Love Is a Thief

by Claire Garber

  (Joanna, 42)

  ‘DIY—a contradiction when in a relationship because you can’t do it yourself. They won’t let you. They have to meddle. They always know best. Heaven forbid I want to put a shelf up, or try and fit our new washing machine. Should be called Do It Themselves. Love stole DIY.’

  (Penelope, 56)

  ‘I am getting a nose job. My boyfriend always told me only superficial people get cosmetic surgery. My nose makes me bloody unhappy. If it wasn’t for him I would have done something about it years ago. So now I am. My old nose is walking the plank!’ (Ana, 27)

  grow punctures and slow punctures

  What started out as a tiny idea had grown as big as the women who were now getting small. We had passed the midway point of Fat Camp and the female participants had been incredible. They had turned up. They had completed every challenge. They were losing weight and they were gaining happy. Some of the women had been so inspired by the change in their own lives that they’d set up mini Fat Camps back in their local areas; they were out championing other women to follow suit, taking back what love had stolen, being pirates of their own lives. The BBC had even done two reports on their progress and they’d been given special invites to judge an episode of Britain’s Got Talent. Things were already looking a lot lighter and brighter for the women of True Love’s Fat Camp. Today I joined them at Peter Parker’s Hyde Park Boot Camp.

  hyde park | 06:15

  I arrived to find a ten-man camera crew standing around drinking coffee, twenty Fat Campers in matching tracksuits, and Federico massaging people’s shoulders, handing out protein shakes and jumping on the spot before air punching like a non-Asian Jackie Chan on Red Bull.

  ‘Could everyone please start their warm-ups? Thank you very much, you pretty pieces of lard, you ever-reducing land masses, ever lightening the island that is England, becoming physical and emotional beacons of hope and empowerment for other really really really fat people.’

  I stood on the edge of the group and tried to copy the elaborate warm-up. They sat on the floor and started stretching. I did the same. I attempted leg stretches while listening to their laughter-infused chat, trying my hardest not to get mud or grass stains on my new Stella (tracksuit, not beer can).

  ‘Honestly! Look at us all!’ one said, bursting out laughing. ‘We actually do look like beached whales. That’s where the expression came from. It came from us!’

  ‘I was skinny before I met my husband and now look at me!’ another one said, struggling to get to her feet.

  ‘You were never skinny!’ someone else joked.

  ‘I was! I’ll bring photos tomorrow. I was a size 10. I played centre forward for the local women’s football team until I was 25.’

  ‘Can I ask what happened?’ I asked. ‘Why you think you started to gain weight?’

  ‘As if I know! I met a great guy then I just kept getting bigger, like that girl in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.’

  ‘You mean Violet Beauregarde?’ I asked, somewhat alarmed. Because Violet Beauregarde didn’t just get big. She got big and she got purple. It was terrifying to watch as an 8-year-old.

  ‘Yes, just like Violet Beauregarde,’ she confirmed, ‘but slower.’

  ‘And hopefully not purple,’ I muttered, to myself.

  ‘I’ll tell you what you were,’ interrupted Federico, correcting her stretch. ‘You were like a Slow Puncture, but in reverse. You were a Grow Puncture.’ They all burst out laughing.

  ‘But something must have happened for your shape to have changed,’ I persisted. ‘You fell in love and then what?’

  ‘Well, for me,’ offered the eldest, ‘I always wanted to treat my husband, still do. I love making him nice things to eat, I love spoiling him and I probably have loads of food in the house that I just wouldn’t buy otherwise.’

  ‘Me too,’ confirmed another. ‘I would not make a dessert just for myself. I probably wouldn’t even eat meat. But my husband thinks any meal without meat is a side salad. That just wasn’t how I ate before.’

  ‘And portion sizes. My portion sizes have got bigger. Before Fat Camp they were very similar to his. And women don’t need the same calories as men.’

