Determined to have a better understanding, I began to observe what thin people ate. Did they really eat less than me? Then how come everywhere I turned in the street there were slim Jims gobbling down hotdogs, ice-cream sundaes, nachos—with salsa—chicken curries, and all the food you could possibly imagine? And at every hour of the day? Once I had had to run to the pharmacy in the middle of the night and had bumped into a man wolfing down something that looked disgusting but smelled absolutely delicious. I almost asked him where he got it.
How was I expected to ignore the food that literally swirled around my head, filling my nostrils, day in, day out, from the doughnuts I found at work in the mornings, to the snack trays that passed me on their way up to the suites? Not to mention the dining hall laden with delicious, fancy foods.
My boss, good old Harold Farthington and owner of Farthington Hotels, had given me access to the same food our guests were treated to. And everywhere else I went there was great grub—carts with hotdogs on the streets, pasties in window shops, mouthwatering fragrances wafting out of restaurants and cafés. Making it home clean and empty-stomached was impossible after being ambushed by drive-thru signs or plazas teeming with diners, bakeries and restaurants. This was, after all, the United States, land of plenty too much.
Thus you can understand how grocery shopping was a real torture-treat for me. Since Paul was preparing snacks for the kids at my place, having picked them up from school, I almost always shopped alone. One word of advice if you’re on a diet: never shop alone. Food will ambush you. So bring your trusty backup, someone who will still love you after you’ve verbally assaulted them for not minding their own goddamn business. And always shop on a full stomach. Otherwise you’ll get all sorts of food fantasies and end up buying the whole supermarket.
Once I had a dream that I got locked in this shopping center for a ten-week period of closure. They were the happiest ten weeks of my life. Aisles and aisles of everything I always (and constantly) wanted. Hot chocolate? Choose your brand. Reese’s Pieces? All you can eat. Don’t worry, the Plus Size department is on the third floor.
So this new me, I’d decided, was going to eat properly. Not to attract Ira, but to look better and feel better about myself. No more caramel-coated popcorn, no more chocolate (I know it sounds heinous and unnecessarily cruel, but that’s how I did it the first time), no more bread and butter, no more mayo, no more fried stuff, no more desserts—no more nothing. Just good, wholesome food. Half the quantities I used to eat (see Golden Rule Number One). And a trip to the gym every other day. There was one in the hotel and I’d been given an honorary membership years ago when I went back to work after Maddy’s birth. Yeah, as if I had the time.
Maybe someone should invent a washer-dryer that is pedal-powered, or maybe build a pedal-while-you-do-the-dishes thingie. That would break the world record of most bought and less used piece of shit ever.
I squeezed my Kia van into a space big enough for a Mini Cooper right opposite Food World, debating whether to get a shopping cart. If I was going to buy myself some diet food and eat half as much (was I really sure I wanted to go through with this?) surely I didn’t need a shopping cart? But you know me—soon I’d be standing at the checkout, breaking my bladder for a pee and craning my neck looking for a basket, juggling my low- to no-fat items in my arms and evil-eyeing the usual old lady who had bought half the store and wouldn’t leave me an inch of space on the conveyor belt.
I decided to do a dummy-run diet first. So I grabbed a small basket and picked my way through the Healthy Foods section which, in my local supermarket, was way at the back. In fact, I’d never even noticed it before. Right. Here I was. So. Low-fat cream cheese. Rice cakes for when I was sick of melba toast. Melba toast when I got sick of rice cakes. Parma ham? Are you kidding me—and pay twenty-seven dollars a pound when I could get it for free off my own dad? Yoghurt. Low-fat, of course. Cereal? Muesli, to help the digestive system, if you know what I mean. Which reminded me: skim milk. Fruit, lettuce, tomatoes (no mayo, no bacon). What else? Not much, apparently. I turned the corner and—ooh—low-calorie jam? Tucked inside low-calorie doughnuts? And, further down, low-fat muffins! Unbelievable!
There were shelves and shelves of low-calorie desserts, from tiramisù to apple pie. How was this even possible? And in the freezer, low-calorie lasagna. And cannelloni. Shepherd’s pie? Chocolate ice cream? Surely I had died and gone to diet heaven? How could it be possible to eat all these fantastic, mouth-watering foods and still lose weight? And why did it have to come out of a box if I could make my own?
