Larger Than Life

by Adele Parks

  ‘Yes, but worth it, I think. We’re making some progress.’ I don’t ask what on. Hugh notices my wet hair and gym bag. He throws out a broad smile; it’s not the smile of appreciation he bestowed in the old days, it’s more one of relief. It’s a smile, though. ‘You’ve been to the gym.’

  ‘Water-confidence classes with Libby,’ I remind him, even though we discussed it less than three hours ago. ‘In case we go in for a water birth.’

  He puts down the mostly brown envelopes and asks, ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Not a thing.’ Well, besides the Mars Bar and the prawn-and-avocado triple-pack sandwich that I bought on the way home from the baths.

  ‘Let’s go out for dinner; you can tell me all about your evening with Lizzie.’

  ‘Libby,’ I correct, but he doesn’t hear me – he’s already on his way out of the door.

  I am hungry. I’m always hungry, but what I’d like most in the world is to curl up on the settee and watch TV; yet I realize that saying so would be tantamount to a declaration of war. For weeks I’ve moaned that Hugh never takes me out any more. A dinner invite is not to be sniffed at. I’m being ungrateful. It is neglectful women who cause their partners to have affairs.

  That or the male inability to control their knobs.

  Hugh lets me choose the venue and I pick a noisy, trendy restaurant, which used to be a regular haunt of ours prepregnancy. The second we arrive I know my choice is a mistake. I’d have been wiser to pick a quieter, more intimate restaurant. London’s glitterati hold little allure for me right now. I wish Hugh had given me time to put some make-up on, or at least change out of my tracksuit and into my Mamasoon shift dress; it’s my ‘posh frock’ by virtue of being my only frock. I open the door and hit a wall of cigarette smoke. I silently calculate the probability of projectile-vomiting over a waiter.

  We are shown to our table. It’s positioned at the back of the restaurant; the waiter pulls out a chair for me, the one facing the wall. This is the direct opposite of the etiquette that the female guest is usually shown to the seat that faces out on to the action. Am I being overly sensitive or am I being hidden? A quick glance around confirms that I probably am being hidden. The restaurant is packed to bursting with women whose breasts still stick out further than their stomachs. I hate them. It’s wall to wall with toned arms and slim hips. Now that it’s May, the first tentative signs of summer are finally visible in London. Not just lighter evenings and leaves on the trees, but skirts and dresses which are shorter and tighter and the occasional sighting of a colour other than black. I know that this summer I am going to resemble a sumo wrestler half an hour ago this didn’t matter but, suddenly, it does matter again. The happiness that I felt at the swimming pool starts to dissolve. Libby (and even Millie, to an extent) put me at my ease; sitting opposite Hugh I suddenly feel as though I’m sat on a couple of mating hedgehogs.

  He doesn’t make me happy.

  I’m not happy when I’m with him. That is not particularly fine, whichever way you look at it. No, it’s not true. It can’t be. I won’t let it be.

  I’m unhappy because I’m surrounded by toned abs. I was happy with Libby because I was surrounded by other bumps. This is not about Hugh.

  I peek over the menu and take a look at Hugh. Quite a big part of me is expecting a 666 to be tattooed on to his forehead, or perhaps when he meets mine his eyes will be bloodshot, because surely there has to be some outward manifestation of his ugliness, his evil betrayal.

  His eyes are still green and sparkling merrily.

  He looks confident, happy, relaxed. He does not look like a guilty man. Maybe I’ve been too quick to condemn. A restaurant receipt is hardly a confession signed in sperm. Look how overwrought Othello became about a handkerchief, and no good came of that. Hugh’s demeanour radiates innocence.

  Although he’s well practised at deceit.

  A skill that I used to be grateful for.

  Fool.

  My brain is about to spontaneously combust. I don’t know what to think. The sickness in my stomach has migrated to my head. I home in on Hugh’s cuff links; they are shiny white gold, engraved with his initials. I bought them for him to celebrate his new position at R, R&S. The shiny gold cuff links, his clean, square fingernails, the sharp creases in the cuffs of his shirt, all conspire to convince me that he is the same man I said goodbye to this morning. The tiny specks of stubble that are peeking out of his chiselled jaw also want me to believe in him. His long eyelashes that gently brush his brows, putting me in mind of a horse swishing its tail, can’t be wrong.

