The passengers on the hot and crowded subway car, who saw me rushing in on my five inch heels just as the doors closed behind me, couldn’t imagine that they were looking at the happiest woman in the world.
My move to Milan had been approved by my company, I had just signed a lease for a charming apartment and I was going to announce to the man I loved that I would be living in the same town as him.
I had met Niccolò the year before, at the birthday party of my best friend Emma. I was a guest at her apartment in the big city, having a few days away from Venice and from my very recent ex-fiancé.
Pietro and I were together for five years. He worked at a computer company, but his passion was photography. He conquered me with a beautiful black and white portrait he took of me the first afternoon we met. A month later we were living together, happy and in love. We had beautiful moments. We had fun: we travelled together, we spent Sunday afternoons on the couch watching TV, and we had big plans for the future. Then the misunderstandings began – the lies, the loan to buy a house, our first arguments about tile colour – we started to accuse each other, ‘you are exactly like your mother’ – ‘you are worse than your father’, until the day I found him in bed with another woman. She was his colleague, blonde and chubby, and I kicked him out of the house. I felt outraged. He betrayed me with a chubby woman!
The evening I met Niccolò I wore a short tweed jacket with a camellia in my lapel and tight jeans that made me look at least six pounds lighter. I had on a long pearl necklace that was knotted over my breast. I was trying not to stuff myself with peanuts, while I was being bitchy about the woman I had found in bed with the man I shared my mortgage with. “Can you believe it? He betrayed me with a chubby woman.” I kept repeating this, upset and disgusted, drinking prosecco and chewing on carrots and fennel. “I can’t believe that the man, who listened to me for years about how to keep myself skinny or losing weight, was cruel enough to betray me for a woman with hips like a whale! Evidently he prefers fat women and I – like an idiot – starved myself for years.”
Emma, sick and tired of my constant whining, kept saying: “You’re nuts! What do you care about weight? He betrayed you, do you understand? That is what counts!”
“I know, but I can’t help it, Emma. I close my eyes and all I can see are petite size dresses, flat stomachs, fasting, compulsive binge-eating, purifying herbal teas, diets with carbohydrate, without carbohydrate, with protein, without protein, miraculous drinks, giant scales…” I said to her, biting into another carrot.
“Aren’t you tired of talking about your looks? You are beautiful, intelligent and funny. What the hell more do you want from life?”
I was thirty-two and considered myself pretty enough, but just enough. I was wearing a small size in clothes, sometimes a medium. But I didn’t want to admit it, so I squeezed uncomfortably into them. I had firm bottom, small but pretty breasts – two big brown doe eyes and full sensual lips. I’ve never been beautiful enough for the cover of a fashion magazine or a woman who turns a man’s head. And I was not the kind of girl who broke hearts and only gave herself to the chosen few. Yet, having overcome my damned adolescence, I understood I could have some success. My sense of irony and humour, as a kid condemned me to always be the nice friend, the back-up girl – you know – for the snobby blonde girl-friends that everybody wanted to seduce. Growing up I became a type, impertinent and charming. When Mother Nature does not give one perfect beauty, one must rely on personality.
“You are right,” I admitted to Emma, “but I can’t think of anything else.”
“Do you really think good looks are so important?” she asked, pouring herself a glass of wine.
“Coco Chanel used to say, we should be beautiful so that men love us and we should be stupid to love men.” I answered.
“Well, it may be a great truth!” Emma said, raising her glass in a toast to my health.
While I kept munching on vegetables and cursing my ex-fiancé, the downstairs bell rang. A few minutes later, a very handsome man made a triumphal entry. He had very dark eyes, mussed up hair and two days growth of beard. He wore a charcoal grey tailored suit, without a tie. His big, warm smile made all the other smiles around look pathetic. Immediately I understood that Niccolò was a self-confident man – charismatic, funny and undoubtedly sexy. All the women at the party seemed to know him very well. After saying hello to some friends, shaking hands and kissing cheeks, he took off his jacket, threw it on the sofa and came straight into the kitchen. Walking towards us, he began to roll up his white shirt sleeves, slowly and carefully, showing his fantastic forearms. I must confess, I have a great passion, which is perhaps slightly strange, for men in shirt sleeves. When the sleeves stop just below the elbow showing muscular arms, I lose control. While Niccolò approached the kitchen island, probably looking for a drink, I was hypnotized by his arms.