Why was good food fattening? Why couldn’t we just live an easy life eating what we wanted, like animals? Have you ever seen a fat tiger? Or a fat fly? I did everything I could to avoid delving inside me. I ate because I was sad. I always had been. The brief gorgeous stint in my early twenties had simply been a commercial break in the long miserable movie of my life.
Accepting I needed to change wasn’t a gung-ho idea or a knee-jerk reaction to Ira’s infidelity, like it may seem. It was a painful process—a daily ordeal with just me and my shortcomings. Me and my weaknesses. And my goddamn fear of failing again and again. I was sick of failing, sick of trying to lose weight all my life. So in the end I’d given it up.
Skinny women had absolutely no idea what we were going through, every single day of our lives. Therapists made me laugh, especially thin ones. Granted, they were balanced. But I’d be balanced too if I’d had a normal life, possibly in someone else’s skin.
My mouth already watering, I juggled all my stuff – and there was loads of it—to the checkout, paid and went home. Paul was going on a date and waiting for me at the door. “I thought you’d gone diet shopping,” he sighed, peeking into the bags.
“I have,” I answered, hustling by him in my haste to sit myself down to a succulent dinner and not feel guilty about it for once.
And so after I’d fed, washed and put the kids to bed, I rubbed my hands together and reached for my succulent, guilt-free foods.
Guilt was not the right word. Disappointed was more like it. The shepherd’s pie, which I’d had a major hankering for, was about as big as the palm of my hand. All that big, big box and cellophane to protect this? I opened the lasagne as well, just to make sure I hadn’t been gypped twice. There it was: Golden Rule Number One. This was less than fifty percent of what I was expecting. Much less. It wasn’t fair, considering I’d paid double the price for it. If I’d made my own, it would’ve been even cheaper. Ah, but my own, I argued with myself, wouldn’t have been low-fat. So chin up and dig in!
Sighing, I nuked the lasagne and shepherd’s pie. There was no point in lying to myself by saying that the lasagne would be enough. I mean, look at it. I could hide it with my hand cupped over it. At least I was being honest with myself. I know people who would have defrosted one thing at a time, pretending to have good intentions when they very well knew they were going back into the kitchen to nuke the second box as well. At least I was straightforward and I knew what I wanted. And right now all I wanted was to swing by Le Tre Donne and have my Zia Maria cook me all my favorites in my helping sizes—not this microscopic, processed bullshit.
I poured myself a glass of Nero d’Avola red wine and reached for my prettiest place mat, the one with the linen fringes. As per all the weight-loss websites, if you set the table nicely, with maybe a candle or a rose and some pretty crystal glasses, you could fool yourself into actually enjoying your meal. Sighing, I set my place with small plates and cutlery. From Maddy’s old plastic toddler set, to be exact, which was the smallest I could find. And still it didn’t look like much.
Gathering my provisions on a tray, I went into the living room and flicked on the TV just in time for the BBC America program, Fantasy Homes by the Sea. People wrote in the requirements of their dream home and every week searching families would be featured. This week was a British couple looking to move to Tuscany.
The host of the show had found them a lovely farmhouse in Chianti, with acres of vineyards, outbuildings for guests and even a pool. I instantly sat up, ignoring my measly meal. Now that was something I’d swap a tiramisù for.
The host walked us around the property and I found I was hanging from her lips. It had everything I wanted, including my annexes. But when she revealed the price I winced, thinking that at least once in her life Marcy had been right. She’d always told me to marry as rich as possible, average-income guys being, according to her, cheaper and much meaner than the rest. Not that she spoke from experience, having been raised in the lap of luxury, with a silver spoon stuck down her throat, etc.
My parents both came from high-income Italian families. My paternal grandparents—the Cantellis—owned a successful citrus conserve factory in Sicily, while Marcy’s—the Bettarinis—had olive groves and vineyards in Tuscany, very much like this one on TV, and shrewdly marketed their own brands of olive oil and wine. Then in the fifties, for reasons beyond me, both families emigrated to Boston. I wish I had been born and raised in Italy. I wish my Nonna Silvia hadn’t sold up and invested in the U.S. Why the hell would someone want to leave beautiful climes, a simple life and happy faces? I’ll never understand. Here in the States it was always rush, run, rush, hurry, hurry, hurry. The silence and slow-paced life in Italy was more appropriate to my solitary nature.
