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.
The Strange Year of Vanessa M Page 16
