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

by Filipa Fonseca Silva

  I’m going to be a mother. How wonderful! Mummy would be so proud of me...

  Anyway, I better go and get dressed for dinner with that group of misfits while the food’s in the oven. I can just see how things will go tonight, especially now they have a reason to celebrate. They’ll drink the cellar dry, no doubt about that. Fortunately all this debauchery will end in a few months’ time. I will certainly not have them drinking and smoking and making a din with the baby here. It’s always a good pretext for getting more interesting friends, or friends that have more to do with us, at least. Ah, and the nights out till all hours are going to end as well. I’m not having a child to bring it up on my own. It’s bad enough already, with André getting home at eight every day. Evenings are for the family, and that includes weekends. And I’m sure André will love socializing with other couples that have children too. Like António and Kati.

  António is different. He’s nothing like the others. He’s the only one who’s married, he has a successful business, two children, and he’s very well traveled. So charming. She’s nice, too. She does look a bit like a footballer’s wife, with her designer clothes and her gel fingernails decorated with little flowers. But that’s natural, isn’t it? I mean, natural for a woman who was a secretary and suddenly got married to one of the directors of the company. She’s a bit common, but nothing that can’t be fixed. And anyway, she’s actually pretty good fun. We’ll be able to do lots of things together with the kids. Something calmer. We’re in our thirties now. This is no age to be going out to parties every Saturday night and getting home drunk at four o’clock in the morning. They’re so insufferable, these thirty-somethings who think they’re still hip and twenty. Like most of our single friends, especially Filipe and Pedro, not that I don’t like them, but I mean, they’re rather childish. They think they still have their whole lives in front of them. They don’t go steady with anyone, won’t commit to a career or a relationship. Where do they think they’ll end up? If they think at all, that is. Anyway... Everyone’s responsible for himself and the only thing I don’t like is when they take André on those nights out when they all act like overgrown adolescents. Especially now he’s going to be a father.

  I really don’t understand what’s so special about those nights out that they can’t take their wives and girlfriends. If it’s because they want to leer at the breasts of girls that pass in the street, as far as I’m concerned they can leer all they want, and in front of me. I couldn’t give a fig. I know I’m the one my husband comes home to at the end of the night. It must be so they can talk about stuff they’ve been up to, that’s the only explanation. Men are all such sex maniacs. I have to bring my son up to be different from men like that, different from his father. I hope it’s a boy. It’s always best to have a boy first. Martim. I love that name.

  Filipe

  I wake up when the front door slams. I could have sworn I lived alone… The cat doesn’t know how to open doors yet… Shit. I was forgetting Helena. I get up in a daze and see the remains of a night of pleasure on the floor of my bedroom. Pleasure... well more or less. It was going well until she started panting like a mule. I don’t know what it is with these chicks. They must watch too many films and no one’s explained to them that moaning is sexy, but panting like a mule is not.

  She’s actually quite good-looking, Helena, for a mini-skirt and knee-length boots kind of girl. It’s just that what was supposed to be a one-night stand is becoming a habit. Blah blah, I’m a very modern woman and I’m not looking for a relationship, but we could meet for a coffee on Sunday. After that it’s the cinema, which is the best option when you’re going out with someone you have absolutely nothing to say to, and then comes the ‘it’s too late for me to go home alone’, and then the next thing you know they’re slamming the door on their way out, probably because they found another woman’s underwear in the bathroom drawer.

  It’s better that way. I was already beginning to dread the day I’d have to be straight with her and tell her I didn’t want to see her again. I’ve always been useless at ending relationships. I’d rather things became unbearable than be the one to finish it. Or drop clues that I’m seeing someone else, to see if they catch me out and insult me and leave me. They feel better, that way. Especially when they tell their friends and they all confirm I’m a good for nothing that doesn’t deserve them. I can’t stand the drama, the tears, the questions. It’s funny, when you tell them you like them they don’t ask why, but when you finish with them it’s like the Spanish Inquisition mixed with a Mexican soap opera.

