Scandalous

by Laura D

  Chapter 4

  Routine

  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 mone
y 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.

  Chapter 5

  Hunger

  26 October 2006

  MY 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 an
d 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.