  I push the hazy, scary thoughts from my mind and try to amuse myself by looking around the restaurant again.

  Besides the superwaifs, there’s a liberal scattering of other advertising bods and the odd dot-com nearly there millionaire, average age twenty-two. I feel ancient. Hugh looks tired but relaxed. He still fits. I’m not sure what terrifies me the most – the fact that I don’t fit in, or the fact that he does.

  Hugh smiles and says, ‘so tell me about this swimming class that you and Lizzie went to.’

  I do, but I know he’s not listening. He keeps glancing around the room, checking out who he should be shaking hands with, who he should be waving to, who should be waving to him. I take a deep breath and resist commenting on how little of the menu’s selection is appropriate; most of the dishes are soused in rich, soft cream-cheese sauces or alcohol; raw fish and rare meat make up the remainder. I choose a tuna salad. Hugh drains his Martini, orders two courses and a bottle of wine. I tell him about the baby kicking like crazy when the music is pumped up at the pool and about it being still throughout the Mozart. He raises his eyebrow, which is his devilishly handsome way of expressing interest. It looks genuine enough, but then I’ve seen him practise it in the bathroom mirror. I know he uses it in presentations to clients. Still, I blunder on. I tell him about the legs-together joke and he does laugh.

  It still feels fabulous to make him laugh.

  Even though the man sitting opposite me is still married to Becca and is perhaps having an affair with yet another woman, I still adore him. I do love him. As much now in the teeth of confrontation as I do in the grip of orgasm. I can’t stop myself. It still feels fabulous to hear him laugh.

  ‘You could come if you wanted. Most of the other women there take their partners along.’ Unwilling often, but all the same present and correct.

  ‘You can’t suddenly uninvite Lizzie, Babes,’ says Hugh and he manages to sound honestly regretful.

  ‘Libby.’

  OK. The best thing is not to think about the condoms in the jacket pocket. Or the restaurant receipt. Or the late nights at the office. Hugh is mine. I’ve waited a long time for him and I’m not allowing an insignificant little dalliance, which is very probably a figment of my imagination anyway, to get in the way of the important stuff. And the important stuff is that Hugh lives with me now. He chose me. And I’m carrying his child.

  We should get married.

  Hugh married Becca, I silently lament. Never one to sit imagining the great white meringue, it surprises me that suddenly, violently, this is all I want. I want to be a wife. I need to be a wife. I want a ring on my finger. I want the guarantees. Oh, I know it’s not a guarantee, but I want what she had. Even if I take it off her. Even if someone else has already taken it off me. In the car on the way home from the baths I tried to think of things from Hugh’s point of view. He has been very stressed recently, very busy indeed. And I haven’t really been paying any attention to that, none at all. The problem is that, however fascinating Hugh’s career used to be, I can now only see it in terms of what it will provide for our child. I want him to be successful but not because I care whether he feels the buzz of being a successful man, I just need him to continue to earn a good salary. Perhaps that is unfair of me. In addition I know that, as far as Hugh’s concerned, by becoming twice my usual size I’ve become half the woman I was. I don’t talk to him, or about him, or about anything that inte
rests him the way I used to. I don’t watch him play rugby or cricket. I don’t drink with him. I don’t smoke with him. I don’t have sex with him.

  I do argue with him.

  Perhaps he is getting a bum deal.

  ‘I had a really great time at the pool,’ I smile. ‘At least it’s big enough. Or at least it is as long as half the water jumps out when I jump in.’

  I pull a funny face, which hopefully conveys I’m laughing at myself, not feeling sorry for myself.

  ‘Did you learn anything?’

  ‘Yes. There were about a dozen women there, nine of whom had not planned to be parents; I learnt not to trust the rhythm method.’

  Hugh laughs again. Suddenly he takes my hand. This voluntary touch is the first one I can recall for quite some time; it sends shivers up my back and into my crown – I think that even the ends of my hair are on fire.

  ‘I can’t wait until the baby is born,’ Hugh says.

  Tears of delight spring to my eyes. God, how I’ve misjudged him. How quickly I moved to condemn. Hugh is by some way the kindest, most terrific man I have ever known. The most sympathetic, understanding, gentle male on the entire planet.

