The WWW Club

by Anita Notaro

  “What the fuck do you mean—TV?” It was little more than a squeak.

  “That’s what I said.” Toni beamed at them. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  “Explain?” Ellie was the first to recover.

  “The Afternoon Show are looking for groups of people who’ve made firm New Year resolutions and are already some way toward achieving—”

  “Yes?” Maggie waved her arms around, like an overenthusiastic woman at an aerobics class. She simply wanted Toni to cut the bullshit.

  “They want … US.”

  “But … but, we’re a disaster.”

  “No, we’re an inspiration. Look at us.” Toni fixed her gaze on Ellie. “Now, we need to focus.” She was doing her best Uri Geller impersonation. “Look. At. Us,” she emphasized and held out her arms and glowed like Maggie imagined the Virgin Mary must have done after discovering she was pregnant.

  “Yes. Look at us.” Pam jumped up. “We’re walking disasters.” She sat down again. “Tell me, how exactly do you intend to fool the nation?” She sounded just like Oprah.

  “Nonsense, we’ve achieved so much. We’re an inspiration to women all over the country. They’ll be clamoring to buy the book—”

  “What shagging book?”

  “The one that Jack is going to ghost write for us.”

  “Whaaaat?”

  “Now, he doesn’t actually know anything about it yet but leave it to me and Ellie.” She smiled encouragingly in her general direction. “Now, not a word, OK?” She put her finger to her lips, a definite Jack mannerism. Ellie wanted to puke.

  “Excuse me, let me get this straight.” Pam stood up again. “We are going on national TV as an inspiration to women in Ireland … sort of role models for the new millennium? What a load of wank.”

  “Darling, the year 2000 is long gone. Get a life. No, we’re forging a new road, paving the way for women who will not be controlled by men telling them how they should look, teaching them a new way forward, inspiring their souls toward—”

  “Bollocks, who’s been reading the fucking self-help books—me or her?” Pam was almost short of words, which was very worrying.

  “Listen, Toni, we’ve lost—what?—maybe a stone between us?” Ellie said. She was nothing if not practical. “Let’s be honest here, we’re no self-help gurus.” Her voice had taken on a slightly pleading tone.

  “Much more than a stone, more like two. I’ve lost half a stone, probably more. And you’re fading away, Ellie.”

  “But in how long? It’s taken us months …” It felt like a decade. “We’ll be a laughing stock.” Maggie was thinking of the women in the baking group.

  “Where are my charts?” Toni was rummaging. “Damn, my nail. I can’t go on TV with a broken nail.”

  “You’ll have a broken jaw to match, I’d say, when they find out we’re fakes. Marty Whelan looks as if he has a good left hook.”

  “It’s not Open House, that’s finished. It’s presented by three women, they’ll be on our side.” Toni smiled pleadingly. “Girls, come on, it’s the spirit of the thing. Let’s just feel the force.” She was doing her best to be empowering. It wasn’t working.

  “I really think I’m going to be sick.” Maggie did look pale. “It’s totally mortifying.”

  “Now, let’s just be calm. There must be a middle ground.” Pam was thinking of the three zillion Tesco customers she’d have to face. “Toni, there has to be a compromise. Give us a chance to prepare.”

  Toni’s ultra-cool Motorola V3 bleeped. “Excuse me, a text message, I wonder if it’s from Jack?”

  “He doesn’t have a mo …” Ellie began, then decided it was a waste of breath.

  “Oooooh, it’s an RTE number.” Her voice resembled George Clooney’s pot-bellied piglet, Pam imagined. Very, very squeaky.

  “OK, let’s just work out what to say in reply, we can always thank them and offer …” Ellie was determined that common sense would prevail.

  “Too late, we’re on tomorrow week. Four o’clock. Book your time off immediately.” Her smile was a disgustingly cheap ad for whitening toothpaste.

  The other three women woke up the next morning in different circumstances, each convinced it had all been a bad dream.

  Ellie was woken violently at about six thirty when Rudi let out a wail. She leapt out of bed, grabbed him and only realized she was in danger of suffocating him when he burped helplessly very close to her chest.

