Dear Miz Peggy,
My boyfriend’s obsession with my weight is getting out of hand. Lately, he’s been bringing home buckets of KFC. I feel like Gretel getting fattened up. Do you think he only loves me for my curves?
Sexy Curves
I grit my teeth and breathe through my nose. I used to take these missives in my stride. Today, I’m a bit over them. And somehow dirty having to wade through other people’s sexual foibles.
Hm. How do I say your boyfriend sounds like a sick fuck who doesn’t care about your cholesterol level?
Before I can put finger to keys, a loud thud on my front door makes me jump.
“Jess!” Knock, knock, knock. “Jess. Hay-gen. Open up!”
That sounds like Keats. Shit. How did he get up here? I didn’t buzz him up. I’m so not dressed for this. I quickly turn off my tablet, setting it down on the table next to the photo frames I’ve just filled. I retrieve my skirt from the back of the dining chair. I need a shower. My apartment is a mess. My hair is windblown and up in a top knot that puts me well over six feet.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Hay-gen!”
Keats better be wearing a Velcro-fastened police costume, and faking annoyance so he can strip for me. Otherwise, he’s just being a pain in the arse. I’m just going to open the door a crack, ask him what the hell he wants and tell him to go away. He needs to learn that he can’t just march himself here at any time—unless it’s for a booty call. If he’s expecting civilised interaction, I need warning to tidy up.
I straighten out my skirt, undo the bun on my head, then turn the handle on my door. “What?”
He takes a half-step back when he sees me, his fist still poised for another pounding on my door. How shocking do I look?
“Good, you’re home.” He clears his throat. “Can I come in?”
He’s wearing his usual uniform—tailored suit, slim fit business shirt and tie. Hot, but not the cop outfit I was just fantasising about.
“No.”
The slightest of frowns flits across the great Keats McAllister’s features.
“I…” He’s lost for words?
“Okay. Bye.” I’m smiling as I close the door, but it jams on me.
“Ow! Fuck.”
I look down and see one of Keats’ Italian leather shoes wedged between my door and the frame.
“You’re worse than the electricity sales people.” I grudgingly open the door further and let him in. “You’ve got five minutes, I’m busy.”
Where did that come from? I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I think about him all the time whenever he’s not around. So why am I threatening to chuck him out? Oh right, I look like a mess and the shorter the time he sees me like this, the more likely he is to forget it.
I see his eyes flick over my chest and notice my bra hanging off the back of a dining table chair. Drats. How can I forget to put that on? I bet my girls are sagging like flour sacks. I cross my arms in front of me and he seems to remember that I told him he has to go soon.
“So, what brings you here?” I prompt.
“Well, funny thing. I was working late at the office and I go check my Facebook for some sanity and you’ll never guess who I got a friend request from.”
I’m drawing a blank. Isabella? I thought they were already Facebook friends. A Nigerian prince?
“My mother,” he answers for me while my mind is still ticking away and providing possibilities. “Except it wasn’t ‘Heather McAllister’ inviting me, it was ‘Heather Radley’. With cleavage. Do you know how disturbing it is for a son to see his mother’s cleavage? What the fuck, Hay-gen? She was normal when she left with you yesterday morning and now she’s all tarted up with dark hair, make up and way too much skin showing on Facebook.”
“Heather’s got her page up? Great. I told her it wasn’t difficult.” I walk back towards the table to get my phone.
Keats looks at me as if I’ve grown a third nipple on my forehead. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Yeah, I did. I didn’t think your mad, overprotective ramblings warranted a response.”
“She’s showing cleavage, Hay-gen.” His eyes flick over to mine again when he says this. I actually see him catch himself this time and look away, running fraught fingers through his short, business-cut chestnut hair. “What have you done to her?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. I heard you two on the phone giggling away at ten-thirty last night. What the hell was so funny?”
“We were watching Survivor.”