He looked at me for a moment. “Are you interested in watches?” he asked, waking me up in the middle of an erotic dream.
“Sorry?” I answered, staring at him, like a trout stares at a fisherman before being thrown on the bottom of the boat.
“I thought you were looking at my watch, so I assumed you were an expert…”
“Right! Your watch.” I said, almost choking my carrot in front of this gorgeous hunk. “Yes, I have a passion for watches. Yours is really a beautiful one. It enhances your wrist.”
“Funny! I never thought of watches as something ’wrist enhancing’. Obviously you like them, so why don’t you wear one?”
I hate watches. Just the idea of wearing a symbol of time passing seems ridiculous and scary. As if life were not enough to remind us every twenty-four hours that another day went by and we are older.
“Oh, I love watches! I don’t wear one because… um, because I’m allergic.” I answered like an idiot.
“Allergic to watches?” Listening to him repeat my sentence seemed even more stupid. Thank god, at that moment Emma returned to the kitchen, interrupting this embarrassing and surreal conversation. I wanted to kiss her for saving me.
“Hey, have you two already met?” She asked grabbing a bottle of rum from a shelf.
“Actually, no,” he answered, smiling at me.
“Rebecca or Coco to my friends.”
“As in the grand Chanel,” added Emma, sneering. “Rebecca is a big fan of Coco Chanel.”
“Yes, I am a great admirer,” I smiled shyly, while extending my hand.
“Niccolò.” He answered, shaking it warmly. Even his hand was sexy, I thought.
“Rebecca is my childhood friend. We went to school together. She lives in Venice and is here for a few days.”
“Welcome to Milan, Rebecca,” he smiled again. “What do you do?”
One of the things I hate most is when people ask you, as soon as they meet you, what you do for a living. Your job. As if it should of course be great! Nobody asks if you listen to Lucio Battisti or to Lou Reed, or if you prefer Hogan shoes to All Stars, if you love holiday resorts or prefer camping in the wild, if you laugh at Vanzina films or at the Coen brothers – they only ask about your damn job!
“I organize events.” I answered vaguely. Actually I worked at a big company that organized events and meetings around Europe. To a layman it could sound exciting: parties, elegant dinners, evening gowns and centre pieces with flowers and exotic fruit. In reality I was organizing mostly boring medical and scientific meetings. The most exciting thing that could happen to me were conferences about proctology or seminars about prostate problems.
“Beautiful! I could ask you for some advice about the opening party I’m organizing for my new studio. I am an architect.” He said, raising his arm to drink, emphasizing the beauty of his bicep.
I was already his love slave.
We spent all evening talking. Besides being beautiful, Niccolò was also well-read, intelligent, funny and gentle. He was filling my glass as soon as it was empty and kept asking me if I enjoyed being there. I was drunk with wine and with him. I didn’t give one more thought about my ex and his whale of a girlfriend.
At the end of the evening, Niccolò kissed me on the cheek and gave me his business card. Then he put on his jacket and disappeared into the Milanese night.
“Don’t you hate this new trend, when men leave you with their telephone number?” I asked Emma, staring the business card.
“Are you upset because you’re not used to making the first move?”
“I just can’t accept how times have changed, that men have stopped being the pursuers, that they simply give out their cell phone number and then wait to be called.” I said, drinking my last glass of prosecco.
“You sound very old fashioned!”
“Old fashioned? I completely believe in the equality of sexes, but I’m still convinced that the man should call first. It’s a question of DNA. It’s like paying for dinner, hanging shelves, opening car doors and carrying your luggage.”
“This is really emancipation!” Emma laughed.
Before going to sleep with my head spinning while trying to count the calories I must have consumed that evening, I thought that maybe for Niccolò I was ready to make an exception. My DNA theory could go to hell!
Next day I awoke with all the known hangover symptoms. Emma and I talked about the best strategy. Then I took a deep breath and called his damn number.
It was much easier I expected.
That same evening, I saw Niccolò. I think I made an impression on him. It had to be my tight jeans!
He came to pick me up. He opened the car door for me and then selected the perfect music. At the restaurant he ordered an incredible wine. I felt like his goddess. I wore a little black dress that was loose enough to hide some of my curves. He noticed my fantastic Sergio Rossi sandals and complimented me on my slender ankles.
