The Fat And The Thin Of It

by Julie Croft

rap music blasting out from his bedroom window, and I wondered how the neighbours could stand it. Mind you, Jackie’s house was detached, and her neighbour to the right was in her eighties and stone deaf. To the left, the Garrisons were out at work all day and their three kids were at school, so I guessed Mark was allowed a little freedom until four o’clock. I wouldn’t know, as this was a strange time of the day for me to be in her neighbourhood. Everything was strange; disconcerting, in fact, like I’d fallen through a worm hole and emerged in another dimension.

  I’d had full intention of telling everything, but when the time came I simply couldn’t. I didn’t want her to think I’d done something wrong – I knew I’d done something wrong, although exactly what still eluded me – and that was enough for my conscience, thank you very much.

  Whilst I was at Jackie’s my phone didn’t stop buzzing. I made the excuse that I needed to pee and took my phone to the loo, and saw that there were loads of text messages, alive with the office incident.

  Zuleika: OMG! You won’t believe what just happened! Harriet’s been taken to hospital! Para-medics arrived and took her away.

  Zuleika had been in the office, probably to talk to Harriet about an assignment, and obviously hadn’t seen what had happened. I liked her, in a way, even though she kept harping on about my figure in comparison to my age. “From the neck down anyone would think you were half your age!” she warbled. I couldn’t work out if that was a compliment or not.

  Janine: Kill-Jill’s floored the Hairy-it!

  Why was she texting me about what I’d done? The daft twat had more brains in her boobs then in her head, and had texted me instead of God knows who... shit, she must have sent it out through her favourite list!

  Lana: Hairy-it with broken nose and broken prestige! Way to go, Jill!

  Oh, Lana! She’s probably done the same as Janine, and she’s more than likely got Harriet’s number on her favourite list as well as she isn’t the brightest star in the modelling firmament. She’ll be doing retail catalogues for the rest of the year. I didn’t even realise she was at the office, but how would she know the Hairy-it’s got a broken nose if she wasn’t? Christ, is the whole of the British fashion industry getting texts?

  Janine: ROTF! Hairy-it’s face exploding by the second!

  She must have gone to the hospital with her boss, like the good little lap-dog assistant that she was. I really hope Harriet gets her texts as well and gives her the heave-ho.

  Damien: Jill, Harriet’s in hospital. Doesn’t look good. Pam and Janine went with her. Will keep you posted.

  Oh, shit-shit-shit. If Pam’s with her I’m in the stinky sticky stuff up to my neck. They’ll be working out a summons; I can feel it in my water...

  Cally: IMHO, Jill, you went a step too far. Giving Harriet a karate-style palm punch is very dangerous. You could have killed her!

  Well, she would say that! She was probably spying on the whole office episode and rubbing her hands together with glee as she’s been vying for my post for years, and if I had killed her she’d be vying for Harriet’s instead! I might have done you a favour, bitch, so don’t lecture me!

  Hang on... ‘karate palm punch’? What fucking karate palm punch?

  Damien: Jill, receiving texts from all over the place! Janine’s texting every five minutes and must be sending to everyone. Harriet’s got broken nose and whip-lash, but how she got whip-lash falling on floor is a mystery.

  AA-A-R-R-GHH!

  Zuleika: Jill, what have you done?! Harriet’s got a broken nose and...

  Yeah, yeah, yeah; read that, thank you very much. I stopped reading the rest as it was making me too twitchy, and God knows what was floating about on Twitter. I went back to the kitchen.

  As I made my way back, I gave myself a very much needed internal pep-talk. ‘You were your own boss for over ten years before Catwalk,’ I told myself. ‘So you could do it again, surely!’ Surely I could. ‘You don’t need the Hairy-it or Catwalk, do you?’ Nope, I suppose not. ‘Of course not! Go for it, girl! You’ll show ‘em, won’t you?’ if you say so, girl. ‘I do say so and you will! Right?’ uh… ‘Right?’

  Right.

  I also decided that I’d call the Hairy-it first thing in the morning and apologise: if she was still alive, of course.

  Oh, hell, Jill, you silly, silly cow.

  ‘Stop it! You can do this, right?’

  Right.

  Maybe I’d e-mail her, which perhaps would be better, and say that… shit, what would I say?

  Hi Harriet!