  ‘But,’ whispered the youngest of the Fat Campers, a pretty brunette with quite extraordinary boobs, ‘there are some benefits of our current fat status …’

  ‘Oh, my God, there are benefits!’ they all agreed enthusiastically.

  ‘You know, he touched my arm the other day, during the warm-down. I actually got tingles.’ They all laughed.

  ‘Well, I can’t believe he hasn’t got a girlfriend,’ whispered a different camper.

  ‘I heard he did have,’ said another.

  ‘I heard he was married.’ Who were they talking about? They must realise Federico was gay? He was standing behind them applying Touche éclat to a pimple.

  ‘I don’t care if he’s married, divorced, gay or straight,’ said the fattest of the lot of them. ‘I’d happily spend the rest of my life lying under that Peter Parker.’ They all shrieked with laughter.

  ‘I’d get on him!’ screamed another.

  ‘We should all get on him!’

  ‘Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!’ they all panted.

  ‘NOOOOO!!!!!’ I yelled, hands over my ears, rocking backwards and forwards. ‘No! No! No! No! No! No!’

  Federico grabbed my hand and dragged me away from the startled-looking group.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he snapped at me. ‘Lying around screaming like that? Rocking backwards and forwards like the lone survivor from a bomb blast, sat in the debris of a shopping mall, all your friends lying around blown to pieces by a disillusioned youth bomber. Have you lost your tiny mind?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what happened. It’s just, well, did you hear how they talk about Peter Parker?’ Little tears pricked in the corners of my eyes.

  ‘Get a grip, Kate Winters! Since when did you become Penelope Prudey Pants? Fat Camp is allowed to have sexual feelings, for God’s sake! If they want to talk dirty about your precious Peter Parker then they can. They are slimming ladies and they can do as they ruddy well please. How dare you come to my Boot Camp and start yelping in the middle of a warm-up?’

  ‘You’re right, I’m sorry. It must be some kind of over-protective, stop talking about my childhood friend knee-jerk reaction, like an allergy, an allergic reaction to sexual talk about Peter Parker, like a Peter nut allergy, a pallery.’

  ‘Stop talking, Kat-kins. Stop talking. And please remember that warm-up is a time for contemplative thought and muscle preparation. Everybody knows that. It’s not a time for yelping and wailing. Shame on you!’ He stomped back to Fat Camp while I stood alone at the edge of the group. I could feel the eyes of Fat Camp burning into my back, probably trying to turn me into a Grow Puncture, bastards.

  hyde park | 06:30

  Peter Parker finally arrived. I say he arrived—he sprinted, at high speed, across the entire length of Hyde Park. I watched him approach. He ran like a racehorse; graceful, powerful and straight over to the perverted Fat Campers. He didn’t even come over to say hello. I went to wave but changed my mind halfway up.

  ‘Are we ready, ladies?’ he said, jogging on the spot. ‘Right, everyone down on the floor. We are going to do the same routine as yesterday: stretches, press-ups, squats, burpees then the 10K run.’ I had no idea what he was talking about but Federico signalled for me to get on the floor. I looked around to see Fat Camp had their legs in the air doing sit ups.

  ‘It’s muddy,’ I mouthed at Federico as he rolled his eyes and pretended he didn’t know me. The next thing I know I had been picked up and was once again being carried in the muscular arms of Peter Parker.

  ‘You are supposed to be working out, Kate,’ he said, walking me into the centre of the group, then kneeling down and slowly laying me out on the ground.

  ‘Peter, you always seem to be picking me up and carrying me somewhere.’

  ‘Carrying you metaphor
ically or literally? And you’re very light. It makes me look masculine and strong in front of all these ladies. It was you or Federico and he doesn’t smell as nice.’ He sat back on his heels, taking in my running outfit. ‘Do you like your presents? Does everything fit? Because it’s important to have the correct kit; good support for your feet and your—’ He looked at my boobs then stared at the sky.

  ‘Everything is the right size. Thank you.’

  ‘Do you understand the exercise routine?’

  ‘Not one bit.’

