House of Beauty. Melba Escobar

was a man for whom the important thing was feeling loved, admired and respected by an anonymous but irrefutable mass. My existence was important to him only in that it continued to validate his sense of self.

      The fact is, in my own way, I was happy. I suppose that my happiness consisted in the ‘negation of my own desires’, in ‘renouncing myself’ and even in ‘self-punishment’: Claire’s words. I served him well, in all senses of the word. The ironic thing is, I still serve him. Before finalising a divorce settlement, I moved to a small apartment in La Soledad, where I still write books for Eduardo, in exchange for a monthly allowance and the occasional furtive encounter, almost always infelicitous. He still seems to me drop-dead gorgeous, and funny, and so refined; he’s as adorable as they come. Though, as I said, I haven’t felt desire for a long time. The point is that Eduardo suffered a lot as a child. His father mistreated him, and he had to learn to put up defences, to protect himself. We shouldn’t be so quick to judge others. And that’s what I told Claire. No one is as good or bad as he or she seems. Eduardo was never a bad man. Although, there’s some truth to the idea that I became more and more a mother figure. Yes, a mother figure. I brought him his slippers. Made him coffee. Ran his bath. And he turned to me for comfort, for reassurance. My poor Edu.

      The last time we saw each other, he tried to kiss me. We’d been to dinner at a new restaurant. He brought me home and asked if he might have a drink before he left.

      ‘I’m tired,’ I said, trying to get out of it.

      ‘Just one glass, my Lu-chia.’

      One glass turned into the five or six that were in the bottle and a never-ending monologue. I nodded off at the other end of the sofa. Eduardo wanted to talk about his impotence, then leaned over to kiss me, and I pushed him away.

      ‘I can’t, my love, I’m sorry,’ I mustered the energy to tell him.

      ‘You can’t or you can’t be bothered?’ he asked, lighting a cigarette, not looking at me.

      In the cold early hours of 23 July, he woke on the couch. I had settled a blanket over him before going to bed. I fell asleep at almost three in the morning and two hours later heard him. But what was he doing? I wondered this in a half-awake state, because I could hear him tripping and moving about in the little living room while murmuring into his phone. A loud thud got me out of bed. I went out to see what was happening. Eduardo was searching for his shoes in a rush. The living room was still in semi-darkness. He had knocked over the bottle of whisky and the little that remained had spilled onto the parquetry floor.

      ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, alarmed.

      ‘I’m sorry, Lucía, I have to go.’

      ‘So early?’

      ‘A friend’s in trouble, he needs my help, I’ll tell you about it later.’

      Eduardo left. Right away I emptied the ashtray of my ex-husband’s butts. I wondered how it was that someone over sixty could have a friend in trouble at this time of the morning. It could happen in adolescence, but at this age? It reminded me why I left him. Eduardo was selfish and, forgive me, thought more with his willy than his head. How I hated the smell of cigarettes. One of the good things about my new place was that no one smoked here. That, and the silence, the peace. I bought a yoga book for beginners, a special mat and a few candles. Eduardo made fun of me. He thought it ridiculous that at this stage of my life I wanted to learn something new. Every afternoon I dedicated an hour to it, and bit by bit improved. The simple fact that I didn’t have to accompany Eduardo on his trips any more gave me lots of freedom. One or two afternoons a week, I went to the cinema, sometimes for long walks down Park Way. I even thought about getting a dog.

      I got out a slice of bread and slotted it into the toaster. Mopped the parquetry floor. The smell of whisky nauseated me. I opened the windows. Prepared a coffee, watered the plants and brought the laptop to the dining table to go over what I’d written the day before. I served up the toast and coffee, put my glasses on and started to read: ‘This is how infidelity becomes the most common reason behind divorce and marital maltreatment. It can cause depression, anxiety, loss of self-love and many other psychological disturbances, representing the dark side of love.’ I read it twice. It made me laugh. I couldn’t read it again. The Dark Side of Love could be describing the two of us. I felt listless. What would happen if I didn’t write the book? The royalties from the others would be enough for us to live off. True, there was an existing contract for The Dark Side of Love and it was scheduled for release next year. But Eduardo could always find another ghost writer: nowadays there were a lot of decent young writers around, and some of them had studied psychology.

      And he seemed to be doing very nicely from the business he had going with his associate. It wouldn’t matter in the least if we didn’t publish a book; it wasn’t as though we would starve. Though Eduardo was becoming increasingly ambitious. Greedy, you could say. In fact, that had been another catalyst for our separation. His plans to buy a place in New Hope, on top of the Gloria incident, were the last straw. It didn’t matter how much I criticised New Hope’s flashy Miami look, with all its showy pride at being the most expensive postcode in Bogotá. He’d insisted that we would be comfortable living among ‘people like us’.

      ‘People like us? And at what point did you become a prototypical, snobbish Colombian?’

      ‘Don’t start with me, Lucía,’ he’d said. ‘Anyone would think you were penniless.’

      The conversation hadn’t lasted much longer. He argued that there was nothing wrong with wanting the best.

      ‘We deserve it, my Piccolina,’ he’d said.

      He’d pulled out a green folder from his leather briefcase then opened it slowly and pulled out some papers.

      ‘Piccolina, the matter is already settled. All you need to do is sign here, and we’ll have made the best investment of our life.’

      Eduardo leafed through the papers and started reading out loud and telling me about the property. ‘You have to see the vertical garden on the rocks out the back. There are 350 car spaces, a security room, 48 security cameras.’

      He kept reading. ‘You’ll love the function room, my love, it has its own kitchen. And amazing furniture – all designer, very tasteful. But the best part is the clubhouse. You like swimming, you’ll love it. There’s a climatised semi-Olympic pool, with a swimming instructor, sauna, steam room, Pilates room …’

      The phrase ‘you like swimming’ had echoed in my ears. The truth was, I did. I had liked swimming as an adolescent, and I had at university, too. Why had I stopped swimming? ‘You like swimming’ echoed in my head again and again until I felt like I was drowning.

      I also liked Joan Baez and Simon and Garfunkel, I liked heading to the mountains on weekends, I liked preparing ajiaco soup – but Eduardo didn’t eat ajiaco, didn’t like my music, and if he left Bogotá it had to be by plane. So, I’d adapted my preferences to suit his, and I’d adapted so much I’d become blurry. He finished talking and, not noticing my red eyes or my silence, he put the papers back into his briefcase, changed his jacket and dabbed on some cologne.

      ‘Goodbye, my love,’ I said with a smile from the bed.

      ‘Don’t eat too much,’ he said.

      I got into bed with a bag of potato chips and a box of chocolates. By midnight I’d watched an episode of CSI and two of Mad Men, and I was tired. The women in those series are heroines, I thought, but, in the end, it never does them any good. Eduardo still hadn’t come home. My eyes were swollen from crying.

      When I turned off the TV I imagined sleeping in another bed. A smaller one, but my own. I fell asleep thinking about a window overlooking the street, hopefully alongside a park, an open-plan kitchen, a few plants, a round dining table and a little lamp hanging above it. Eduardo came back when dawn was breaking. I was up and sitting in front of the computer, looking for apartments in La Soledad.

      ‘Up working so early?’ he’d said.

      ‘What