Page 78 of Am I Allergic to Men?
‘Disculpe, hay una chica aquí…’ she mumbles, looking at me curiously. Pedro appears at the door and smooths down his hair, hoping it might mask his damning guilt.
‘Gabriella.’ She even reaches out and shakes my hand.
‘God, you’re so beautiful. Pedro, you didn’t tell me how beautiful she is…’
‘Thank you…’ she says. ‘Who are you?’
‘I met Pedro at the university.’
Pedro is a funny colour now. The sort of colour of raw chicken that’s gone past its best before date. He’s also sweating a great deal, droplets of sweat just forming in globules on his brow.
‘Well, would you like tea?’
God, you’re sweet too. I shake my head. The thing is I didn’t want to cause a scene or leave a note anonymously. I needed to meet her first so I could look her in the eye and make sure she isn’t too fragile or that the news would leave her in danger.
‘This is my number, Gabriella,’ I say, slipping my number to her on an old receipt I’ve found in my bag. ‘I’d guess both of you are very new to London so do give me call if you need me.’
‘Why would I need you?’
‘Because I just slept with your boyfriend…’ I say with steely eyes. ‘He didn’t tell me about you because I’d never have slept with him if I’d known you existed. I am so very sorry you are hearing this from me and not him. It gives me no joy to bring you pain but the way he tried to just push me out of a window makes me think, Gabriella, that you deserve better.’
I will not feel shame in this but I can at least make this better for her. Pedro looks like he might throw up. She stares at him and then back at me.
‘For how long?’
‘It lasted about twenty minutes.’
‘No, I mean… I had my suspicions he was seeing another woman.’
‘Oh, no… we just met.’
Pedro. You bloody whore of a man. Gabriella shakes her head and I hear a very angry Spanish voice projecting through her AirPods, which she places on her kitchen counter. There is then a barrage of Spanish words that my GCSE can’t quite translate but I think I hear the words for pharmacy, sausage and the colour green.
‘This was not your job to tell her…’ he tells me angrily.
‘No, it was yours, you lying piece ofmierda!’ she screams, storming out of the kitchen and into their bedroom. I stand there in the hallway peering through, still on nosey bitch mode, watching as she opens bags and stuffs them full of her belongings. Pedro cries on his knees, she tosses some Proust at him, right into his eye. Good for you, girl. She then starts chucking stuff out the window Pedro asked me to jump out of so I absent myself and go out into the street. I hope she throws him out by the scruff of his neck. I cross the road and watch as passers-by get sucked into the drama. That’s a laptop, girl! I hope his thesis is on there and it’s not backed up. Pants, socks and shoes follow and the shrieking sound of Spanish anger resounds down the street like the scene from a better film where a douche gets his comeuppance. My phone suddenly rings inside my bag. It’s Beth.
‘Hey, babe.’
‘Hey. Where are you? Who’s shouting?’
‘A Spanish girl called Gabriella has found her fire.’
‘Did you help her find that?’
‘Naturally. She’s just thrown a kettle out of the window.’
‘Is it a good kettle?’
I watch as crockery starts breaking on the pavement like something out of a Greek wedding. I wish I understood Spanish a bit better.
‘I slept with a Spaniard, B.’
‘OK, someone’s going out into the world again and having fun. That’s good?’
‘No. His girlfriend came home while I had my tits out in their bedroom.’
‘Oh. Shit. Why are you still there?’