  “There, there, it’s OK,” she crooned, half asleep. Seconds later they were both dozing and she realized they had well and truly bonded. Five minutes into a very pleasant knight-in-shining-armor daydream reality dawned on her. What the fuck was Toni thinking of? she asked herself as she drifted off again. I must get Jack to talk some sense into her. The only good thing about this very nasty situation was that it had taken her mind off the fact that the man she loved was about to have mind-blowing sex with her thinner, younger friend and there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop it happening.

  Pam was eased into reality by Andrew bringing her a cup of tea.

  “Mum, are you OK? We heard you shouting in the middle of the night.”

  “What about?” She wiped her eyes.

  “Something about not really liking to eat six doughnuts in one sitting.”

  She remembered. She was being savaged by Pat Kenny and trying desperately to defend herself. “No, love, I’m fine, it was just a nightmare.”

  Maggie’s first vision of the day, seen through one half-open eye, was the ever-achieving Doug—Doug’s crotch actually—jogging on the spot at the foot of the bed. It was pitch dark. He’d surprised her by being there when she got home—her fault, she realized now. She’d forced a key on him during a drunken Christmas pledge of undying love. Her head ached.

  “Coming for a run?”

  “Eh, no thanks, I’ve a pain in my stomach. Time of the month, I think.” It was the only thing she could think of that was guaranteed to send him packing.

  “Oh, right, see you later. Eh, want anything before I go?”

  “Actually, a cup of tea and a glass of water and, eh, two aspirin … for my tummy … would be good. Thanks.” She had a sudden memory of the end of the night before. They’d been so traumatized that they’d dragged a laughing Toni off to the nearest pub as soon as they could. Unfortunately, Pam had ordered Baileys shots in an effort to calm them all quickly—not good for their cells or their cellulite. Toni kept trying to jolly them along, promising it would be great fun. An hour later they were all in fits of laughter and agreeing that yes, it would be an adventure.

  “Oh fuck.” Ellie.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Pam.

  “Fuck me, this is a nightmare.” Maggie.

  Their hungover first thoughts were astonishingly similar.

  “You’re on what?” Jack was smiling.

  “The Afternoon Show. Stop shouting.”

  “Jesus, she’s fantastic.” That was the moment Ellie realized he was truly a lost cause. It should have helped her go off him—but it didn’t make the slightest difference.

  “Have you read The Road Less Travelled?” Pam’s RTE weirdo friend was back with a Healthy Options Chow Mein, wanting a Tesco Finest Champ with real butter instead.

  “I built it.” She glared at him, her head thumping a perfect beat on the refunds till.

  “Yes, well, perhaps I’ll look up my collection.”

  “See if you have one entitled Lose a Stone in Seconds and Don’t Look a Twit on TV” Pam said with a half smile. She had a very muddled, half-arsed thought. “Actually, is there any way you could get me off TV?”

  “Normally, it’s the other way round.” He looked confused. “However, I can recommend a very good book called Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway.”

  “Listen, I’m feeling so much fear that the only thing I’ll do is throw up on their posh sofa. Fancy a drink after work? I need to talk this through with someone who understands.”

  “I’d be delighted.”

&n
bsp; “No, Mrs. Pearson … oh yes, sorry … Vera. No actually, it would not help if I came to the meeting and baked Eccles cakes.” The dehydration was getting to Maggie. “Yes, I know what Doug told you but, actually, I need to eat less this coming week if I’m appearing on national TV.” Maggie had always been the realistic one of the group.

  The rest of the week saw different approaches emerge.

  Toni decided the best way to look fabulous was to fuck, fuck, fuck, so she tormented Jack relentlessly.

  “So, how’s the great romance?” Kate asked Jack on Thursday afternoon as Ellie ironed nearby.

  “Good, yeah, great actually. Listen, do you fancy having the girls on Saturday night?”

  “Sure, no problem. What’s on?”

  “I’m cooking dinner for Toni. She loves chilli, apparently, can you believe it? It’s my favorite too.” He beamed. “Just as well really, it’s the only thing I can cook with confidence.”

  If Toni loves chilli then I’m very fond of Pedigree Chum, Ellie thought.

  “Oh … eh, good.” Kate glanced at Ellie.

