My Book is Breaking My Heart

I just wrote a really sad scene between Olga and Fernando. They break my heart. I know that this part is really long (please bear with me), but it was a really key scene in the book.


The Liverpool team Christmas party took place on December 27th, two days before the resumption of the Premiere League play. Liverpool was doing pretty well in second place behind Chelsea, in position to put together a pretty comprehensive title challenge. Apparently, all the boys were pretty ready to cut loose before launching this come from behind attack. That they did.

When Fernando informed me that no wives or girlfriends were allowed to go to the party, I assumed that it was to be a guys-only affair. Evidently, this wasn’t entirely correct, which I would find out later. Fernando came in at four a.m., assured me that he had a good time, and passed out in his suit. Everything was fine, until I read the paper two days later:

Liverpool Caught in Trashy Christmas Party Scandal
Just days before the Premiere League resumes after the Christmas holiday, the Liverpool lads, true to form, are embroiled in a scandal that will have their wives and girlfriends fuming.

The Liverpool Christmas party, which took place at the luxury John Street Hotel, was the site of much champagne guzzling, dirty dancing, and apparently, sexual assault. Twenty three year old Michelle Smith claims to have been sexually assaulted by Liverpool defender Clive Brosnan, but charges are still pending. Both declined comment. A guest at the party said: "The drink was really flowing - waitresses were handing out pink champagne to whoever wanted it and the players seemed to be drinking beer, vodka and whisky."

While Hank Lampard led the team in a karaoke version of ‘Mustang Sally,’ other team members headed for the dance floor for some hip-gyrating moves with the hand-picked models, actresses, and shop girls that were in attendance. The wives and girlfriends were not permitted to attend. Sergio Ramos and Antonio Mourinho were reportedly the life of the party, with competing gold and silver track suits respectively. Not to be outdone, Sergio Ramos was sporting a necklace complete with seashells, sea glass, and ceramic shards. How beachy! He also did a particularly sexy belly dance to ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ while Mourinho looked on jealously. The spotlight wasn’t completely taken by Ramos, however, since revellers report that Mourinho later did a striptease revealing a gold-plated jock strap.

Things got even more racy as the night went on, with many footballers and beauties heading off to the roomy terrace for a sneaky snog. Tim O’Shea was reportedly “running around, lifting up girls’ skirts and making foghorn noises,” claims Alyssa*, one of the attendees. “He then went around trying to give wet raspberries to the other boys, but they put a stop to this quickly.” Says Pamela*, another partygoer, “Everyone was hooking up that night. I snogged Fernando Torres. He was shy, but a great kisser. I asked him about Olgalina, but he said that they had broken up.” Ouch for Olgalina. Some sources indicate that her name is in fact Olga Vennegoor of Hesselink, but until we receive confirmation, we will continue to refer to her as ‘Olgalina.’ Robin van Egeraat was reportedly more reserved, sticking to dancing by himself and hanging around the snack bar, guzzling the tiny pizza-style hors d’oeuvres. When asked why he was being such a party pooper, he responded, “Our wives aren't here tonight. Can you imagine their faces if they saw what was going on? This is for one night only. I’m on my best behaviour, anyway.” Good on him. If only the other red ‘devils’ had behaved in such a manner, they might not be in such hot water today!

A local news agency reported seeing a stretch Hummer full of players outside the Boo!-bie Mansion at 9:30pm, but said it drove away when a photographer was spotted.

The Boss Bernardino Pinturicchio is reportedly furious with the team, as he had only reluctantly agreed to the party to begin with. Despite warnings that they should be on their best behaviour, the lads clearly had their own ideas. They should expect an extra difficult practice on Monday, and the jewellery shops should expect an extra rush of business!



I sat for several minutes, wondering what the hell I should do to respond to this. A rational response was all but impossible at this moment; how could you have expected me to be rational at a time like this? A rational person would have taken the “innocent until proven guilty” stance, or realized that people make up stories and sell them to the press all of the time, to try and get that fifteen minutes of fame. Instead of calmly approaching Fernando, giving him the time to read the article, and having a composed discussion of what really happened, I did the exact opposite. I knew that it couldn’t be true, but I felt humiliated and scared.