  Anyway, this time I’m off the hook and fortunately it doesn't look likely I’ll be seeing her again any time soon. And when I do, the chances are she’ll have a boyfriend. Then she’ll look at me with disdain, showing off her man as if to say ‘See what you missed?’ – totally unaware that she’s the last woman I’d want to be with in any situation requiring clothes to be worn.

  I go into the living room and my heart sinks at the state it’s in. Wine glasses on the floor, ashtrays full of cigarette ends, a days-old pizza box behind the couch, cat hairs everywhere. It’s times like this I’d like to wake up in my parents’ house. Everything clean and tidy, open the fridge and find food inside. Even better, walk into the kitchen and smell the aroma of a freshly cooked meal. Oh, I miss that... I find my mobile phone under the cushions and check the time. Too late to make plans for the day, and too early to go to André’s house. Dinner isn't till eight. I resign myself to the fact there isn't much else to do except tidy up the house and fritter my life away in front of the computer.

  When I’ve finished the Herculean labour that is putting my house in a state considered to be decent by the majority of mortals (among which my mother is definitely not included), and before I’ve succumbed to the temptation of switching on the computer, I find myself trying to remember what I used to do all day cooped up at home when I was a teenager and there were no computers and technology to keep me distracted. I think I was much more interesting as a person then than I am today. The truth is, compare me as I am now with me as I was fifteen years ago, and the kid would win hands down. I used to read a lot more back then, and by much more interesting authors too. I wrote poems, songs, love letters to imaginary women. I watched real cinema – classics, foreign films, independents. I had such a good general culture for a kid of my age I even impressed my parents’ friends, which seemed an extraordinary feat at the time. Today, looking at most of the adults I know (beginning with myself), I can see they weren’t all that difficult to impress.

  Nowadays, when I’m not mixed up in crazy situations with girls that are exciting at first but turn out to be nagging bitches, I while away the hours on the Internet or channel-hopping on the TV. I say I’ve no time for reading, but then I’ll watch three consecutive episodes of Californication or a repeat of some Premier League game whose result I’ve known for the past two days. I criticize my friends for not saying anything interesting, not doing anything interesting, when in the end I’m as boring as they are. It’s enough to look at this depressing day I’m having. The only difference between them and me is that I’m aware of how deeply boring I am. They just live. Life as it is enough for them. And if it isn't enough, they think they need a new car, a dream holiday, a lover. So they fill themselves up with things, as if things could fill the emptiness. Obviously, when I mention these anxieties of mine, they look at me condescendingly and change the subject. It doesn't surprise me and doesn't even bother me any more. Force of habit or resignation, I don't know. At times like that, all I feel is loneliness. Profound loneliness.

  Here I am all wrapped up in my identity crisis, making promises to end my dependence on new technologies that hog my time and sap my creativity, when my mobile phone rings. It’s Pedro. He’s late and can’t come and pick me up. Shit. I plead with him, I bribe him with the phone numbers of good looking lady friends, I tell him it’s going to rain, when suddenly I hear a woman’s voice calling him. “Come on, tiger! You’re dri
ving me even crazier.” So it’s true, this Lu does exist. “Off you go, tiger, don't keep her waiting. I’ll see you there,” I smile and hang up. So now I have to do five miles by bike with a six pack of beers on my back, asking myself with every push of the pedals why I haven’t got a blasted driving license yet. This is definitely not how I’d imagined a Saturday night in my early thirties.

  Maria

  I don't think I’ll go to this dinner. I know over a year’s passed, and I don’t think I’ll feel anything when I see him, but even so I don't know if I’m ready to meet him again. And I also know that when I say I miss him, it’s not exactly him I’m missing. I miss the way we were. The life we had. Getting home and having his clothes on the line, his bottles of scent scattered on the bathroom shelf, his enormous collection of DVDs on the shelves. Having plans for the weekend. Having someone to talk to about the news, especially the stupid stuff. Actually, deep down, what I miss is having a boyfriend.