  “And, em, could they sleep over, by any chance?”

  “Yeah.” She tried to look modern, but only managed uncomfortable.

  “Great, thanks.” He disappeared.

  “So, what do you make of all this, then?”

  “Actually, Kate, I’m too tired to care.”

  Kate thought she’d never seen the younger woman look so truly miserable before. She always put on a brave face and cracked a joke.

  “Well, I know my brother. This is all a novelty for him.” She smiled weakly. “I hope your friend isn’t expecting … anything long term …”

  “It sounds to me like Jack’s the one who’s in this for the long haul.”

  “Really? No, you’ve got it all wrong. Jack needs … a soulmate. And I don’t think Toni quite fits the bill, do you? Sorry, Nora, I know she’s your friend and all that.”

  “No, you’re fine,” she said, thinking, you’ve no idea how much that cheers me up actually. For a split second, Ellie wanted to tell her. She started to say something then stopped. That was all she needed. Kate would say something and she’d lose her job.

  Kate looked at her for a long moment. “Don’t worry, he’ll find the right person, eventually. It takes him a while, sometimes, but he always gets there in the end.” She gave Ellie a little smile and headed off.

  * * *

  “Eh, Doug, I’d like us to go running every morning and, eh, every evening as well for the next week,” Maggie said, trying to look healthy.

  “I thought you had your … eh … you know.” His coyness irritated her.

  “False alarm.” Her smile was Persil white. “And no alcohol or takeaways or … chocolate.” She felt virtuous just saying it. “Can we have popcorn with the movie on Saturday?”

  “Yes, but no butter.”

  Pam was convinced it was all a question of mind over matter. Luckily, so was Quentin, her new VBF. They spent hours pouring over How to Make Love to the Same Man for the Rest of Your Life—his suggestion—which taught her lots but nothing that offered immediate benefit. She stuck with it because she was convinced he could have the program taken off the air at the last minute, even though he told her he worked in an annex miles away from the studios and had never even seen Gerry Ryan.

  Forty-six

  If they had to have sex, Ellie realized much later, it couldn’t have happened at a better time. The reason was simple. From the moment Toni had announced her world-domination plan for the WWW Club, Ellie had been galvanized into action. There was simply no time to brood.

  A phone call to her sister Claire, now stationed at a branch of her bank in Wisconsin, had started it.

  “What’ll I do?” Ellie had wailed, after filling her in.

  “Jeez, stop sounding like a banshee, for a start,” Claire retorted in a weird American accent. She’d only been there ten days or so.

  “Now, have you got a pen and paper?”

  “Sure.” Ellie was getting the American vibe going.

  “OK, let’s see, you need a personal trainer …”

  “P—e—r—”

  “A dietician …”

  “s—o—n—”

  “A masseuse …”

  “a—l—”

  “Make-up artist.”

  “Eh? Slow down.”

  “Hairdresser.”

  “What was that second one again?”

  “And life coach.”

  “Right, eh, yeah, that’s just what I was thinking.”

  And so it transpired that Ellie was pinched, pummeled, perfumed and petrified at various stages over the coming week.

  “How long have we got?” said Jeff, the personal trainer.

  “About five days.”

  “And you’ll be on national TV?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Right, so, we … eh … need to get going.” He was all smiles. “Now,” his tone was slightly sharper, “on the mat.” He sounded stressed, Ellie thought, but she was too out of breath to ask him, and they’d only done the warm-up. “Now, arms straight, tummy in, head back and one, lift it,” he yelled. “Two three four.” Very sharp indeed—cut-glass, to be precise.

  “Five days, OK, we can do that.” The dietician’s smile was that of a politician at a tribunal. Forced.

  “Five, hey, that long?” The life coach was ecstatic. “It’s a lifetime.” Ellie had always suspected they were fake.

  By the time she’d jogged four miles, juiced half an allotment, been to the gym, had her spine adjusted, her follicles conditioned and her eyelashes tinted, the only thing Ellie was capable of was lying comatose on the bed. Her mother, a diehard fan of The Afternoon Show, was so thrilled that she’d immediately offered to have Rudi for the week. Ellie felt guilty but desperate as she packed him off and canceled her appointment with yet another social worker.