“Fernando, please explain this!” I shouted at him as I placed the paper (meaning threw it down violently) in front of Fernando. Before my angry outburst, he had been preparing a protein smoothie and humming ‘Beautiful Liar.’ I hoped that this wouldn’t be some unfortunate foreshadowing.

He stopped blending his drink and glanced at the paper. The grin on his face (which always accompanies any Shakira song) disappeared as he read on. He probably didn’t know that the wildness of their party had gotten out. When he got to the part about him “snogging” some girl at the party, he became angrier than I had ever seen him. Granted, I had never really seen him mad. But his face, contorted with anger, almost scared me.

I was lost for words; I didn’t know where to start. Questions formed at a rate of 100 per second, each one needing an immediate answer.

“This isn’t true. You know this isn’t true,” he said, barely above a whisper. He was too angry to yell. It was even more alarming; I wished he would have screamed, he was almost at an awkward calm.

“Do I, Fernando? How could you not tell me that there were ‘models, actresses, and shop girls?’ Don’t you think that it is something I deserve to know, that my fiancée went to a party that I wasn’t invited to, yet there were hundreds of women who are incredibly beautiful, and practically drooling for a chance to sleep with you? Does this not strike you as something that I should know about? Did you think that I would just never find out?”

He sat silently for a few seconds, thinking deeply about what he should say next. He always did this when we fought; I was always hysterical and shouting things that I didn’t mean, while he was as solid as a rock, contemplative and calm. It drove me crazy, but if he were to act half as histrionic as I always did, our fights would have never ended.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he finally said, after what seemed like a century of silence. “I didn’t know that the party was going to be like that. I would have told you before if I had known.”

“But why didn’t you tell me about it after? Did you develop some kind of Broca aphasia?” I was gesticulating wildly, almost hitting the Lady Diana-Prince William wedding commemorative decorative plate that Fernando’s host mother Elizabeth had given him as a parting gift. I was hesitant to allow it to be displayed in our home in the first place, and right now, I wanted to smash it.

“I… Don’t know. I’m sorry,” he said simply. I waited for him to apologize even more, beg me to forgive him, but he didn’t. Apparently, that was all he had to say.
And now to deal with the elephant in the room.

“And what about this ‘Pamela’ girl?” I asked riotously, making angry quotation marks with my trembling fingers.

“I didn’t meet anyone at the party named Pamela! I don’t know what this is talking about!” he cried in response.

“It’s a fake name, Fernando! Of course her real name isn’t Pamela! Did you hit your head?” Normally I’m not this mean to Fernando, but right now I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to hurt him like he had hurt me.

“I didn’t make out with anyone! I hung out with Robin, okay? I only danced when they played ‘Let It Rock’! Please, please believe me, I didn’t cheat on you! I would never!” As he said this, my angry façade broke down, exposing how I really felt, which was petrified. The tears started to fall slow at first, but they rapidly picked up steam until I was unable to coherently say anything.

What if he had cheated? What could I have done? I can’t leave him. I am more dependent on him than I ever would have wanted, or I ever would admit. I can get angry with him, but really, he’s the one in control. If this was a power struggle, I knew that I was on the losing end, despite however it may have seemed from the outside. I needed Fernando so much more than he needed me.

He couldn’t cheat on me; my mind could hardly venture into a world where this would happen. I didn’t think that I could deal with it if he did. I felt so scared. I was always bad at love; I love too hard. I love until it’s unreasonable, despite the fact that it’s unfair, and long after I should have stopped.

As Fernando held me, stroking my hair and trying to talk me off the ledge, he assured me, “People make things up all of the time. You’ll go crazy if you believe everything you read.”

“Please be honest,” I was able to get out in short gasps, “please tell me the truth. Did anything happen at the party?”

“No,” he assured me immediately, looking me straight in the eye. “You have to trust me.”

“I do,” I responded, mostly because I wanted to. It was easier to believe Fernando than to not. In that other world where I didn’t know that he was telling the truth, everything would have crumbled. I had to believe him, because the alternative was so much scarier and something that I didn’t think I could handle.

Except that I didn’t fully believe him. And as I sat there on the kitchen floor, with tear-stained cheeks and red eyes, I decided that it was easier to pretend that I didn’t have any doubts. Fernando’s arms, which were wrapped around me in a supposedly loving way, felt more like chains.