He raises a brow at me. “The reality show? Isn’t that some kind of cutthroat competition?”
“Uh-huh.”
How do I tell him his mother and I were perving at the contestants? She likes the dopey middle-aged returning contestant, and I have a thing for the twenty-four-year-old guy who looks like Jesus.
“This is crazy. My mother is fragile right now. The divorce eviscerated her, and the last thing she needs is to put herself out there before she’s ready. If you’re trying to play the ‘BFF with Mom’ card as some ploy to get Byron, I’m telling you now, it’s not going to work. His ex-girlfriend Jada already tried that.”
I flinch—his words like a bitch slap right across my cheek. “Your time just ran out.” The catch in my voice surprises us both. He studies me and I avert my eyes because there is unexpected moisture there. Shit. When did I get so emotional? Probably the same time I let my guard down and started caring about somebody again. I walk over to my dining table and busy myself putting away what I’d been working on.
“Hay-gen, I’m sorry.”
“Piss off, Keats.”
But he doesn’t. Instead he busies himself by helping me pick up the little pieces of photo paper that I’ve cut off to fit the photos in the frames I’d bought during my lunch break today.
“What’s this?” he asks, picking up a long, narrow frame with three small windows for passport-size photographs. I’ve filled it with images of Heather and me taken at a photo booth after she got her haircut yesterday. “This is my mom. She’s smiling.”
“Yeah. I thought if Byron ever came here I would make him fall madly in love with me with that prop.” There’s a hard edge to my voice as I say this, so I walk away and put a newly framed photograph of Jillie and me on my bookshelf, next to an old picture of Isabella and me in our school uniforms in Year 9.
“Shit. Hay-gen, look, I’m sorry I misread your intentions.” He walks up to me, placing a gentle hand on my upper arm to turn me around. I look at his hand near my elbow till he retracts it back to his side. “That was an asshole thing to compare you to Jada.”
When I look back up at him, my expression is guarded. “It was.”
He nods. “I’m just worried about Mom. She hasn’t been herself since the divorce. And I’m not sure she’s ready to dip her toe back in the water yet. You didn’t see what she was like right after Dad told her he was dying, and that he was leaving her—almost in the same breath.”
“She’s happier.”
“Yeah, for now. I know my mother. She’s not ready to get back on the saddle yet. She can’t take another big rejection, Hay-gen. It’ll kill her.”
“So would grieving at home all day. Heather is a vital woman in her early fifties. She still has time to do something else with her life other than look after her two grown sons while mourning the man who left her for another woman. Hell, it doesn’t matter if your mum was eighty or a hundred. The fact that she wants to make a change is good enough reason to do so.”
Keats releases a jagged sigh and looks down again at the photographs in his hand. “I haven’t seen Mom this happy in four years.” He’s quiet for a few seconds, his eyes never leaving his mother’s smiling face. He shakes his head then looks up at me. “Could you please get her to at least change her profile photo?”
I roll my eyes. “It can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, it’s bad. Check it out for yourself. I’m sure she’s
already invited you to friend her.”
I pick up my phone and access the internet—I don’t want Keats to see Miz Peggy pop up on my tablet. A minute later, I’m logged in to my account and sure enough I have a friend request waiting for me from Heather Radley. Her shiny dark bob looks gorgeous with the striking red lipstick she has on. The photo is cropped a few centimetres down her cleavage. But since she must’ve been wearing a strapless top, it looks like she’s topless in the shot.
“See what I mean? She’ll probably get friend requests from all kinds of perverts.”
I begin to dial. Heather does look like a nudist, albeit a glamorous one, in the shot.
Keats sighs in relief. “Thank you.”
“Hi, Heather. I’ve seen your friend request. Thanks. How are you finding Facebook? Yeah. Look, you look gorgeous in your profile photo but Keats is a little bit embarrassed that you look topless in it, so maybe you could crop it a little lower so we can see your top? Yeah. He’s here now.” I look at Keats who has a horrified expression on his face. He is madly waving his hand at me, trying to get me to stop telling his mother of his presence. “Your mother’s asking if you’re coming home for dinner because she’s made your favourite.”
