A Fool to the End

As the year progressed, my head was forcibly tugged from the sand with regards to the increasingly odd behaviour of my boyfriend.

In fact there were so many clanking great signs that things were not as they should be, that when thinking about them afterwards I was overcome with the very real urge to slap myself round the face with a wet ‘ghoti’ for being so obtuse.

On Manolo’s second return from the mainland, I was cheerfully prepared to get back to the complicity of our relationship as it had been the previous year; but something had changed; and for the eight months that were to follow, a depressingly large number of our conversations ran more or less as follows:

Me: ‘Who is that girl?’

Him: ‘Which girl?’

Me: ‘The girl I’m very clearly pointing at, whose picture is in the frame with your family photos.’

Him: ‘Oh. That girl. She’s María, a friend of my sister’s.’

Or:

Me: ‘There’s make-up in the suitcase you took olive picking, whose is it?’

Him: ‘Pardon?’

Me: ‘You heard.’

Him: ‘Errr… My mother’s.’

And:

Me: ‘Who is that letter from?’

Him: ‘A friend.’

Me: ‘Well he’s drawn a heart on the envelope, and is that perfume I can smell? Which friend is it?’

Him: ‘Um… María.’

Me: ‘María, your thirteen-year old sister’s friend?’

Him: ‘Yes. She’s got a bit of an unfortunate crush on me.’

Me: ‘Well perhaps you can write to her and explain that you already have a girlfriend?’

Him: ‘Oh no. Ha ha. No. Wouldn’t want to hurt the poor girl’s feelings. Ha ha.’

Followed by:

Me: ‘Manolo, it’s eight o’clock in the morning. Where have you been?’

Him: ‘I told you. I went out for some drinks after work with my colleagues.’

Me: ‘Yes, but you finish work at eleven o’clock at night. Where have you been since then?’

Him: ‘Oh that’s right. Try and control my every move why don’t you. You are so jealous. I’m not sure I can take much more of this.’

And then:

Me: ‘ You’ve got lipstick on your shirt.’

Him: ‘Oh that, yeah. The boss’s wife came to the restaurant. You know how flirty she is with all the guys behind the bar.’

Or:

Me: ‘I saw Alejandro yesterday, he saw you leave Menta with a foreign girl. What’s going on?’

Him: ‘And you believed him? Alejandro is just jealous. He wants to cause me trouble, that’s all.’

Me: ‘But he is not the only person to tell what you have been up to. Apparently that wasn’t the first time, nor was it the first girl…’

Him: ‘Oh for God’s sake. You have to be the most jealous and possessive woman I have ever had the misfortune to meet. All these accusations are just a product of your twisted imagination.’

And finally:

Me: ‘I can’t stand any more of this. Just get your stuff and get out.’

Him: ‘ I’m sorry. I love you. Please don’t throw it all away. We can work everything out, I promise. Give me another chance.’

And thus I would be sucked in all over again.

It’s utterly amazing how men like that manage to string women along; but strung along I blindly was until I simply couldn’t take any more.

I think Manolo was probably relieved when he found out that I was planning to leave Mallorca – ten kilos lighter and with an additional stress-wrinkle or four – in fact he ultimately ended up leaving before me.

For it turned out that María, although at sixteen not much older than his sister and four entire years younger than me, was not a family friend (quelle surprise). He had met her whilst harvesting olives in Jaén that winter, and proposed during his second spell in Andalucía. Thus maintaining the gitano tradition of marrying far too young.

She had absolutely no idea that I existed as he had cleverly told his family that I had returned home to England, as well as asking them and her to call him at work rather than home…

So in retrospect I had an extremely lucky escape, and with everything but my ego intact could enjoy my last few weeks on the island rediscovering friendships whilst planning the next stage of my Spanish adventure.

And who knows, maybe a more successful love affair was waiting for me there.