Who is Laura Bernet, you may ask?
You have surely seen these cute illustrated ads with a girl’s face for the City bank all over the place. Adorable, really. Well, those are hers. She designed them, and that’s her face too. She always draws herself; she is so pretty that she doesn’t need a model. I say narcissistic, they say talented. Anyhow, she did the ads really well, and everyone is talking about her.
I first found out who Laura Bernet was when my boyfriend and I were walking around the old town. Suddenly he pointed at a garage door, where there was an illustration of a beautiful girl. “Look, that is Laura Bernet,” he said. I looked at the illustration. It was certainly pretty. That’s when I first knew he was going to leave me for Laura Bernet.
He is too handsome, my boyfriend. And he and Laura Bernet would make a great looking couple.
I started imagining how I would catch them both in bed, when I came home. Or that I would catch him looking at her pictures in Google after midnight, when all the lights are out, and the only light would be coming from the computer screen with Laura’s face on it, and my boyfriend secretly slouching near it. I even told him: “You are going to leave me for Laura Bernet, aren’t you?” “What? You crazy girl!” he laughed.
My boyfriend’s best friend knows a friend of a friend who knows her. It’s all very possible. I met Laura Bernet jogging. I was wondering when this moment would come and how it would be. I had rather imagined a fancy launch party, where I would stand aside, sipping my wine, knowing perfectly who she is and her not knowing who I am. And I would throw indifferent glances at her, while quickly weighing up everything about her – her makeup, her hair, what complexion she has, what dress she is wearing, whether she has any extra kilos – everything us girls normally notice.
But no, I meet Laura jogging one evening, with street lamps relaying their light on our backs. I recognize her at once and I follow her at a distance.
Her red ponytail bounces in the air, and her knees in tight black leggings are pumping up and down. She is wearing a green hoodie and I know she looks great, probably in full make-up, in all her awesomeness – just like the perfect little illustrations of herself she always draws.
And surely my boyfriend will leave me for her. This thought makes me angry so I speed up and overtake Laura, slightly closer than necessary, so that our elbows brush. I run so much quicker than her. I want to turn back and give her some really nasty despising look, and I want to turn and then I don’t and then I try to turn again, and yet I can’t, and I run on further. My eyes suddenly get watery, and I can’t see ahead; my vision gets all blurry and the streetlights are swimming around.
The next morning I wake up with my boyfriend. I watch him as he gets up and brushes his teeth, showers. I just lie there in bed, almost fully covered with a blanket and watch him from the gap the blanket forms. He is too handsome, my boyfriend. There is a radio cheerfully playing on the background. Once my boyfriend gets out of the shower and starts to dry himself with a towel, I prop myself on one elbow and say: “I don’t love you anymore.” ”Whaaat?” he screams through the crackling sounds of the radio. “I said, I don’t love you any more!” I scream even louder. “Please stop talking bullshit like you always do.” He doesn’t believe me, so I slip out of bed, quickly dress and leave.