“I’m crazy about shoes,” I confessed during dinner. “I have more than a hundred pairs.”
“Congratulations! A big collection,” he answered, slightly puzzled.
“I know, I could look like the typical woman who spends all her salary on high heels and sophisticated boots and goes to crazy parties every night wearing a different pair. Actually, I buy them and keep them in a stockpile because I never know when to wear them. Some are still brand new, never worn. Yet I like the idea they are there, waiting for me. I even think that some of them love me!” I laughed.
Being with Niccolò made me high.
“You’re funny, Coco,” he said, letting me go on about shoes, even showing a certain interest. I felt comfortable and at the same time I felt as if I was in a dream. We talked all evening as if we’d known each other for years. I told him about my ex-fiancé, our misunderstandings and disagreements, how we feel vulnerable when we are betrayed. We discussed the ending of a love affair. He spoke of a relationship of his that ended the year before, the planned wedding that went up in smoke, of the returned gifts and the dog he left with her and how much he missed that puppy. He told me about his life as a single thirty-five-year-old in Milan.
He talked with a relaxed, warm voice. He looked at me, smiling from time to time. Listening to his past love life, his suffering, discovering his romantic side, made him even seem more sensual.
He was the perfect man for me. We discovered that we shared a similar taste and, not wanting to disappoint him, I lied in good faith. He liked rock music, electronic music and punk. Meanwhile I had grown up listening to Italian singers and song writers who spoke of romantic love. My friends and I used to play guitar and sing those songs. I used to watch all the Sanremo Music Festival finales on TV, betting with friends on the winner.
“Don’t you like the Tools? And the Incubus?” He asked me.
“Of course!” I answered, although I didn’t even catch their names. I hoped he wouldn’t ask me which were my favourite CD’s.
He loved American writers. I love Russian writers. But why should I have had disappointed him, when he was telling me the boring plot of Don Winslow’s last novel in detail and with such enthusiasm?
I was ready to turn myself inside out for this man. If he had asked me to, I would had eaten only carbohydrates for dinner and worn plain beige underwear! I couldn’t believe that Niccolò had dropped out of the sky to take care of my broken heart. I was so happy he found me attractive!
We ended our evening at Niccolò’s apartment. The furniture had been selected with great taste. Every detail seemed ready to be photographed for a design magazine. I sat on the sofa and he put some music on. He looked into my eyes and said I was beautiful. I came closer and kissed him. This was heaven and I had conquered it. We made love for hours, naturally, without any embarrassment, as if we had known each other for a long time. Except for an irrelevant episode of quick sex with a drunk colleague during a meeting for gynaecologists, I had never betrayed Pietro. I was used to his body and his moves. With Niccolò everything was new, but he was able to make me feel comfortable immediately. He knew how to touch me, kiss me and what to say. We were perfectly in tune with each other.
Around 4 a.m. when I asked him to call a taxi, (Emma had warned me about the new singles trend of never spending the night at a partner’s apartment, especially the first night) he asked me to stay. “I would love to make coffee for you later this morning.” I almost cried.
And now here I am. Niccolò and I will finally live in the same city. At Piazza Duomo I got out of the train to take the red line toward Porta Venezia. I walked slowly. My shoes were new and not really comfortable. I was wearing sexy tight white pants that made it hard to walk. I had on a white and blue striped t-shirt and wore the panama hat that usually brings me good luck.
Our rendezvous was at 5 p.m. at Jack. I had made a reservation, to avoid any risk of having to stand at the counter, squeezed in amongst the happy hour crowd. I thought to order champagne and enjoy the happiness in Niccolò’s eyes when he heard my great news.
We had been seeing each other for one year. A year of romantic dining, a lot of wine, films, concerts and great sex.
Every two weeks I happily caught a train to Milan to join my ideal man for the weekend. A few times he came to Venice, and we walked among the canals, kissing on every bridge like two adolescents. I felt we were going to become a real couple. During the week – when we didn’t see each other, we spent hours on Skype, talking about music and films, telling each other about our days and talking dreamily about the sex we’d had and imagining together the sex we would have in the future.
He introduced me to some of his friends and he met the closest friends of mine who had moved to Milan. Sometime we all had drinks together. He hugged me, kissed me and said to them with enthusiasm: “Aren’t we great together?”
