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

by Filipa Fonseca Silva

  “Oh yes, Maria. Your friend Pedro is all talk. He was shocked when I told him about Pilar and he always gets anxious like this when we’re together.”

  “Then again, to tell the truth,” Isabel puts in, “Pilar loves to tease him.”

  “And you’re going out with Pilar now?” I ask Isabel, once again running the risk of getting told to mind my own damn business.

  “No,” she laughs. “She’s really just my showroom person and a very close friend. She asked me to come with her on her errand, as she hates driving. I hope I’m not intruding.”

  “Of course you aren’t. You’re more than welcome.”

  Lu, Pilar and Isabel. I like these women. They’re totally different from the women I go around with, most of whom are prisoners of their own taboos, insecurities and social standards. These three, on the other hand, are free spirits. They’re sure of themselves, confident. And they give off a really nice vibe. I hope it’s not going to be what usually happens when you meet interesting people at a dinner. You go home thinking about them, the next day you want to call them and arrange to meet to get to know them better, you even think you might become close friends with them, but you end up doing nothing about it as you think it’s a little uncalled-for after just a couple of hours of conversation.

  No, this time I won't let that happen. I’ll ask for their numbers right now and find out the name of Pilar’s gallery. I want positive people in my life.

  Filipe

  I’m glad I came to get beer with André. I was beginning to feel a certain mental claustrophobia in that house. I don't know what it is. I find myself getting more and more tired of the people around me. Which is bad, for there aren’t many of them. Even in the office, I feel more and more surrounded by mediocrity and incompetence. People are valued for their appearances and not what they are, not for their work or their ability. It’s nothing but petty intrigues, you scratch my back I’ll scratch yours. At lunchtimes it’s all empty chat, banalities. My friends say I need a girlfriend but no one will put up with my moodiness. I say I need new friends, people that stimulate me, teach me, force me to think, show me new things, listen to me, understand me, criticize me – but with valid, sincere arguments. Someone I could lie and watch a meteor shower and have real conversations with again.

  André was a friend like that, many, many years ago. When he was going out with Matilde, the nicest girlfriend he ever had. Nice as a person I mean, although she was also very cute indeed. With Matilde, André was always André. He didn’t have to act like he was her boyfriend. She wouldn’t have let him, anyway. She used to come out with us and was up for everything. But he couldn’t handle the pressure of her having a band, being the only woman in the band and being off on tour all the time. And she was a pretty sensual sight onstage, sexy, provocative, mesmerizing. I can just see the queue of geezers outside her dressing room door after her concerts. André wasn’t mature or self-confident enough to handle that. I wouldn’t have been either, I must admit. And then she was always on the go, she wanted to do everything, experience everything. It was all too intense in that relationship, including the jealousies. It was never going to end well.

  I think that’s why he felt attracted to Joana, because she was the exact opposite of Matilde. She was the security, the stability, the routine he needed. But in my view he let the routine get a hold of him. He became just like the rest of them: pussy-whipped, full of prejudices, all social duties and family commitments. Looking at him now, driving here beside me, I can hardly recognize him as my friend. I see a grave, defeated man, without a spark of the crazy genius I liked so much in him.

  We have the radio on and we’re changing stations without staying long on any. It’s funny that all the songs are the same; they all sound identical and that identical is bad. Or maybe it’s me and my reluctance to move on from the nineties rock and grunge. I’m beginning to understand what the old folks are on about with their, “It was better in my day” shtick, which shows how depressing I’m becoming.

  “It’s great fun tonight, isn’t it?” he asks, enthusiastically.

  “Yeah, it’s a laugh.”

  “Christ, I haven't seen Nuno for months. It’s strange, isn't it? Him there with another guy and Maria on her own.”

  “You can say that again. But at least he’s taken control of his life and had the courage to go after what makes him happy...” I say, spitting it out.

  “He certainly did, and…”

  “And what?”

  “I don’t know. I though you were going to say something else,” he challenges me.

  “No I wasn’t,” I lie.