  How Clean Is Your House?, once her favorite TV program, was recorded and never watched.

  “How clean is your temple,” was the mantra her life coach suggested she adopt.

  Full of dirty thoughts about what my friend is doing with the man I think I’ve fallen in love with, she was tempted to reply, but felt he mightn’t be qualified to deal with the emotion she knew that would unleash.

  In three other homes around Dublin, panic had also set in.

  Pam had adopted the “fuck them, I’m OK as I am” approach and was eating for Ireland in an attempt to pretend it didn’t matter.

  Toni, meanwhile, was more thinking, Fuck me, I’m fabulous. The truth was, she did look great, and having sex, and plenty of it, with Jack Bryant was the nicest way she knew to lose calories.

  Poor Maggie, meanwhile, was saying to everyone who’d listen, “Fuck it, I’m useless.”

  “No, you’re not.” She and Doug were having a cozy chat on the phone one lunchtime and he had never heard her sound like this. “You’ll be fine. You always look nice.” It was not what she wanted to hear. Nice was what you called your mother’s new headscarf. Nice was a five-euro Penneys blouse, or a day-old scone or an emerald toffee watching the news with your gran. Doug scurried off and rang his mother about it.

  “OK,” he said when he called round that evening after work, “Mum says you’re to drink lots of water and sprinkle a mild laxative on your cereal every morning.”

  It was the Mummy thing that did it. Maggie knew she was being unreasonable even before something snapped in her head. “And spend the entire program with a potty strapped to my ass? No thank you.”

  “There’s no need to be so crude.” He’d never seen her with that wild look before and he was nervous and therefore made the final, fatal mistake of suggesting that maybe his mother would be more equipped to deal with this one herself, and would Maggie like him to get her to call around later that evening? There was total silence. Doug was anxious, so he rattled on. “By the way, Mum says she’s enrolled you in the prayer group and she has your medal. Eh, you owe her one
euro twenty-three. Well, me actually cause I paid her already.” He smiled innocently, thinking the prayer group might calm her down.

  Maggie suddenly saw white in front of her eyes. “No, I would not like to discuss this with your mother, or the baking group or the Legion of Mary or any other lousy do-gooders. I am fed up being treated like an old-age pensioner. I am sick of you suggesting we take it easy and go to bed early and save money by eating takeaways from that crap Chinese down the road that was closed down last year for having rats in the kitchen.” She drew breath and tried to calm herself. “And I will not be opening a savings account with you for a rainy day, or any other type of day. I’m young. I want to travel and party and make a show of myself and I hate fucking baking. It makes my hands all chapped and the margarine gets under my nails. I’m sorry, Doug, but I don’t really think we’re suited after all and as soon as this show is over I’m going out to get pissed on the dearest champagne I can find in this godforsaken town and then I might just have mind-blowing sex with the first man who tells me I look foxy or ravishing or tarty or voluptuous. Anything, in fact, as long as he doesn’t say I look fucking nice.”

  The big day finally arrived and they met at the studio hours before they were due.

  “Hey, are you the WWW Club?” asked a researcher who looked about twelve.

  “Yes, I’m Toni and—”

  “Great, follow me.” And they were off.

  They were interviewed by all three presenters, so it was quick-fire questions all the way.

  “So, why did you call yourselves the World Wide Web Club?” (Sheana, blonde presenter.)

  “Oh, is that what it actually stands for?” No one got the joke. “We always thought it stood for Women Watching Weight.” (Maggie.)

  “She’s joking, no it’s just we’re, you know, twenty-first-century women and we’re always surfing the chat rooms, I mean shopping sites, so we thought, Why not?” (Toni.)

  “And your club is different from the usual groups, say WeightWatchers, Unislim and the like, nach bhfuil sé?” (Blathnaid, redheaded Irish speaker.)

  “Yes. Ours is free.” (Ellie.)

  “Actually, ours is based more on the principle of friendship and, eh, rewarding yourself and a belief that weight loss can sometimes be as much in the brain as the, eh, belly. Also, we don’t have a points system or anything, it’s very simple really. And finally, you must know two people in the group before you can join.” (Toni again, beaming.)