The WWW Club

by Anita Notaro

  He tried to read them all, a hangup from his days as a reporter in the RTE newsroom. Mind you, these mornings he barely skimmed them and if Sam got to any of the tabloids first they were minus most of the pictures. She claimed Holy God told her girls in bikinis were bold and it was a further sign of his depleted energy levels that he hadn’t even the strength for a theological argument with a six-year-old. Usually they went to the park or the cinema—sometimes Eddie Rocket’s, cause the girls loved the fries with cheese and the chocolate milkshakes. Occasionally they managed to get to a museum. Both girls loved to paint and to his amazement didn’t burst into tears the first time he brought them, out of sheer desperation. Being in some of those other places always made him feel like a separated father, which of course he was. But he didn’t get to live the Monday-to-Friday bachelor life he suspected most of the other dads enjoyed, although he cheered up when he saw his own relaxed, happy kids in sharp contrast to the many subdued youngsters and sulky teenagers he constantly encountered. Normally, they ended up round at Kate’s house, which is what happened today. Sarah and Georgia entertained the girls as usual and it meant he could relax. His sister always managed to produce a roast dinner as if by magic and it eased his guilt about proper food and, he always thought, it set the three of them up for the week of takeaways and E-numbers ahead. A bottle or two of good wine which he usually remembered to bring with him helped the adults finish off their day of leisure with a hazy glow.

  “I’ve e-mailed a couple of agencies to see what kind of Irish girls they have on their books,” Kate announced casually as they all lounged about, half-watching The Antiques Roadshow, which his sister loved and both men loathed with a passion normally reserved for erotica.

  “What? Kate, I only said I’d think about it.”

  “That’s as good as signing a legally binding contract as far as our Katie’s concerned.” Bill opened one eye. He was dozing in the big squashy leather armchair, his favorite once he could beat Snowy or Percy to it. “Give in and pray she lets you have someone a bit younger than your last one, what was her name again?”

  “Victoria, and she was fine. She was young.” Kate tried to remember.

  “You’re right, she was, but she had a moustache and her backside had a shelf on it.”

  “Oh, shut up, you two. Let’s just forget it.”

  “Ten cents.” Sam always seemed to be lurking somewhere.

  “Sorry, darling, I didn’t mean it.”

  “If you say ‘Shut up’ then you pay up.” Her halo glowed as she held out her hand. “A feck is fifty.”

  “How much is the ‘ball lock’ word?” Jess was over in double-quick time. “That’s Dad’s favorite when he stubs his toe on the side of the bed.” They all stared at her. “He thinks we’re asleep and sometimes he says it and shite together.” Kate looked horrified. It was practically the first full sentence the child had uttered. The two men tried to keep their faces straight.

  By eight o’clock they were home and by the time he’d got them organized for bed and sorted Sam’s school uniform it was nearly ten. He cracked open a beer, turned on the TV and flopped on to the couch to watch The Week in Politics. By ten past he was fast asleep. He woke at two thirty feeling stiff and thirsty, knocked over the almost full beer, cursed and headed for bed, by now wide awake and agitated.

  Four

  “No, we are not having wine, it’ll just make us all giggly.” Ellie was adamant. “It’s my house and what I say goes.” She looked around. “OK then, maybe later. How’s that?”

  “Who’s that card from?” Maggie peered at the postcard, nosy as usual.

  “You won’t believe it, it came this morning.” Ellie handed it to Maggie. “It’s from Des,” she told the other two.

  “Des?” Pam’s face said it all. “Des the most boring man in the world from whom you had a very lucky escape?”

  “I know … Ah, he was OK, really. I should just never have got engaged to him.”

  “Thank God you saw sense,” Toni agreed. “Anyway, what does he say?”

  “He’s traveling around Australia. Sounds way too adventurous for him.” Maggie looked up. “He ends with ‘wish you were here.’”