One day we met his father by chance and Niccolò introduced me as ‘my friend Rebecca.’ At first I felt a little bit hurt. Then I understood this was a delicate matter. Parents are always sensitive about their children’s love life, and actually we were very good friends. I didn’t say anything. I just smiled and – although I had always hated the idea of marriage – for a moment I dreamed that his father would become my father-in-law.
It had been an intense year. We had arguments, misunderstandings, and even a brief estrangement. Niccolò was a passionate man, but also secretive, sensitive and very solitary. I had learned to give him space, to trust him. Rarely did I ask him what he did on the weekends we weren’t together. I didn’t want to seem controlling, insecure or jealous.
He thought I was a strong woman, self-confident and with a great sense of irony. I seldom let him see my many fragilities. I wanted appear the successful woman he expected and deserved.
I remember when one time after making love he told me: “I like your voluptuous body. You have the beauty of a Renaissance woman.” I felt paralyzed by that sentence. He touched my most vulnerable spot. My looks and my body were still my weakness, although he kept telling me I was fantastic. After hearing this, I forced a smile, but I was frozen. I locked myself in the bathroom to cry. Really, at that moment I couldn’t stand him. I wished that his penis would shrivel up. Then I rinsed my face and returned to the bedroom looking imperturbable. I was repeating to myself like a mantra, I am a strong woman, I am a strong woman, I am strong woman… no silly comment about my looks can defeat me…
I was in love and forgave him everything, also the fact he didn’t see my fragilities. Actually, I protected him from my faults, because this is what love does.
Sometimes, when we had dinner out, we played a game – we rated women in the restaurant on a scale from one to five. I gave the rating and Niccolò decided if he could seduce them or not.
“I have a great talent to make desperate women fall in love,” he confessed one evening when we were especially drunk.
“Congratulations!” I laughed, but somehow I was affected by his words. I never told him my true feelings. I wasn’t a loser. I didn’t want to scare him, to rush him. I was waiting for him to make the first move. I was waiting for him to be ready, to feel sure, to understand that he really wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.
Yet in the meantime I applied to my company for a transfer to the agency in Milan. As soon as it was approved, I began to look for a small apartment to rent.
I hid all my plans from Niccolò. I wanted to surprise him. I thought he would be extremely happy.
*
The red line of the subway smelled horrible, like a cattle car. Standing, trying to keep my balance and not lean on anything so I could keep my white pants immaculate, I looked at my reflection in the window. I was making sure that my perfection didn’t fade away in that stinking mess.
I got out at Porta Venezia. I stood a few minutes on the station platform looking for a mirror in my handbag. I checked my make-up – impeccable. I fixed my hat and my hair and walked toward the escalator.
My new shoes really started to hurt. Because of the heat, my feet had begun to swell. My stride was anything but sexy. I looked more like a constipated dinosaur than a pretty woman.
Just out of the subway station, I was assaulted by a blast of extremely hot air. I walked towards the bar with slow and unsure steps, smiling in order to hide the pain – almost like gangrene in my poor feet! Once inside, I collapsed on a chair exhausted and slowly, trying not to attract attention, I removed my shoes.
Niccolò arrived fifteen minutes late. He was beautiful, tanned, relaxed. He wore one of his elegant tailored shirts with the monogram initials that were one of the things that made me fall in love with him.
He came to the table, smiled at my bare feet and kissed me on the cheek. He joked, “Beautiful shoes!”
“Thank you. They’re new and really hurt!”
“But it’s worth it!”
“I think so.” I replied, not completely convinced.
“So, what’s the reason for a sudden visit during the week? Did you miss Milan so much?”
“I missed you!” I gave him a smile of complicity and called the waiter to order our drinks.
In the past few weeks I had been very busy organizing my new life, so we saw each other much less. To obtain my transfer to Milan, I had to finish all my pending files and work at weekends.
“I have big news!” I said.
“Me too.” He replied.
“Good. Let’s order two glasses of champagne.”
Niccolò stared into my eyes and suddenly seemed serious and curious.
“So, what’s your big news?”
“I am moving to Milan!”
“How? When? What about your job?”
“I’ve been moved to a position in the agency here in Milan.”
“Wow, it is big news. Where will you stay?”
“I found a pretty, small apartment in Porta Romana neighbourhood. I’ll move this weekend.”
“Unbelievable!”
