gardener. Perish the thought! And no, the gardener isn’t one of those handsome brutes that would commit the fantastic cliché of having an affair with me. (He’s an old man. Very old and very ugly. But he has a way with plants – this place looks like a botanical garden.) Besides, I’m not the type to have lovers. It’s bad enough putting up with one man, let alone two or three. I find sex so tiring... Not that I’m frigid, but no way is sex my favourite activity. Dress up, dress off, now change position. So much work just for him to fall asleep immediately afterwards. There are far more pleasant things to do undressed. A shiatsu massage, for instance. At the Ritz.

  Sometimes I wonder if it’s like that with all men. Because André’s practically the only man I’ve had. I had just the one experience before him, and one I’m not at all proud of. Especially because that moron will always be part of my life now, no matter how much I try to forget him, while I probably didn’t stay in his memory for more than a day. Mummy was right when she said I should save myself for the right man. But I was eighteen, I’d just started university and I knew marriage was something that would only happen at the end of my course – four years later, in other words. Everyone had done it already; everyone mocked me for saving myself for my future husband.

  And then I met an older student at a freshers’ party who swept me off my feet. He began by lookin
g 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.