The Cantellis had met the Bettarinis at a wedding in Boston a few months after they’d immigrated. You know, those big Italian weddings à la Godfather where there’s enough food for even the relatives still living in Italy? One of those. And then, amidst the singing, the dancing and the food, boy’s eyes meet girl’s. Only this time it was a bit more complicated.
The girls were four—Marcy and her three younger sisters, Maria, Martina and Monica. And my father was so blown away that he couldn’t decide which he liked best. I know that because once I found a picture of a beautiful young Bettarini brunette in his wallet and when I asked which one of my aunts it was, he almost had a fit. I think he was secretly in love with one of them but for the life of me I couldn’t understand which of the belles it was. They were all beautiful and classy and above all, smart—something Marcy wasn’t.
The picture was not clear and the four of them were almost exactly alike, with their lustrous thick dark hair, ivory skin, naturally full lips and innate class, the youngest and the eldest being ten years apart, sort of like a live demonstration of a camera speeding up through the years, taking you through each phase or season of life, the youngest with a fresh face, the oldest, my mom, bearing the knowing, sensual look. But as the years progressed, although Marcy was still gorgeous, it was obvious that she was the oldest of the four.
And because she was the oldest, she was the first in line to be married off. Which was good news to her because she hated living with her sisters. She still hates them today and for the life of me I can’t understand why. Judy once suggested it was because they reminded her of what she used to look like when she was young.
I’d given Judy a jab in the ribs to silence her, but it was too late. Marcy had already heard and had sulked all week, checking her appearance in the mirror more often than usual, which I always thought was an impossible feat.
My aunts were very close but they weren’t, as one might imagine, one entity. They all had different interests and personalities. The only thing they agreed on, in fact, was how to run a business and how great my dad was. They were in complete adoration of him. And when he’d chosen my mom, they’d all taken it in their stride, fawning on him and doing for us all the things Marcy couldn’t. There were never any hard feelings against him for not choosing one of them—just a wistful resignation that immediately amped up to enthusiasm whenever they were needed around the house, which was always. Because, as bright as Marcy’s beauty shone, it wasn’t strong enough to make the house sparkle.
After they married, Dad opened Italian Gift Store. When it became obvious that Marcy wasn’t much help behind a counter, Nonna Silvia stepped in and invested some of her Tuscan money in the shop. Nonna and Dad became equal partners and grew and grew until we were the best-known and most-trusted Italian shop in all of Little Italy and Boston.
Which was great for them. But all my life I’d wanted to reverse family history, buy a farmhouse, open a B&B and be my own boss. Whenever I spoke my mind, Marcy said that it was selfish of me to nullify all the hard work put in by Nonna Silvia to come to America to give us an opportunity to live The American Dream (even if so far my life in America had been more of a nightmare), and Ira had said, among other things, that it was selfish of me to turn my children into Italians when clearly they had more opportunities here. Opportunities for what, I wondered? To get stuck in traffic, to breathe exhaust fumes, to freeze your ass off ten months of the year, to look up and see only skyscrapers?
I sighed. Tuscany was my dream. My lifelong dream. I envisioned what I’d have to go through to get there eventually. Because I had to.
The British couple on TV was shown three more farmhouses. The prices were unbelievably high even for Tuscany, but the woman had followed Marcy’s advice. She’d married rich and her dream home in a warm country was only a choice away. While here I was in a cold, cold city with a cold, cold soon-to-be ex-husband while I longed for some warmth—any way I could get it.
But for now I’d have to face reality, face my life and keep my chin up as always. I looked down at my meal of Lasagne and shepherd’s pie and when I tallied up the calories I’d eaten I burst into tears. Another day, another pound on. Resigned, I returned to the Old Faithful diet—the only one that never ever failed me (not that I’ve put it much to the test recently): lettuce, low-fat cream cheese and rice cakes. Way to go.