  I hate being single. Every Friday at six o’clock I get anxious about what I’m going to do over the next forty-eight hours. I check Facebook every five minutes to see if there’s a dinner, a party, an inauguration, whatever, that will stop me from staying at home in my pajamas watching stupid TV series and looking at the phone that doesn’t ring. My boss loves it. I’m always one of the last to leave the office. I stretch out my day until my stomach starts to complain and the chances of anyone inviting me to dinner are gone. I end up going home, where I feel even worse because I have to cook for myself. It’s horrible, cooking for one. I’d rather have a bowl of cereal. Frozen food’s no alternative, because it always comes in portions for two! As if the museums and cinemas weren’t enough with their buy-one-get-one-free discounts. It’s times like this the world seems to fling in our face how pathetic our lives are.

  Then it’s that feeling of not wanting to importune friends, especially the ones who are married or spoken for. I always get scared about butting in on some intimate moment or latching on to some arrangement that’s only for couples. Even worse, reminding them I’m single, having to endure a blind date with someone’s cousin/co-worker/poker partner. “He’s alone too and he’s so nice.” So? Since when have being alone and nice been the only two requirements for a boyfriend? What about even slightly attractive? No hair sprouting out of his ears, a job, the ability to use correct grammar? Or how about gifted biochemical engineer with house and car and everything, but who was also a Goth and loved to be told how much like Marilyn Manson he looked? That happened once with a guy Pedro hooked me up with. Thanks a lot, Pedro.

  When do our friends stop being the people we can open our hearts to, and become people we’re afraid to talk to? I’d like to tell them I feel lonely, that I’d like to have company, that I don’t mind going alone to their couples’ dinners. It’s not as if I eat very much. And it’s always better than dinner in front of the television. There seems to be some kind of black hole between the twenties and the thirties. One day we find we can no longer share our troubles with our old friends. I remember I could talk about everything, describe my feelings, cry on the phone with my girl friends. I’d tell them even my wildest, most inconsequent dreams. Not any more. It’s always everything’s fine, thanks. And if I begin to moan about things, there’s a compassionate silence but there’s no advice, no strong opinions or “He’s going to hear me out.”

  Maybe it’s because there’s less idealism. Their experience of life no longer allows them to tell lies like, “Everything will be all right” and “Of course he’ll call you” and – above all – “You still have plenty time to meet the love of your life.” So they keep their mouths shut or change the subject. Or maybe it’s because people are more reserved now. They don't have the courage to say, “He broke up with you because you’re a bimbo”, “You better get yourself together, ‘cause you’re not getting any younger” or anything that would pose an immediate threat to their physical integrity. They think that by not saying what they’re really thinking they’re preserving our friendship. And perhaps they’re right. Hardly anyone has the guts to hear the truth.

  Was I like that with my single friends, when I had a boyfriend? I can’t remember. I know I neglected a lot of friendships, but then there’s no time for everything. I think people understand that. And I also understand why my phone doesn't ring. I know it’s not out of malice. I know if I died now my friends would be really upset and wish they’d invited me to that last dinner.

  Right... Maybe that’s exactly why I should go to this dinner. Make the most of an arrangement, for a change. Look my old friends squarely in the eye; maybe even make some new friends. You never know; maybe someone new will show up, some colleague of André’s that I haven’t met. Who’s good-looking. And single. And interested in a lasting relationship that includes the propagation of the species.

  That’s it, then, I’ll go. And if Nuno’s there with his boyfriend, tough luck. Fact is, I should really feel good about it. It would be much worse if he’d left me for a woman. Especially a younger woman, a slimmer younger woman, but a guy? If anyone’s going to feel ill at ease at the party it’s him, not me. And another thing, I’ve had enough of keeping myself hid and playing the poor little thing. Enough of whispers behind my back; yes, I was dumped by the man I loved three months before our wedding, when all the preparations had been made and the invitations sent out. And yes, he left me for a man. The man of my dreams turned out to be gay. So what? It’s not my fault. Nor his.