  “He had the courage to go after what makes him happy, unlike others, is that what you meant?”

  “Maybe it was...”

  “Look, Filipe, if this is about that girl I lost my head over, drop it. That was just a passing fancy, not the path to happiness.”

  “Therefore you prefer to keep on being unhappy in a stupid marriage. Because, if you’re always chasing after girls it’s because you’re marriage isn't all that happy, no?”

  “You know, I’m drunk enough to have this conversation with you without getting pissed off,’ he answers. ‘I know you don't like my relationship with Joana or approve of it, but I think it’s something you’re going to have to get used to. If you still want to be friends with me, that is.”

  “But it’s not for me to approve of anything, it’s your life.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s just that I hate to see how you’ve changed,” I confess.

  “Changed? Changed how?”

  “Changed from the person you were when we met...”

  “You mean the person I was when we were twenty? The party guy who always went out with the craziest girls? Of course I’ve changed, and just as well. Haven't you? Are you another Pedro, expecting time to wait for you?”

  “You think so? That’s not how you’ve changed. You used to be a more confident person before, more self-assured.”

  “Well of course, but when you get married or move in with someone, something you obviously don't know about, we can't all be self-assured. Someone has to give way.”

  “In this case, always you,” I say, provoking him.

  “No, not me.”

  “André, cut the crap. You want to hear the truth? What I really think?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Then for your information, I think you’re trying to hide the pain you feel at giving up Matilde for a relationship that has nothing to do with you and gives you nothing but security and stability. And to compensate, you just go fooling around. You know Joana will always be at home waiting for you, your dinner will always be ready and your shirts will always be pressed. You have the stability of an old-fashioned marriage, with a wife who’ll be an excellent mother and bring up well-mannered, affectionate children. Exactly everything Matilde would never have given you. And this would be bearable, and common enough in a way, if Joana wasn't such a selfish, demanding bitch who’s always putting you down, controlling your life, and makes sure dinners like this one, that we used to have every month, or even every week, are events so rare that it’s as if we hardly know each other.”

  “She does not control my life! And while I’m at it, did you just call my wife a bitch or was I just imagining it?”

  “Yes I did. I’m sorry. But don't change the subject. You know fine that you do everything she wants, even coming to live here, in a residential estate at the back of beyond, where you have to drive fifteen kilometres to buy a beer. And now you’re going to have the child she wants, when that was the last thing you wanted. And deep down that doesn't surprise me at all, because you also asked her to marry you when she wanted, and because she wanted.”

  “You’ve no idea what it was like, her constantly banging on to me about getting married. It was no sweat to oblige. It’s just a role. You think it means anything special?”

  “Who said romance is dead?” I quip. “But that’s not the point. Be
fore you asked her to marry you, you told me you were sick of her, you had about five other girls on the go, so why did you get married? Explain that to me.”

  “Because we’d been going out for years, our families knew each other, it was the logical next step, the step everyone was waiting for.”

  “Even if you weren’t in love with her...”

  “Yep. Who said you have to be in love with someone to marry them? My wife, as you say, is my security, my stability, everything I never had at home. What did you expect? Was I supposed to go out with her for years on end, in the prime of her life, and then when we got to thirty, that age when everyone’s already married, leave her? I have principles!”

  “And you think that’s a good reason for getting married? Out of moral obligation instead of love?”

  “And how many marriages do you know that are based on love? Eh? It’s always about vested interests, whatever they are. What’s important is we respect and trust each other.”

  “Of course, the fact she’s just got pregnant all of a sudden, when your priority was your career, shows a lot of respect and trust...”

  “What do you mean by that? She did it deliberately?”

  “Yes! Hello-oh!” I shout, exasperated with the turn the conversation’s taking.

