47
Water the plants.
That was the first thought I had when I woke up in my bed after two weeks away.
You”ve slept with Pedro again.
That was the second one, but I tried to push it out of my mind as I filled the watering can in the kitchen sink, concentrating on the sound of the water hammering the metal and ignoring my clothes from the day before, scattered around the hallway like leaves in autumn, along with my dignity.
I looked at the clock. Eleven o”clock in the morning. Pedro, in his magnanimity, had granted me one more day of vacation. He, however, had had to leave for the office.
More letters from the landlord were waiting for me in the mailbox. I had until the fifteenth to sign the new contract and accept the rent increase. Otherwise, I would have to find an alternative and fast.
Pedro called me a while later, asking me how I was doing. He invited me to his house for the first time ever since the beginning of our affair. I felt strange, like my grandmother must have felt while walking on the frozen lake of Bled. Pedro”s attentions were like a delicate, slippery sheet of ice, which could break without warning and drag me into their dark depths.
After lunch, I had a coffee as I tried to calculate my expenses and how I would make ends meet. Then I dressed up the way Pedro liked, with a tight dress and full makeup. I went to the supermarket to get a bottle of wine, and the cashier reminded me of Max. He sported a puffy ponytail of golden curls and the same air of artistic dishevelment. He winked at me as he charged me for the wine, and I smiled back. I felt like asking him for his phone number, but I didn”t.
Pedro”s apartment, located in the most chic area of Madrid, was modern and tastefully decorated. But Almudena”s shadow permeated everything, subtle and relentless, like a mildew stain in every corner. A tweed Chanel jacket in the entrance, some prenatal vitamins in the living room, a pen with a pink pompom in the kitchen, and a half-empty bottle of perfume on the bathroom shelf.
For the first time, I was no longer the mistress.
And, paradoxically, for the first time, I felt like a usurper.
“I”ll change, and we”ll order take-out sushi if that”s okay with you,” called Pedro from the bedroom. He had just come from the office and had asked me to wait in the living room.
I nodded, looking at the framed photos while I sat and waited for him. On the TV cabinet was a beautiful wedding photo, in which they were both smiling. Next to it, a more recent one, toasting on a cruise. A framed ultrasound picture of their baby. A brochure from a private hospital.
I got up from the couch, feeling nauseous.
“Pedro?” I called from the hallway. “On second thoughts, I”d rather go out to dinner. Do you mind?”
“Of course not, honey.” He peeked around the door, loosening his tie. “Whatever you prefer.”
Honey.
I cringed a little. That was new, too.
That night, Madrid was bubbling with life, as always. Pedro took me to his favorite restaurant: a cozy place with high ceilings, brocade curtains, and black marble floors in the heart of the Salamanca district.
As a waiter served our wine, Pedro talked to me about work, and my mind inadvertently traveled to other places and other dinners.
“You seem very quiet,” he said, holding out a very thin slice of Parmesan that covered the steak tartare for me to try. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I was just thinking about the landlord”s letter. He’s raising my rent again.”
Pedro scratched his chin, looking me in the eye.
“I”ve been thinking a lot since you left, Vesna,” he said slowly. “I”ve realized how much I care about you. How much I need you in my life.”
I watched him with a lump in my throat, wishing the waiter would arrive and interrupt his speech.
“Why don’t you move in with me?” Pedro continued and then nodded as if my agreement was unquestionable. “Yes. That would be best. I”ll tell Almudena to send me her copy of the keys. You could have them in a couple of days.”
I would have answered, but I choked on my wine.