  I want to hug him now like I wanted to hug him that day. It must have been horrible facing up to his parents, my parents, our friends, his colleagues at the office. Coming out like that. I wish he’d prepared me for it. Maybe I would have come to realize it naturally, if it wasn’t for that wretched request to marry me that sparked everything off. He would probably have softened me up beforehand and then broken it to me gently, on a rainy day, after a bottle of wine. We would have cried in each other’s arms, he would have said he’d always be my best friend and I would have held his hand and gone with him to talk to everyone and show that we were together, even if there was to be no marriage. I wouldn’t have had to run to the ugliest place I could find, with my thoughts in disarray and my feet on unsure ground.

  He tried to apologize so many times. I always ran away. Always acting as if the world had ended and things would never get better. Wallowing in my grief. No more running away for me. Tonight I’m going to do what’s right. Hug him, forgive him, and if I can, bring him back into my life, because it’s not every day you meet someone like Nuno. And anyway, I’ve always wanted a gay best friend. I can just see us having an afternoon snack in the Chiado after a day’s shopping, whispering about men and comparing notes on the cute bottoms passing by. And one day I’ll tell my children their mother nearly got married to uncle Nuno. Hilarious.

  I’d better phone Joana now before I change my mind again.

  “Hello?”

  “Joana, it’s Maria.”

  “Darling, hi, how’s things?”

  “I called to see if I’m still in time to go to the dinner.”

  “What dinner, tonight’s? Em... yes...”

  “You hesitated. Don't bother, you must have prepared everything already, the table set for the right number of people, and here’s me trying to upset everything.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just that... Nuno has confirmed he’s coming.”

  “Yes, I’d figured he would.”

  “What about it then? Will you be OK?”

  “Of course I will. It’s time I put that behind me.”

  “What if I told you he’s not coming alone?”

  “Better still, I’ll get to meet the man who stole my husband.”

  “That’s fine then. I’ve missed you so much and I’ve got heaps of things to tell you!”

  “Is anyone else going alone, or is it only couples?”

  “Mostly couples, but Filipe’s coming too.”

  “Ah of course, Filipe. No doubt he’ll show up with some
stupid blonde.”

  “No no, he’s really coming alone. Pedro’s bringing his new girlfriend.”

  “And aren’t any of André’s colleagues coming? Some hot career bachelor or just someone I’ve known for less than five years and won’t look at me with that ‘poor thing, she was dumped three months before her wedding’ face?”

  “I don’t think so. But I can tell André to invite someone from the office...”

  “No, don't bother. I’m not that desperate.”

  “That’s fine then. It’s at eight!”

  “OK. Listen…”

  “Yes...”

  “Text Nuno to say I’m coming. I don’t want him to be taken by surprise and think I’ve come to beat him up.”

  “Ah yes, OK. Will do.”

  “Thanks, Joana.”

  “Come on now don't be soppy. See you in a while.”

  I hang up with a strange sensation in my stomach. What have I gone and done?

  The Dinner

  Joana

  I’ll let off fireworks the day someone arrives on time for dinner. What a lack of breeding; five past eight and not a soul. Just me planted here, with the ice melting in the wine chiller and the candles filling the house with smoke. And André in the bathroom still, there’s no way he’ll be dressed in time to open the door to the guests. “Joana, they’re old friends of ours, nobody stands on ceremony,” says he. Well these things matter to me. Good manners are good manners. And we still haven’t met Nuno’s boyfriend or Pedro’s girlfriend. Fair enough, Pedro’s girlfriend must be a lunatic like he is, I’m not bothered about her, but I do want to make a good impression on Nuno’s boyfriend. I’ve heard he’s a well-regarded architect.

  The doorbells ringing.

  “André, the guests are here!”