I can see my laptop on the fridge. There’s a fine layer of dust on the lid. It must be nearly a month since I last switched it on. In the beginning, it was two or three times a day. Slowly but surely, I’m severing my ties to the old world. With each passing day, I feel increasingly regenerated. But this process has not been without its setbacks.
The first man I had an affair with after moving here was a doctor from Draguignan named Olivier. I should have known better; he was very good-looking, always a danger sign. We met in Entrecasteaux during the firework display to commemorate Bastille Day. He was charming and amusing, so I started seeing him, which was when he changed. Sometimes, he would be jealous, at other times, indifferent. When I walked into a room, it was impossible to know whether he would say something wonderful or cruel. He was not interested in equilibrium; we had to be soaring or falling. And if we were falling, there would be reconciliation so that we could soar again. For someone of my age, I’ve had more than my fair share of highs and lows. The last thing I needed was Olivier’s amateur dramatics.
The night we separated, I drove to his house in Draguignan. The previous evening, he’d come out to the farmhouse. He’d arrived two hours late. The dinner I’d cooked had spoiled but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. We had sex – it was coarse and uncaring – and in the morning, between waking and leaving, he managed to insult me four times without even realizing it. Not that I minded; I was already over him. I phoned him later that morning and said I would come to his house and cook for him again, and that I’d appreciate it if he was on time for once.
He was only an hour late. I put the plate before him – beef casserole in a red wine sauce – and filled our glasses.
‘You’re not eating?’
‘I ate when it was ready,’ I told him. ‘An hour ago …’
He shrugged and began to fork food into his mouth. I watched in silence as he finished the plate and took some more. When he finally laid his knife and fork together, I rose from my chair and dropped his spare keys onto the table.
‘I’ve taken my spare set back. Here are yours.’
He looked down at the keys, then up at me. ‘What is this?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Some kind of joke?’
I resisted a cutting retort and simply shook my head.
A frown darkened his face. ‘What are you saying, Stephanie?’
‘You drink with your friends but not with me. You fuck me but won’t kiss me.’
He sat back in his chair and sucked in a lungful of air. ‘So –’
‘So nothing.’ I didn’t want to hear a second-hand apology. ‘It’s over.’
‘Wait a minute …’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’
‘Yes. Why? Why wait? Why waste any more time?’
‘Can’t we at least talk about it?’
‘My mind is made up.’
‘What about me?’
I think I smiled at him. ‘Exactly.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You know. And if you don’t … well, it makes no difference.’
I picked up my car keys, which were lying on the draining board beside the sink.
‘Stephanie …’
I turned round. Given an opportunity, he couldn’t think of anything to say, so I said, ‘One last thing, before I go.’
‘What?’
‘Did you enjoy your dinner?’
He looked confused. ‘What?’
‘It’s a simple question. Did you enjoy it? Yes or no?’
He shrugged. ‘Sure, I guess. It was fine …’
I walked over to the swing-bin beside the door, stuck my arm inside, found the empty can and tossed it to him. ‘You’re a spoilt child, Olivier. For someone with some intelligence, your behaviour is moronic.’
He glanced at the label. ‘Dog food?’
‘Not just any old dog food, darling. Premium quality dog food.’
‘You gave me dog food?’
‘I wanted to do something that would make you understand.’
‘Understand what?’
‘How you’ve made me feel over the last few weeks.’
Stranded for a reply, all he managed was: ‘You said it was beef casserole!’
‘It was. Made with dog food. Beef heart and something else, I think … it’s on the label.’
The colour drained from his face. I couldn’t tell whether it was rage or nausea.
‘You lost interest in me but you lacked the courage to tell me.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Are you seeing someone else?’
He faltered. Then: ‘No.’
‘You are, aren’t you?’
‘No.’
I didn’t want an apology, just a slither of honesty. ‘Come on …’
His expression hardened. ‘Okay. If you have to know … yes.’
The change of heart was too abrupt. It left me more uncertain than before. I had the feeling his admission was a lie, designed to hurt me while he still could. Either way, I no longer cared. It was typical of Olivier not to see that.
‘Well,’ I said, unable to resist the cheap shot, ‘that would explain the drop-off in your sexual performance, I suppose. Recently, you’ve been dismal.’ Before he could respond, I went on. ‘The point is, you don’t feel anything for me and I no longer feel anything for you, so what’s the use?’
Outraged, he rose to his feet and jabbed a finger at me. ‘I can’t believe this! You … you’re …’
He frothed, spluttered and, eventually, found his insult. He called me frigid. A frigid Swiss bitch. It sounded so helpless and absurd – so castrated – that I should have felt a pinch of pity for him. But I didn’t. Instead, I laughed and Olivier, his anger now complete, threw a slap at me.
What happened next was automatic. I feinted to my left, ducking outside the arc cast by his arm. I intercepted his hand, crushed the fingers into a ball and twisted it. All in half a second. I heard his wrist crack, felt two fingers breaking. As he sank to his knees, I let go of him, took a step back, spun on one foot, lashed out with the other and broke three ribs.
The next thing I remember, I was standing over him. I was silent. The only sound in the room was Olivier’s