  ‘Can’t you?’ My grin stretches from earring to earring. ‘No. I can’t wait to get the old you back again.’ ‘The old me?’

  ‘You know the – ‘He lets go of my hand so that he can draw a picture of an egg-timer in the air with both hands. ‘Although I think you’re going to have your work cut out for you, the way you’ve been piling on the pounds. You really are going to have to stop bingeing on Mars bars. It’s not healthy.’

  Piling! Bingeing!

  Bastard.

  In the car I decided that the important thing was to stop the rot, right now. I’d planned to entertain him with amusing anecdotes about the water-confidence class and the funny things that happened at work today. I’d rehearsed these stories, carefully eradicating any trace of pain or humiliation so that we’d simply be left with pleasantries and humour. I had planned to pretend that today’s work meetings had excited and lifted me the way they had always done in the past, but suddenly I can’t be bothered. I can’t be bothered to make my day sound better than it was. Nor can I be bothered to tell him about my actual day. I don’t think I’ll be bothered to fight for my former figure, either. I’m not sure I’m prepared to put the effort in again. All that skipping and running and lifting and jumping and starving. It suddenly seems pointless; besides I’ll have a baby and won’t have time. God, I wish I was at home, under the duvet.

  Alone.

  The waiter arrives with Hugh’s starter. I should have ordered one as well; it would at least have given me something to do with my tongue – it’s apparent I’ve lost the skill of biting it, because whilst I don’t plan to say it I suddenly hear, ‘Jessica loves me even when I’m fat. So does Libby.’

  ‘I love you even when you’re fat.’

  ‘So you think I’m fat.’ Hugh sighs and doesn’t comment but it’s an articulate sigh.

  We both fall silent. He chews and looks around the restaurant. I stare at my hands and rack my brains for something to say. What was the plan? Entertain him with amusing anecdotes or stab him to death with a fish knife? I can’t remember.

  Hugh seems to be equally stumped for a line in witty repertoire.

  ‘Sam called for you this evening.’

  ‘Did she? Any message?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I expect it was some crisis about her wedding.’ ‘Expect so.’

  I had promised myself that I’d call her back tonight. I wish I’d done so, rather than come out on this pathetic excuse for a date with Hugh. We fall silent again. I pick up a knife and start to carelessly draw it along the edge of the table. I hope I’m making him feel nervous.

  I’m not. Hugh rebukes me with a stare and I feel as though I am Tom or Kate. I put the knife down and fold my hands in my lap. This isn’t what I had in mind when I agreed to supper out. Why aren’t we laughing and chatting and making each other randy? I rack my brains for anything to say. Something elegant or witty or pleasing. Something entertaining that will make Hugh smile or even laugh out loud, that raucous, charming laugh that still bewitches me. I’m confounded.

  ‘Or maybe Sam rang up to offer some advice on sterilizing bottles. Since I became pregnant none of my friends are capable of having a conversation with me without mentioning the pregnancy.’ I realize this wouldn’t win awards for conversational brilliance, but it’s all I can manage.

  ‘Maybe that’s you,’ comments Hugh, as he shovels another fork full of meat that’s practically still mooing into his mouth.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m boring?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, what are you saying?’ Even I can hear the hysteria mounting in my voice. I no longer care whether I’m elegant or witty or amusing. And if Hugh were to laugh his supercilious, arrogant, overconfident laugh right now, I’d shove it where the sun don’t shine.

  ‘You talk about the pregnancy a lot and the er…’

  ‘Baby,’ I prompt.

  ‘Yeah. That’s all. That’s all I’m saying.’ ‘so what’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing. I didn’t say anything was wrong with you talking about it a lot. I just said that maybe it’s you that introduces the subject into conversations, not your friends.’

  ‘You are saying I’m boring.’

  ‘No.’

  He means yes.

  Hugh is saved from elaborating because the waiter comes to take his plate away. I’m about to object and point out that Hugh has hardly touched his carpaccio but Hugh waves it away and says he’s finished.