  ‘Then follow me,’ he said, about to jump to his feet, then stopping himself. ‘Oh, your strap is twisted,’ he said, leaning back down to straighten the strap of my perfectly fitting sports bra. He hovered above me as he fiddled with it, his face directly above mine, his lips mere inches from my face. When he’d finished he realised how close we were, but he didn’t pull away like a fridge magnet. He just looked down at me, exactly where he was. I found myself staring back, into his blue eyes, into Peter Parker. Then he leant down, very slowly, and very deliberately, and he kissed my cheek, lingering there, his face against mine, cheek to cheek. I could smell the washing powder on his clothes, his skin, his shampoo; it was like a Peter Parker scent explosion in my nose. My heart felt as if it were doing something calamitous in my chest and I hoped to God Peter Parker couldn’t hear it. Then ‘TWENTY MORE, PEOPLE!’ was screamed in my ear and Peter jumped back up to his feet. ‘Then I want you all to sprint to the Serpentine and back. Last one back will have to do it all over again and you know I mean it.’ The Fat Campers started scrabbling to their feet. ‘Go! Go! Go! Go!!’ he yelled as they all sprinted off. But I lay completely still on the ground, staring up at the morning London sky. I touched my hand to my face where I could still feel his kiss; the kiss of Peter Parker, the boy who never smiles.

  a friend in need

  As the Fat Campers left with Federico to film their post-workout video diaries for True Love’s YouTube channel, Peter and I went to have coffee. We found an empty park bench. We sat down. He slung his arm along the back of the bench, absent-mindedly playing with the hood of my tracksuit. It made my neck tingle, wondering if at any moment his skin would touch mine. I’d only completed half the Boot Camp but had managed to end up sweaty and crazy-haired. I would have paid good money for a hand mirror, a hairbrush and a couple of minutes of privacy to smarten up. I wondered if I would ever look as glamorous as the sprinting, problem-solving goddess that is Anneka Rice. Peter didn’t look puffed out at all. He looked shower fresh, handsome and tall; a tingle-creating triathlete dressed in tiny swatches of Nike.

  The reason I’d asked Peter Parker for coffee was work-related. I needed his advice and I hoped that today he would be as prolific and prophetic as Peter normally was. But as he affectionately tucked some of my crazy hair-frizz behind my ears I struggled to focus on the work at hand and not on my overwhelming desire to throw myself on the ground on the off chance he’d give me another kiss. You see, I wanted to help someone who probably didn’t want my help. The someone in question was Jenny Sullivan. The chances of her listening to me were zero. So I needed another way, or more specifically I needed another brain. Because I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen that kiss. There was a code of conduct in Liberty’s Menswear Department and Jenny’s husband had crossed the line. I wish someone had helped me when Gabriel had crossed that line. I wish someone had stuck their oar in, given me their ten pennies’ worth, confirmed that the situation definitely wasn’t OK. So it was my duty to help Jenny Sullivan. It was my duty to help her help herself.

  ‘So just to clarify, Kate,’ Peter said calmly, taking a sip from his coffee. He was focused and handsome in a way I never seem to achieve—not that I want to be considered a handsome lady, just purposeful. ‘There is this nameless person—’ I decided anonymity would be professional; it’s what Anneka would have done ‘—and you have decided that you want to find a way to help change their life but make them think they decided upon this change themselves?’ Concise and brilliant.

  ‘Exactly, Peter,’ I said, nodding along with a smug smile. ‘That is exactly what I want to do.’

  ‘You want to change someone’s life because in your opinion they would be happier living it a different way, in your opinion?’ That sounded a teeny bit more manipulative than I would have liked. ‘Even though they might actually be happy with the life that they have chosen for themselves.’ Is this how Hitler started?

  ‘The thing is, Peter, sometimes people are scared to admit what is staring them in the face. They’re scared of change; scared of the unknown. So they just need a bit of help taking the first step. I want to be the step.’ Hitler didn’t want to be a step. He wanted to be an all-powerful master of the human race.