“I would have wanted to find something closer to you, but the real estate market in the area didn’t offer much. What was available is out of my budget! To see you I’ll have to take the subway.”
“Well, once in a while you can make the effort…” He smiled.
“Once in a while? I’m afraid I’ll have to do it every day!” I laughed and took his hand.
He pulled it away.
At that precise moment my stomach tied up in knots, almost as if I sensed danger approaching. Something was going wrong.
Niccolò stared at the corner of the table. “We must talk… about this.”
Here it was, the damn Code. The man I loved to death began to use the Code.
The Code is a series of words, sentences, ways to say things, gestures, looks, that couples use, sometime unconsciously, when things begin to go badly.
I can’t give you what… It’s not you, it’s me. It’s better for both of us. I can’t see you this way any more. I can’t do better. I keep disappointing you. These are the timeless basics of the Code.
Niccolò chose a very banal, “we must talk…”
After those words an endless silence followed.
The waiter put our drinks on the table and I just stared at mine like it was a meteorite fallen from the sky. I couldn’t raise my eyes. I took all the courage I had, swallowed, tried to remember I was a strong woman, a goddess, all that bullshit and looked up at Niccolò.“What do you want to talk to me about?”
He stared at me for a little too long, concentrating on my forehead and hair, then he had a sip of champagne and said:
“About Anna.”
“Who?”
“Anna. Your friend Anna.”
What the fuck did Anna had to do with me? Niccolò, the champagne, the reserved table, the unbearable heat, my new sandals that hurt, my running make-up, and my move to Milan?
“Anna?” I asked looking into his eyes.
“Yes, Anna.”
“Do you know Anna?”
“Yes, you introduced her to me a couple of months ago. We were at that boring book reading you dragged me to. She was there too. Don’t you remember?”
Yes, I remembered.
Some friends organized a reading of short stories in a very nice small pub. We spent the evening drinking wine and trying not to laugh too hard. It was embarrassing, they were very bad. Anna came later and sat at the table next to us. I had known her for a few years. She was a friend of a dear cousin of mine with whom I spent many summers at a beach in the Marche region. Anna was a few years younger than me, tall, blonde, skinny, with a very sweet smile. Her features were so perfect that a touch of mascara was enough to make her look wonderful, while we common mortals need hours in front of the mirror. We cover our faces with layers of foundation, then powder and eyeshadow, blush, lipstick, to present the best possible version of ourselves.
That cursed evening I introduced her to Niccolò. They exchanged a few words, then talked a little more at the bar and eventually she left. And now I found her in the middle of a conversation that was taking a turn for the worse, while my champagne grew warm and I began to feel sick to my stomach.
“Ok, I introduced Anna to you two months ago, sure,” I said, trying to control the trembling of my voice. “But what does she have to do with us, right now?”
“Well… I don’t know how to tell you this. We have always been a great team. You’re a strong woman and I adore you for that. You are able to control your emotions, you’re self-confident. You are not shy and not afraid of aging. I have been single for a long time, you know, I have become a curmudgeon. I am already thirty-six, not a kid any more…”
“Yes, I think I know you pretty well…” (For sure more than he knew me.)
“Look, it’s mainly thanks to you and to our long talks and beautiful moments together that I finally realized something – I have missed someone to love.”
My legs started to shake.
“And I believe I found the right person for me… Anna.”
Let me see if I get this. I need a moment to take stock of the situation: I meet an incredible man. I fall madly in love with him. We are getting along perfectly. Sex is fantastic. I leave my city and my job for him and finally he decides to love, seriously… another woman! He fell in love with another woman! He fell in love with Anna.
I grabbed my glass of warm champagne with my shaking hand and felt a terrible sense of vertigo. I tried to take a sip. Then I put the glass back on the table, almost spilling it. I felt a cold shiver through my spine, in spite of the Milanese heat.
“Are you ok?” He asked, looking at me, perplexed.
It was at that moment that this strong woman stopped worrying about perfect make-up, white pants, her hair, or what people think, and began to sob just like a little girl.
“Coco, my god, what’s happening?”
“What’s happening?” I tried to mumble through my tears and sobs. “Really? You are telling me you didn’t get it?”
I looked at him. Was it possible that my ideal man was in reality an idiot and now he was here killing me with words! Was it possible that for this whole year he didn’t realize what he meant to me?