  The others made various vomit signs and Ellie laughed. “OK, enough time-wasting, shall we officially declare the WWW Club open for business?” Ellie raised an imaginary toast to the other three.

  “Listen, we definitely need something to drink if you want to get me up on those.” Pam was gazing at the weighing scales as one might look on a week-old cottage cheese dessert. Since the idea had first been mooted, Toni had taken control and had e-mailed them several times over the weekend, a sure sign that it was to become her latest hobby horse.

  “Water, that’s it. We have to start somewhere, OK?” They all nodded miserably. “Now, how did everyone do today?” Toni asked, in that “have you been a good girl” tone she used with the patients. Their mumbled replies were every bit as incoherent.

  “For God’s sake, come on, you lot, cut me some slack here. We agreed to give this a try. Nothing else has really worked for any of us, so it’s this or the gut stapled.”

  “OK.”

  “Right.”

  “Yeah, go on.”

  Toni poured four glasses of water. “Well then, try to sound a bit more enthusiastic. Now, I’ve been thinking, even if you lot haven’t, and I suggest we weigh in once a week, then make a chart.”

  “You mean like a wall chart?” Pam was horrified. “No, stupid, just for ourselves, to monitor our progress.”

  “Couldn’t we have a little glass of wine first, just to get us in the mood?”

  “No.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Now, who’s first?”

  Maggie reluctantly agreed. Even though she was petite, she decided she had ten pounds to lose to get anywhere near the weight she was at her twenty-first. “I’m nearly thirty, if I keep on going like this I’ll be a barrel,” she wailed when the others laughed at the small amount of extra weight she was carrying.

  Next up Ellie. She was feeling good today. Her skin was clear and her brown hair was clean and shiny. Dressed in her favorite jeans and a soft, clingy cardigan with a cute little top underneath, she looked young and up for fun. She was of average height and didn’t appear to be overweight. “You’re just well built,” her mother told her far too often. She was an M&S size fourteen, sixteen in most other places and eighteen—if she could find any—on a bad day in Zara. The problem was her waist and bottom had thickened very gradually and her face was now “moon shaped” according to her.

  She was greeted with a chorus of “you don’t have two chins” and “honestly, you don’t look like you have a pillow stuffed down the back of your jeans where your bottom is.”

  “Trust me, I am miserable. None of my clothes fit me and I’ve no confidence. Working as a nanny means you’re in a kitchen most of the day and I’m always “testing” the kids’ fish fingers and sausages and finishing off the jelly and ice cream. I need to lose at least a stone and a half.” Everyone knew exactly how she felt.

  She jotted down her own details. “Next.” Toni looked directly at Pam who was trying to blend in with the furniture.

  “OK, let’s get it over with.” She moved in slow motion and didn’t look down. “Tell me, I can’t bear it.”

  Ellie was on jotter duty. She looked down and did a double-take. “But the other day you said …”

  “I was lying.”

  “OK. Well, you’re twelve and a half stone.” Ellie was trying to be matter-of-fact. “But you’re taller than any of us.” She decided she didn’t like this game anymore.

  “Statuesque.” Maggie was adamant.

  “Look, stop trying to be nice, I know I’m a sow. Have been for years. But I don’t overeat, really. And besides, I’m running around most of the day with the boys. I don’t have time to make all this special food.”

  “Let’s talk about this seriously. First, weigh me.” Toni wanted to get it over
with so she elbowed Pam out of the way, much to the older woman’s annoyance. She’d been enjoying the attention as well as their sympathy. But Toni was nervous too, she just didn’t show it as easily.

  Of all of them, she looked the slimmest. She carried her weight so well. Her height helped. “It’s all here, though, look, I’ve no waist.” She hiked up her blouse and they all prepared to argue with her, but then they saw it was true. She’d put on a good bit around her middle, which she hid cleverly with well-cut clothes. “Besides, if I were to breathe out …” She did and looked like she was up the duff. “And I’m wearing those awful knickers made of cement,” she complained, pulling up a stretchy bit of peachy Lycra from her waistband. It did indeed look heavy duty.