  So-o-o sorry for what happened yesterday! I hope you didn’t hurt yourself to-o-oo badly. I feel such a fool! Lol

  BTW, what did happen? I can’t remember for the life of me! I know you ended up on the floor and I thought OMG when I saw that : (  and I probably should have helped you up, but good old Perry leapt into action before I could!

  So, hope you’re feeling better this morning! : )

  Jill xxx

  Oh, fuck-fuck-fuck… I left Jackie with as confident an air as I could, and went home to think things out.

  Jackie

  Sainsbury’s lay to the south of my house and Jill’s forming a neat little triangle, so Friday I drove the five minutes’ north west to her house to ask if she wanted to do some shopping with me. I was in a motherly mood, and now she wasn’t working I felt she was in need of some guidance in the art of housewifery. I hadn’t called before, as I naturally assumed she’d be at home.

  Jill’s house was in the better part of Surrey; a beautiful, five-bedroom Georgian affair, with white columns holding up the stately front porch, a neatly paved drive with room for at least three cars and wisteria climbing up and over the front of the ground floor. I rang the doorbell, and waited. I waited enough time for her to get from the furthest point of her house, but she didn’t open the door. I rang again and waited, but not a lot happened. So, I fished for my mobile and called her. Strangely and worryingly, her mobile appeared to be switched off, so I called the land line. It was mid-January and pretty nippy, and I stamped my feet as I waited for her to answer. She took ages to answer, and I was getting colder and more worried with every ring.

  “Hello?” a hoarse voice said.

  “Jill? Are you alright, sweet?” I asked anxiously. She sounded ill, in all honesty.

  “Yeah.” She croaked, but she wasn’t convincing.

  “It’s me ringing the doorbell, love. Can you answer it, or shall I use my spare key?” I was glad I had her key on my key-ring right then. I could hear her gruff, harsh breathing and she was really worrying me.

  “Oh! No, no. I can answer it.” It sounded like she was getting out of bed. “I’ll be there in a tick.” And she hung up.

  I rubbed my hands together and stamped a bit more, and finally she came to the door. She was very dishevelled and looked like she hadn’t showered or changed her PJ’s in quite a while. My surprise must have manifested itself on my face, as she smiled embarrassedly and stood quite a way back to allow me in.

  “Sorry. I haven’t been feeling too good lately.”

  “I can see that!” I remarked, and placed my lips on her forehead to see if she had a fever. Her forehead was cool, but I noticed strong BO wafting out from the neck of her dressing-gown.

  Jill pulled away gruffly. “I’m fine! It’s just a dose of the ’flu or something.”

  “You are most definitely not fine, Jill! Have you passed by a mirror lately? You look ghastly!” and smelt worse, but I thought it best not to mention that.

  She tutted and shuffled bandy-legged into the kitchen. She was wearing huge sheep slippers, Terry’s dressing gown and Snoopy PJ’s; they must be a pair that Penny had left behind, I presumed. I couldn’t imagine her actually buying them for herself, as she was more a Victoria’s Secret kind of lady. I followed her into the kitchen and saw something else that was so out of character for her; one holy, filthy mess. The dishwasher lay gaping, so full of dirty crockery that she’d had to start stock-piling in the sink. There w
ere empty packets of frozen dinners scattered about the work-tops, and a pyramid of dried, curly teabags on the draining board. And frankly, it stank to high heaven.

  “Wow! I love what you’ve done to the place.” I must have grimaced, as she opened the window above the sink and let a freezing draft waft in, waited a few seconds, then closed it again.

  “Better?” she inquired sarcastically.

  As Jill pottered languidly about, hunting for a clean mug for me and prising a dirty one for herself out of the sink, I watched slack-jawed. What on earth had happened to her in the space of less than a week? She waited, slouched on one hip with her arms folded, for the kettle to boil, yawning and sighing. I really had the urge to usher her out of that rat-hole and turn it back into the immaculate kitchen it usually was, but I held my place: she was obviously not a happy bunny and she needed a sympathetic ear, not a home-help.

  I began with the dreaded question. “Is it Terry?”

  Jill grunted a negative and shooed the question away.

  Good. Now the next dreaded question. “Is it Penny?”

  She turned her head to me and mouthed ‘no’.

  So far, so good. “How are your parents?”

  She wrinkled her nose and waggled her hand in ‘so-so’ fashion.

  “Okay, that’s three down, seventeen to go.”

  Silence.

  “Do I have to shove your head under the tap and give you the water torture? What the ruddy hell’s the matter with you?”

  The dim daylight shone through the kitchen window onto her face and I saw her