“I didn’t want to hurt you. I know how much you care about me, but things happen. Love comes and we can’t choose when and whom to fall in love with. Do you understand?”
It was official. He was an idiot.
“How can you expect me to understand? What about me? What about us?”
“Rebecca, sex between us was fantastic and we were perfectly in tune, but you are a free spirit. You are fun loving, independent and strong. You like living on your own. You’ll always be number one, even without the romance. I had a great time with you, but then I fell in love with someone else. I couldn’t help it. That’s all.”
At that precise moment I realized I didn’t understand anything! While I loved him from the first moment we met, he was just looking for company and waiting for the woman of his life. While I spent months thinking we were building something important together, he used me as a protection against loneliness, waiting for true love. I really didn’t understand anything. Maybe I was the real idiot, not him.
Niccolò, unable to stop my river of tears, said the most stupid thing a man can say after having broken a woman’s heart into pieces. “Don’t worry. I don’t want to lose you. We’ll remain good friends. You are important to me.”
I turned slowly towards him. I looked horrible with mascara running down my face. I stared at him for a long time, trying to stop sobbing. In a weak voice I finally admitted: “I love you.”
Niccolò backed away, suddenly stony faced. He looked at me and shook his head.
“No. It’s not possible! You’re wrong.”
“Wrong? I loved you from the first moment I saw you. I loved you for this whole fucking year!”
“No… no. You’re upset now because you’re losing me as lover… You don’t love me, you’re confused. You would have told me. You always affirmed to be independent. You told me you didn’t need protection and sweet talk.”
“Yes, I told you that because I didn’t want to pressure you, scare you, rush you. You seemed independent too, and I didn’t want to force myself on you. I simply wanted you to come naturally to the realization that you loved me.”
“But this is crazy! It’s silly…”
I burst into tears again. He wasn’t only breaking my heart; he was telling me that I was stupid.”
“But I… I… ” Exhausted, I began to stammer.
“Rebecca, why didn’t you tell me about your feelings? I don’t think it would have eventually changed anything. I believe that ‘spark’ in order to fall in love was missing in our relationship. But if I had known you loved me, I would have acted differently. If I had known I was more than a special friend, a confidante for you, I would have broken off our relationship long before today. Anna has nothing to do with our friendship. Please, try to understand me. I didn’t decide to fall in love with her. It just happened. If it happened to you, I would have accepted it. Love doesn’t allow alternatives. I hope one day you will be my friend again. I hope one day soon we can be friends again – we make such a great team.”
A great team. Now I began to understand the meaning of a great team for him. You were a great team when you went to bed with a man without feeling anything, without involvement, without making things complicated. When you allowed the man who stole your heart to fall in love with a friend you barely remembered. A skinny friend at that!
I stood up, barefoot, grabbing my sandals in my hand. I couldn’t wear those torture tools for another minute! I looked at Niccolò with an empty and desperate gaze.
“Where are you going?” he whispered, with the same warm voice I loved so much.
“You broke my heart, Niccolò.”
“I didn’t want to. You know it. But don’t exaggerate now.” Yes, he was an idiot. A cruel idiot. “In a few days it will pass, Rebecca, and you’ll understand that you never really loved me. We had fun – that’s all. You will come back to me and we’ll be wonderful friends again.”
“Goodbye, Niccolò.”
I stared at him as if it were the first time I saw him. I didn’t recognize the man whom I had adored until an hour ago. I turned and started walking. Niccolò didn’t move, but kept calling in a loud voice, “Rebecca, where are you going? Come back here.”
I didn’t know what to do, where to go. Considering that the street asphalt was scorching and I was bare foot. I couldn’t go far. I just turned the corner and sat on the kerb, careless of my white pants. I took off my hat, crushing it in my hands. I hoped he would re-think all of this. I hoped he would realize it was impossible to live without me and he would run to me to hug me tight and keep me with him forever.
He didn’t come. He didn’t run after me.
After half an hour that seemed like an eternity, I stood up with great effort and slowly began to limp toward the subway station. Young people outside bars, with aperitif glasses in hand, stared at me as if I were a ghost. I went down into the subway to wait for the train. Then I got on in my filthy dirty pants and collapsed into a grungy seat.
The few passengers in the empty smelly car, who stared at me with tears running down my face, couldn’t imagine they were looking at the unhappiest woman in the world.