  “Do we really want to go ahead with this?” Pam was still smarting.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Me neither.”

  “OK, let’s forget it.” Toni was getting fed up with all this wishy-washyness. “Although I don’t think we can afford not to try it, at least.”

  “Someone tell us what would we have to do?” Pam was secretly desperate.

  “Well, as I said, we’d meet once a week, keep a check on our weight on the chart and basically encourage each other.” Ellie looked around for inspiration.

  “That’s it?”

  Toni decided to have another bash. “Well, I’ve given it a lot of thought and I do think it’s a good idea but we need lots of incentives and encouragement. For instance, I thought we could each share our best and worst moments of the week.” She beamed.

  Maggie looked around. Ellie and Pam were looking like they were in. She didn’t like this one bit.

  “And the person who hosts it could cook dinner from one of those calorie-controlled cookbooks.” Pam was definitely warming to it. Toni looked like she’d rather eat her own liver at that one.

  “Or maybe we could do yoga or something for half an hour at the start?” Ellie suggested, in a vain effort to get them all interested, since it had been her idea. The nodders stopped nodding. “Well, we will need some exercise,” she added lamely.

  “And I suppose we could each give a tip of the week.” Maggie’s smile was so false she looked like she was wearing dentures, trying to pretend she hadn’t heard the dreaded “e” word. The others took her seriously and nodded encouragingly. They knew she was always reading those health magazines and digested cookery books in bed with the same fervor that some of her friends gave blow jobs. She had hints on everything.

  “OK, let’s go for it,” Toni said. “I’ll organize the wall chart.” This was not what the other three expected. They were in it for a bit of fun, a chance to moan and drink wine every couple of weeks. Toni taking control had just turned it into Guantânamo Bay.

  “But as soon as I get a date I’m out of here. We’re pathetic.” She grinned at them. “And we need an incentive.” She was racking her brains. “I know, the first person to lose half a stone gets a date set up by each of the other three.”

  “Any single men I know I’m keeping.” Maggie smiled smugly.

  “No, that’s a great idea. I know loads of men in the supermarket.” Pam was suddenly prepared to consider anything for a date. The others didn’t quite like the sound of this, remembering the greasy butcher with blood-red fingernails and gray shiny trousers she’d introduced them to one night in the chipper. He’d even smelt of lamb chops, which had almost put Ellie off her batter sausage.

  But Pam was worryingly keen. “Are we agreed, darlings?”

  “Suppose.” Maggie wasn’t sure.

  “Let’s give it a whirl. After all, what have we got to lose?” Toni thought about the latest old codger who’d just arrived in the home. He wore a rug and once his Pringle sweater was wiped clean he could possibly pass for a date—in a very dark pub, mind you, and only if he left his teeth in.

  Ellie didn’t want to moan about hen-pecked husbands so she said nothing.

  “Now, can we open that bottle before I need it injected into my vein? I’m parched.” Pam made a face. “Yes, let’s.” Ellie gave in.

  “But write it down.” Toni was adamant. She produced four diaries, each with a picture of them naked in a sauna stuck to the front. The photo had been taken on one of their many “healthy” breaks. “You have to write down everything you eat each day, so that we can look at it next week.” They all stared at the picture. It was not one of their best. Pam laughed the loudest, but secretly she wanted to cry.

  Five

  Next morning Ellie was very determined. She had a smoothie for breakfast—berries with yoghurt, wheat-germ and a little unsweetened apple juice. She felt so good that she even prepared a tuna salad to take with her to work, but then left it on the counter in her usual panic. She was currently working in a crèche, which was not her normal job. She’d always worked with families, but her last one had emigrated to Australia and even though they’d begged her to go with them, and their three boys had cried for a week when she’d said she couldn’t, Ellie wasn’t sorry. Dublin was her home, where her mum and dad lived, where her friends and her heart were. A week before they left, she’d had a phone call from an old school pal who needed time off to nurse her invalid mother and so Ellie found herself in charge of a very exclusive child-minding facility, supposedly just for a month. She was now into her sixth week and was reluctant to admit it didn’t rock her boat. For one thing it was bloody hard work and the days were long and some of the children were miniature Gordon Ramsays. The stressed-out parents were dropping them off in the middle of the night to avoid Dublin traffic and it was seven thirty some evenings before Ellie practically severed an arm shoving the last one out.

