I open my mail as I’m walking to lunch – and pretty soon I’m no longer ‘walking’ but powering through the city like a Olympic-gold-medallist speed-walker.
Children leap, terrified, out of my way. Leaves scatter. I’m fuelled by fury. Who needs celebrity personal trainer Tracy Anderson when you’ve got a debt-collector on your heels?
In the café, my friend is still in her yoga clothes – just like everyone else here. And they’re all women. I realise I’ve stormed blindly into Berlin’s infamous ‘Women Only’ café, which I’ve always boycotted both on gender-equality grounds and also from boredom (what’s the fun of lunch if there’s zero chance of having the hottie at the next table make eye contact with you?).
The air is thick with estrogen and that strange temporary serenity that comes from doing too much Pilates in 35-degree heat. My friend is sipping on a drink the colour of an old mushroom. “Tofu and organic coconut milk,” she murmurs, “with a touch of calendula.” I look around wildly. I need a double espresso, and a Bloody Mary. No chance. “Look at this!” I shove the letter at her.
She frowns. ‘But you’re divorced, aren’t you? How can you still be liable for his debt?’
Believe it or not, I know the answer to this from seeing a late-night rerun of the 1990s sitcom Cybill. “Because I was still married to him when he incurred it,” I fume.
For a moment solidarity-driven rage crosses her face. Then she takes a long sip of her drab drink and looks up with renewed serenity.
‘Please don’t say “Let It Go”,’ I think. ‘If you say “Let It Go”, I’ll punch you.’
“Let It Go.” She nods like a solar-powered Buddha. “Pay off his debt and free yourself forever!”
I stare at her incredulously. I may have lost the best years of my life and a lot of joie de vivre – but I haven’t lost my freaking mind! “I can’t afford to pay his debt,” I hiss. “I’m a freelance writer! Not only can’t I – I won’t!”
“Borrow the money,” she advises. “By getting rid of his debt, you’ll also get rid of all that anger! Remember my divorce settlement? I gave up so much money – willingly! I empowered myself by walking away.”
I can almost hear the collective ‘Om’ around us.
“Sure, my husband got the house for next to nothing. Sure, he got the garden I’d poured work into, and the vintage Jag. Yes, I’ve had to work extra shifts for the past six years.” Her voice starts to rise. “But it was worth it. I learnt SO MUCH!”
“Like what?” I lean forward, along with all the eavesdropping lady lunchers.
“Like, never believe the cheating lying bastards when they say they’re spending the long weekend at their mother’s! Like, always count the condoms before and after a work trip! Like, hunt for receipts in his pockets! Like, call him from unknown numbers to find out if he’s where he’s supposed to be!”
I move quickly backwards out of range of the rage-fuelled, tofu-laden spit. As luck would have it, I see my new man walking past the window, talking on his cellphone. I wave frantically before realising it’s verboten for anyone with a penis to enter the premises.
“Let It Go!” My friend’s arms are waving furiously. “Set Yourself Free!”
“I’ve got to go!” I blurt out. As I rush for the door she screeches after me, “Achieve serenity by turning the other cheek!”
Out in the fresh, testosterone-breezy street the Ad Man looks dismissively at the letter. “Pay the bastard’s bill? Why would you do that? First they’ll take his car…” His inner calculator whirrs. “Then his computer…” He pats me on the shoulder in his kindly, suave, I-was-born-a-chauvinist and women-are-born-to-be-protected way.
“Don’t worry; they won’t come after you. Now, can I take you for lunch?”
I feel like an idiot. I also feel safe. The dual emotions make me feel queasy – but not nearly as queasy as paying my ex-husband’s debt would. “Lunch,” I agree.
“Anything but tofu.”
Words by Sarah Quigley
Photos by Image.net and Supplied