“Um, yeah, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I relay the message to Heather who starts talking again in my ear. “Yeah, I know. Seriously?” I look Keats up and down. “I wouldn’t have guessed. Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she’ll think about changing her profile pic.”
He narrows his eyes at me, knowing I’m hedging. “Seemed like she said more.”
“Your dinner’s getting cold.” He begins to nod with relief, so I add, “And for someone who breast fed till he was three, she said you’re awfully touchy about her breasts.”
I don’t think Keats could’ve looked more shocked, or red with embarrassment. He opens his mouth as if to retort, but closes it again when he sees that I’m having a hard time stopping myself from laughing out loud. Honestly, being friends with Heather is great on so many levels.
“If Mom gets hurt, I’m holding you personally responsible,” he finally says, the threat hard to take seriously since even he doesn’t seem so sure of himself for a change.
“Uh-huh.” I walk him to my door. “You know, Keats, I’ve been practising using the driving game and reading up on my road rules. I’ll see you on Saturday for my first driving lesson in your car.”
Panic flits across his gorgeous features at the mention of me driving and his car in the same sentence. Then a relieved grin brightens up his features. “No can do, Hay-gen. Work’s sending me down to Melbourne this weekend, then we have the bank’s golf tournament the weekend after.”
“What about after work?” I try to bargain.
“I finish late most evenings, and I wouldn’t have the energy to teach you to drive anyway. I can barely fit in a swim once a week.” He shakes his head. “Best I can do is early June.”
Disappointment hits me like an invisible wall. I won’t get to hang out with him for three whole weeks? I suddenly get the urge to ask him to stay for dinner. Wait, I’m not wearing a bra and my fridge is filled with pre-packed rations. I cross my arms over my breasts again.
He can’t stay.
“That’s fine,” I say with a practised shrug that should make him think I care very little either way about his plans. “I’ve just remembered I was doing something with Neil, anyway.” Total lie. I barely know a Neil.
Keats raises a brow at the name I’ve never uttered to him before. “Neil?”
“Just a guy from work,” I explain with faked nonchalance like I get male attention all the time.
His eyebrow goes down.
“Yeah, I’m kinda sleeping with him.”
And the eyebrow goes up again. Keats leans a forearm against my doorframe. I seem to have his full attention now.
“Oh. I didn’t realise…What about Byron?”
Shit. Good point. “Well, um…” Lie faster! “I can’t just wait around for him forever. And besides it’s not that serious with Neil. I just sometimes, um, you know, use him for sex.”
Shut up, Jess!
But my self-preservation instincts are in control. Besides, Keats’ expression is totally intrigued, and for the first time, I don’t feel so unwanted around him. Which is saying something since the whole relationship with “Neil” is made up.
Keats’ jaw actually drops at my last comment. Shit. I’ve definitely just revealed another of my rough edges. I can’t imagine Isabella talking about her sex life like this—being “raised right” and all. Too late now.
“Okay, well, I’ll see you in three weeks for my first driving lesson.” I give him a final light shove out my door, just to touch him.
Keats nods, light blue eyes a little distant like he’s distracted. “Yeah, see you then, Hay-gen.”
Chapter 11
“How’s that one?” I ask Jillie after she bites into a slice of mud cake. I’m not tasting any baked goods myself. Jillie might not do monogamy and weddings, but she does free cake tasting. And since she’s one of those people who can eat me under the table without gaining any extra weight, I brought her along to help me choose Isabella’s cake. Besides, Jillie and I have spent enough time together in the past, making our way through the dessert menus of several establishments, for me to know we like the same things.
“Hm,” she groans, eyes shut and face scrunched up like she’s in the middle of an orgasm. She stuffs the whole slice into her mouth.