Chapter 9:
Spider Man
“God, I hate her,” the whisper slithered up my back like a traitor’s caress.
“I know—you’d think she owns the joint, the way she barks orders around.”
I power-smiled to myself to bury the soft-as-mush me, swung around on my sturdy heels without breaking my stride and, raising my world-famous Evil Eyebrow, retraced my steps towards the doomed girls at the reception desk of my reign, The Farthington Hotel.
Two idle busboys caught in the crossfire started and stood to attention as I brushed past them. The so-called receptionists, Lesley and Lindsay, both sporting an improbable shade of blonde and still trapped in the eighties make-up wise, turned crimson as I came to a stop before them, dark and ominous in my perfectly tailored albeit a tad too severe, Plus Size suit. Okay, so maybe I was trapped in something worse than them—my own body.
“Ladies. If you’re used to working in joints, then maybe you should both consider returning to one, which can be arranged in the blink of an eye.”
Not a word. They were too stunned by the fact that I’d heard at all. Was starving making me an even bigger bitch or what? Plus, when you’re a mother, you develop a bat’s hearing. And when you’re practically a part-time mom like me you develop all sorts of telepathic abilities, but unfortunately no telekinetic, automatic house-scrubbing or kid-feeding powers. Apparently my sole strength at work was the fact that I scared the crap out of my staff. Good enough for me.
“It’s not your job to like me,” I continued. “Your job is to mind the front office and at least look professional. Do you think you can manage that?”
Lesley and Lindsay nodded, turning, if possible, a deeper red, making their peroxide manes look almost white. “Yes, Mrs. Lowenstein. Our apologies, ma’am,” whispered Lesley, the blonde bimbo with less make-up. They weren’t stupid, in all fairness—just very young and too preoccupied with their looks. They’d learn.
“Right. Now both of you switch your brains on and don’t let me ever catch you in an unprofessional situation while in this establishment again. And smile.”
Gordon Ramsay couldn’t have done it better. Boy,
had I come a long way from my job as junior receptionist on the English Riviera.
Yep, I acted like I owned the joint. Truth be spoken, in my position as manager of The Farthington Hotel I was in my element. I could make the five-star, eighty-bed hotel run like Swiss clockwork, day in, day out. I had the entire staff terrified but synchronized. Cooks, cleaners, drivers, Accounts, Maintenance, the IT team, the Madam’s flashy girls who appeared in the lobby at cocktail hour. Of course I’m joking because I chased them away ages ago, but I suspect my head chef Juan dabbles in that avenue of pleasure every now and then.
If anyone here screwed up, it was my butt on the line, and if we were to live up to our reputation as the best hotel not only in Boston but in North America, we needed to keep our socks up every day and every night. An impossible, herculean feat—for most people. For me, it was a cinch. A breeze. It was my personal life that was killing me, and by personal life I mean my beloved food—or lack of it.
* * *
The good news was that Paul had gotten us into tango classes during the two hours that the kids were at ballet and soccer. Now, if you think that all gorgeous gay guys dress like models and dance very well, you’re absolutely right. Paul already knew all the steps and guided me like a pro, causing the envy of many girls (and guys) in there. He made me buy a wide skirt and heels.
“Hey,” I exclaimed as he pulled me and pushed me around the floor like a light, old mop. He obviously didn’t need lessons. “Where did you learn?”
“My mom was a dance teacher, remember?” he said, winking at me, and after a moment’s shock, I got it and smiled gratefully at him. He had enrolled us for me. To get me moving, to make me happy, and take me away from my life for a couple of hours a week. I couldn’t have loved him more. And whirling and twirling across the dance floor, I realized it was fun, not having to worry about looking like a respectable kick-ass boss who scared the pants off her staff. It felt exhilarating just to move to the sound of the music. Dancing was carefree and didn’t have a purpose except to make me feel good (and shift some pounds, of course). Just moving around for the sheer fun of it and not because I had to hustle and run errands was elating. And how long had it been since I laughed? I almost felt silly, but I shrugged it off. There was more to me behind the mother, manager and betrayed wife. I was a girl again in Paul’s arms, just like twelve years ago, when we were young and wild and free. Paul was still all of the above. Me? Getting there, slowly but surely.
The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy) Page 7