  “And so what? Even if that’s true, what’s done is done. It was always going to happen one of these years, so to hell with it. She’s the one who’s going to get fat and bloated, she’s the one who’s going to put up with the kid when it cries at night, you think I’m going to fall for that one? I’m going to keep investing in my career, that’s what I’m going to do, and give her everything she wants as long as she doesn't nag me to distraction, the more children the better so she’s got something to keep her occupied, and I have my piece on the side from time to time. Isn't that what everyone else does?”

  “Maybe it is. Except I thought you weren’t like everyone else. That’s why you were my best friend.”

  “I’m sorry if I disappointed you. But we grow up and we have to understand there’s more to life than dreaming of being a rock star. And you should start getting used to that idea too. Anyway, we’re here. Will you get the things while I turn the car around?”

  “Of course,” I answer, curtly.

  I get out of the car, defeated. I don’t know what I expected from this chat. Maybe, deep down, I wanted to tell him some home truths, open his eyes. Make him turn around suddenly and say. “Thank you, Filipe! You’re quite right! Let’s go home right now so I can finish with that domineering bitch Joana and go and look for Matilde.” You idiot. Not him, me. Maria was right. He’ll choose her every time. He’ll always be the well-behaved little boy who does the right thing. I really don't know what fucks me up more; seeing he’s never going to leave Joana and is going to settle for the life he has, or realizing the person he was has disappeared and I’ve lost a friend.

  When I get back to the house I’m going to grab Maria and run away with her. I think she’s the only one of my friends I could do that with. The only genuine person, the only one who’s grown up and become an adult, but kept her essence, the thing that made me like her in the first place. Pedro’s a genuine person too; but he hasn't grown up, and there are times I can’t be bothered with the empty chat. It’s all very well on a night out, but the next day there’s nothing new to be said.

  Now I think about it, I could always stay at the party, get totally pissed and wake up somewhere tomorrow and find all this just a nightmare. Or better still, drop this obsession of mine with over-analysing things, the conviction I’m better or more enlightened than my friends, which is even annoying me, and try to enjoy myself and see my friends in a more positive light. “It’s not you. It’s me.” Never did that make more sense.

  Joana

  I can’t understand why André is taking so long. And I’m the one stuck here with these lunatics. They’re all visibly altered. And so they ought to be, in wine alone they’ve got through six bottles, not including the champagne, the spirits, the beers... We’re definitely going to fill the condominium bottle bank to brimming. And I’m the one who has to go to the cellar to get more wine for Lu’s chums. It’s just as well they’re people with breeding. One’s the owner of a gallery that’s quite well known and the other’s an artist. At least that raises the tone compared to the models, surfers and secretaries.

  I’ll ask António to come with me. I could have asked Nuno or Eduardo, but something made me ask António. I can’t explain what it is. On the one side his constant attention is bothering me, the way he’s always touching me, looking at my boobs. On the other side I’m loving it. André doesn't look at me like this any more, and since I’ve been a housewife I haven't had much occasion for compliments from the opposite sex. I always liked that at university. I never led them on, but I liked to be looked at, admired, out of pure vanity. I’m well aware that’s not a nice thing, but no one’s perfect. It happened when I was working too, even though they knew I was engaged. I often found myself thinking about the men behind those eyes that followed me as I walked by, the situations where something could happen between us. At the end of a meeting? A long night’s studying? A Christmas party? It was disturbing, but exciting at the same time. Nothing ever happened, obviously. As if. I’m not that type. It was just a passing fantasy, all over in less than four seconds.

  I go down the stairs carefully, as there’s not much light. I’ve already told André to put another bulb in here, but he never listens. I have to get angry before he understands I’m speaking seriously. True, I never go down to the cellar, and if he falls that’s his problem, but is it so difficult? He’s down here often enough, after all, but whatever.

  Now we’re here looking at the walls lined with bottles, it’s difficult to choose. I don't drink, so it means nothing to me, but António studies the labels like an expert and mumbles stuff from time to time.

  “A fine collection of wine you two have here.”

  “Us two, no, it’s André’s collection. In fact it’s probably the thing he likes most in this house.”

  “After you, of course.”

  “No, including me.”

  “Nonsense. He’d have to be stupid...”