“So, that’s a ten.” I scribble a note in my little notebook, ignoring the increased saliva production in my mouth as it remembers what rich mud cake tastes like. Jillie and I don’t often get the chance to be away from the Styler building’s lobby—otherwise known as “where dreams go to die”. I have a late start today, so she’s taken an early lunch to be here.
“You have to try this, Jess,” Jillie says, holding the slice dangerously close to my face. If she’s not careful, she could lose a hand.
The rich, chocolate dessert draws me. Just a little bite…No, I have to stay strong. I want to look fabulous for Isabella’s wedding. Especially for my photo with Keats. The thought of looking svelte and gorgeous next to him has been good motivation for me to tone up. And I’m sticking to it.
“No thanks.” I lean away from the tempting dessert. I have just one more week before my driving lesson with him. I want him to notice the difference in my appearance when he sees me after almost three weeks apart. “I’ve already lost ten kilos since January—just another fifteen and I’ll be in my healthy weight range for my height.” This has been my most successful diet to date. And I’m going to cling on to anything that helps me stick to the ration the diet company sends me. “So, which one do you like best so far?”
“All of them,” Jillie says around a mouthful, treating me to a view of half-masticated mud cake.
“Isabella only wants five layers on her cake.”
“Only five? My cousin bought a mud cake from the supermarket for her wedding.”
Jillie’s cousin also had her reception at her caravan park—I can just imagine Keats calling it a “trailer park”—but I don’t bother pointing that out. Besides, who am I to judge? My family was a few days away from moving into our own caravan until the government finally granted us a rundown Housing Commission property. “Isabella’s inviting a few more people than your cousin.”
“Oh, can I be your plus one? I mean, it’s not like you need it.”
“Thanks a lot, Jillie.”
“What? I meant ’cause you want to go with the best man, so you have a spare plus one.”
“Oh, well, I can’t invite anyone. It’s close family and friends only. Isabella sent me the guest list yesterday. She’s sent out the first lot of invitations already and I am the contact person for RSVPs and queries. She didn’t want people to deal with the time zone difference.”
“That sucks.
You’re doing so much work for her wedding.”
“Yeah, I know. But I’m actually enjoying planning. Like, cake tasting’s pretty fun. Oh and wedding bouquets are so beautiful. Whether the marriages last or not, there’s just something magical about weddings, don’t you think?”
She stares at me wide-eyed, jaw slack. “You are so in love with Keats McAllister.”
“What?” My cheeks burn. When did this happen on a regular basis? I was never a blusher. I’ve become an emotional mess with unfamiliar feelings leaking out of my pores in public.
“Yeah. You want to marry him, don’t you?” Jillie says this in a singsong voice like we’re in a playground in primary school.
I look around, suddenly worried that strangers who somehow know Keats might hear. “I don’t believe in marriage.”
Jillie places a hand on my arm, and with the earnestness that only slightly bulging eyes could communicate, says, “But marriage believes in you.”
My stomach knots as her words hit me like a slap in the face to wake up.
Jillie bursts out laughing. “I was kidding. God, you should see your face. You look like I insulted you.”
“Yeah,” I say distractedly because her off-hand comment has planted the smallest niggle of doubt in my mind about my plan to bed Keats and cross him off my To Do list (pun totally intended). What if I do get in his pants and I’m unable to walk away first? I need to be the one who ends things. No question about it. It’s always easier to be the one who leaves than the one left behind. I know. “Well, if nothing else, I get to learn how to drive. That’s important for some jobs. They actually ask you if you have a driver’s license.”
Now it’s her turn to look alarmed. “You want to change jobs?”
“No,” I say with a scoff like that’s a silly thing to assume. I watch as Jillie’s features relax. It’s satisfying that I’m still able to mask what I’m really thinking on demand. “Anyway, let’s taste the last three plates here so we can go. Your lunch break’s almost up.”
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