  Today was proving testing, despite the optimistic start. Susie, a cute little two-year-old, started complaining of a headache almost as soon as her mother left. She had a slight temperature and Ellie was concerned enough to phone her mother. Norma Tolan-Vaughan was not impressed and Ellie wasn’t good with bullies.

  “I can’t possibly get there before five. Are you sure she’s not acting up? She was fine this morning.”

  “Eh, she mentioned that she was sick into her cornflakes?”

  “That was only because she put salt on them instead of sugar while the cleaner, who was supposed to be keeping an eye on her, was having phone sex with some scruffy student from Drogheda. Have you taken her temperature?”

  “Yes and it’s slightly up, although nothing to be alarmed about. But she’s crying and asking for you. She might need a trip to the doctor just in case.”

  “Just in case what?”

  Just in case she has less than twenty-four hours to live, Ellie wanted to say. “Well, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Can’t you take her?”

  “I’m afraid not, I’m needed here and could only do that in an emergency and—”

  “Are you saying my child’s life is not important?”

  “No, of course not. Look, why don’t we monitor her for the next hour or so if you’re unavailable and perhaps you could check in with us at lunch—” Norma was already berating some unfortunate minion in her eyeline and clicked off without so much as a thank-you.

  “Charming.” Ellie went in search of Susie.

  “Is m … m … m … my mummy coming to get me?”

  “Later, darling. Why don’t we go lie down for a few minutes.”

  “Feel sick.” She wasn’t lying. Cue a spurt of cornflakes on Ellie’s shirt and a dash of warm milk in her eye. She mopped up, gave the child a drink of water and lay down beside her, thinking about how hungry she was. Once Susie had nodded off she tried in vain to rid her blouse of the hard patch of regurgitated cereal that made her smell like a week-old dish cloth but it was there to stay. Two chocolate biscuits helped.

  Later she had a call from one of the agencies, wondering if she was interested in taking a job—single parent, two girls. Ellie had had a bad experience once with a single mother, Rachel Mooney, who expected her to look after three kids, two of them babies, keep
the house spotless, wash, iron, do the garden and have a home-cooked meal on the table at exactly six thirty. When she complained because her underwear hadn’t been ironed properly before being put away, Ellie practically strangled her with her own knicker elastic and left. She later learned that it was nothing to do with her being a single mother—apparently, Rachel’s husband Mike had left because she treated him as badly as she’d treated Ellie. Still, the episode had left her bruised and battered and she wasn’t sure she wanted to go down that head-banging route again, but the woman from the agency was smarmier than Bruce Forsyth and she’d agreed to an interview before she knew what had hit her.

  Norma whatsit arrived at five to five, complaining loudly and asking why she’d been cut off and how come nobody had kept her informed about her baby’s progress. Ellie swallowed two aspirin with a cup of tea and a scone smothered in butter and tried not to smack her. One of the little boys running backward into a door at twenty miles per hour distracted her just long enough.

  * * *

  On her way home Ellie called in to see her friend Olga Blake, even though she could have done without it tonight. Her head was thumping despite the tablets. Still, Olga was the human equivalent of a laxative, and once she started there was no stopping her, so Ellie knew she’d have a bit of a laugh at least. She was a Russian immigrant who’d run away from home to live with, or marry—the story varied depending on the day and who Olga was trying to impress—an American in London. Her family wanted nothing to do with her. The relationship with the American was shorter than the career of a Big Brother housemate—as soon as she told him she was pregnant he was already backing out of the room.