  The thing is, it’s quite possibly true. Since my road-to-Damascus conversion I probably have turned into one of those awful women who talk about nothing other than pregnancy and the associated horrors. But Sam talks about weddings. Doesn’t she? Oh God, I can already see my friends gathering at dinner parties in years to come, their eyes glassy with boredom, as I retell the funny little stories that all begin, ‘Jamie/Mirabelle/Giles/Hatty [I haven’t decided on a name yet] said the funniest thing today…’

  If I’m not vigilant, I could end up being one of those ghastly women who insist on showing photos of the baby, packs and packs of them, whilst running a video of its first Christmas, even though the baby is sat right there. How awful! I promise myself that I can and will talk about something else. From this moment on I will not mention my aching back or swollen ankles. The word pregnancy will not pass my lips. How hard can it be? It’s not as though I talk about it all the time. I do have other topics of conversation.

  ‘So how was your day?’ I ask Hugh with a bright, wide smile.

  ‘Very interesting as it happens… ‘I don’t catch exactly what’s interesting because I’m considering the pros and cons of breastfeeding. Halfway through my salad and his roast wood pigeon I notice that Hugh has noticed I’m not listening. He stares coldly. In an effort to dispel his (correct) belief that I’m thinking about the pregnancy, I say the first thing that comes into my mind.

  ‘Have you heard anything more from the solicitors about the decree nisi?’ I see immediately that it would have been wiser to confess to my thoughts on whether I ought to pack bedsocks in my hospital bag; they say your feet turn to ice during labour.

  ‘No.’

  ‘They’re a bit slow, aren’t they? You could have passed an act of Parliament in a more efficient time frame.’ ‘Are you suggesting it’s my fault?’

  ‘No. But I do think you ought to know what the delay is. Is Becca stalling?’

  ‘Why the sudden interest?’ Hugh’s tone is that of someone trying (desperately) not to lose his temper but (obviously) about to do so. I can hardly say, ‘Because Libby and I were just discussing it and, on public inspection, your excuses to date fell at the first hurdle’, nor can I comment, ‘Because I have reason to believe you’re having an affair. Another one.’

  In
stead, I try to appear breezily efficient and cool. ‘Oh well, it’s not important.’

  ‘Whether I’m divorced or not is unimportant to you?’ It’s obvious that, rather than breezily efficient and cool, I’ve managed to appear brutally indifferent and cold. This conversation is running down the same tract as the love me when I’m fat conversation. It’s a lose/lose situation. Hugh mops his lips with his napkin and flings it on to his plate.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ I spit.

  ‘Yes, you did,’ he hisses.

  ‘Why are you being argumentative?’ I seethe, throwing my knife and fork down on to the barely touched salad.

  ‘I’m not being argumentative.’ We fall silent again. Hugh lights a cigarette; I think he’s being provocative. I stare my silent objection. The waiter clears our plates and he uses a small silver dustpan to clear away the crumbs and spills on the tablecloth but he can’t budge the atmosphere.

  Another successful evening, then.

  37

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘It’s not like I’m confessing to joining the Foreign Legion.’

  ‘I’d possibly be less surprised.’

  ‘Julia, it’s not so heinous.’

  ‘Well, how did you hear about it?’

  ‘Sam gave me the number.’

  ‘Yeah, it sounds just up Sam’s street.’

  ‘I simply needed a change,’] I justify.

  ‘Whatever,’ comments Julia as she drifts back to her desk, clearly mystified.

  The nature of my crime is that I visited a Color Me Beautiful technician. You know, one of those women who advise you on what colours you should be wearing and what make-up tones suit you. It was fascinating. Well it was, after we got past the ‘Is your hair brown or blonde?’ question. (Answer: blonde at the moment except for an inch or two at the roots. Not that I actually believe all that rubbish the bump-woman in the chemist spouted, but you never can be too careful, can you? I’d never forgive myself if there was any truth in the things she said and it’s not worth the risk just for a few months’ vanity.) Once we’d established that I’d become a ‘natural’ blonde again after the birth, Cecilia (my Color Me Beautiful technician) was able to advise me as to what I should be wearing. She held little duster-size pieces of material to my neck, and pulled my hair back with a series of colourful scrunchies in an effort to discover which ‘season’ I am. It was a surprisingly good laugh. For the first time in months I felt feminine and fun. When I said as much to Cecilia she asked, ‘so why haven’t you been feeling feminine?’