  “I mean it. If you ask him to choose between his collection and me, he’ll choose his collection, easily.”

  “I wouldn’t even think twice.”

  “You see?’ I laugh. ‘Wines are to connoisseurs what shoes are to women, sacred.”

  “I wouldn't even think twice about choosing you.”

  Well. It seems António is officially flirting with me. Is he crazy or something? I’m the wife of a friend of his, and on top of that I’m pregnant too! I know absolutely nothing’s showing yet, but all the same, we told him, didn’t we? What do I do now? I can always grab two bottles at random and go back to the living room without giving him time to prevent me. But my vanity’s getting the better of me and I’m getting more and more excited at the thought of him being crazy about me; and him that has such a pretty wife, with all her implants. I feel my heart beating with a mixture of fear and pleasure. Nothing’s going to happen of course, not least because this type of man, a pushy, nouveau riche womanizer, repels me. But it feels so good... I haven’t felt like this for years.

  I feel a shiver run through me. António thinks it’s because it’s cool in the cellar and offers me his jacket.

  “That’s OK, thanks. Let’s go up now, shall we?” I say, making for the stairs.

  “Only if you want to,” he answers, moving closer to me.

  I decide to ignore that last comment and hurry towards the door. As soon as I get there I feel his lips on my neck and his hand on my thigh. I lose control and instead of turning the door handle to run out, I lock the door and turn around and kiss him passionately. I'm unable to think. I just want to kiss him madly. His hands are gliding all over my body, his tongue’s making its way around my neck and all I can say is ‘What are we doing?’ as I grip him tighter and pull him towards m
e. Seconds later I’m lying on the stairs, my dress around my waist and my eyes closed, as if I didn’t want to see what we’re doing. Stop it, my brain tells me, but I can’t get the words out. The only sounds I can make are little moans. He’s kissing the inside of my thighs and squeezing my breasts with one hand. His tongue moves higher and higher and I can no longer make out what I’m feeling as I’ve never felt anything like this before. It’s an explosion that’s spreading through every nerve in my body, an incredible sensation that makes me take leave of my body, as if there were no gravity, as if we were perfectly weightless. I’m going to shout. I need to shout. But he covers my mouth with his hand and begins to penetrate me. Oh my God, is this what I’ve been missing all these years? I never imagined it could be like this! So gooooood!

  I don’t know how much time has passed. I’ve completely lost all notion of time, but when it’s over all I can do is get up without looking him in the eye, grab the two bottles I’d left beside the door, and run out. I go into the dining room, which fortunately is empty; I leave the bottles on the table and run to my room with my pulse still racing. I need a bath. While the water is heating up, I look in the mirror and don’t recognize myself. I’ve never seen this look on my face before. What have I done? My God, what have I done? I’m a horrible person. I’m everything I accused other people of being. Even worse, I’ve just cheated on my husband with a friend of his, in our home, and pregnant with our first child! How frightful! I’m a whore. That’s what I am, a whore.

  I get in the shower and ask the hot water to wash away my sin. If I close my eyes I can still see the passionate scene I’ve just experienced, and if I open them I want to cry. The shame of it. I breathe deeply. I try to rationalize. It was only sex. Only sex. It didn’t mean anything! It doesn’t have to happen again. It’s not as if I’m leaving my husband, is it? Sex is normal, isn’t that what they say? Well, this sex certainly wasn’t normal; it was very, very good indeed, well above average. And anyway, I’m certain André’s played away from home before. I just pretend not to notice. I grew up seeing Mummy cleaning lipstick stains from Daddy’s collars, calm as you like, as if they were coffee stains (did she have a lover too, I wonder?). André has arrived home with the smell of cheap perfume on his body on more than one occasion. The following day I’d insist on some stupid favour from him, like, “I need you to come to the Mall with me”, and buy bags and bags of stuff. He’d pay without batting an eyelid, as if that got him off the hook. Turn a blind eye and it doesn’t hurt. And that cuts both ways.