  ‘So how are you going to show this nameless person the error of their ways? And what is it that you want them to change? What if they’re not capable of making a change? Or don’t want to?’

  ‘Well, what’s currently going on in their life is not to be envied; pretending everything is perfect and complete when clearly it’s messed up and empty. Just because you tell everyone a thousand times a day how great your life is doesn’t make it so. Sometimes it’s better to just throw your hands in the air and say, “I’m scared, I’m in pain, things really haven’t turned out the way I wanted them to and I don’t know what to do.” My mum always says, “Do unto others as you wish to have done to yourself,” so that’s what I’m trying to do.’

  ‘Your mum says that?’ He frowned and removed his arm from behind me. He looked out across the park. I also looked out across the park. We were like Greek philosophers, pondering, pausing, taking a moment and gazing. Move over, Socrates.

  Peter turned to face me. ‘Is this about me, Kate?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Because you think I should be living my life a different way?’ He was glaring at me. ‘Because I promise you, Kate, you know nothing about my life and you know nothing about the choices and circumstances that got me here.’

  ‘Peter, I never said that. I don’t think that, I just—’

  ‘And they were good choices,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘They were really good choices. Just because I am self-sufficient and self-contained doesn’t mean there is anything wrong with me. And under the circumstances there was no other way I could have been. And I like it, actually, I like who I am. I’m not frightened of change,’ he said, poking his own chest. ‘I make change. I am change!’ What the hell was he talking about? Where was this coming from? Where was it going? This didn’t feel like ancient prophetic Greece. It felt like the bloody crucifixion when Jesus got all strung up and it totally wasn’t his bloody fault. ‘And I have never once judged you, Kate, and your choices and mistakes. Yet you see fit to judge me and my life, like your vision of the world is the only correct one. I don’t even know why I am surprised really—’ He started packing up his sports kit ready to leave. ‘You, Winters, always think you know what’s best for other people, always do what the hell you want.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Kate, you can’t keep focusing on me like this. You can’t. You’ve been doing this since we were kids. Trying to save me or help me or change me. You need to take a step back. We both need to take a big step back. You need to focus on your own issues, not constantly trying to piece me back together after Mum’s death. She died, OK. She died. I am over it. You need to get over it.’ He finished packing his bag, then sat staring out at the park. ‘I think it was mistake,’ he finally said, ‘to get back in touch with you. It was mistake.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘It’s not good for me.’

  ‘I’m not good for you? Peter?’

  He wouldn’t look at me. His jaw was clenched.

  ‘I hope everything continues to go well with your Love-Stolen Dreams column.’ He kissed me lightly on the cheek before getting up and walking off across the park. He didn’t even take his coffee wi
th him, leaving it on the bench next to me.

  ‘Well, you really took the wind out of his sails!’ Chad said, appearing from literally nowhere and sitting himself down on the bench. ‘Although I can see his confusion. You didn’t exactly spell out that you were trying to help Jenny.’ I looked at him with surprise. ‘Federico likes to share,’ he qualified. ‘Although I’d rather he twatting didn’t. And she won’t appreciate your help, Kate. I can tell you that for free. She made her choice. She gave up one thing so she could have something else. Her husband, her marriage, it’s part of her twatting brand, brand Jenny. And she would stab her grandmother if it meant keeping her career on track. I wouldn’t want to be the person to take that down.’

  ‘I don’t want to take her down. I want to help her.’

  ‘The first thing you need to realise is that you can’t have it all, Kate. LSD should have shown you that. The magazine’s never been so successful because it’s impossible to have it all. We don’t live in a twatting fairy tale, Kate, Jenny made her choice; she lives with his infidelity and she has the lifestyle and success she wants.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I don’t believe this is what she wants and I don’t believe you can’t have it all.’

  ‘Well, she won’t appreciate your efforts, Kate, like a certain someone who’s been sat in our office since 7 a.m. this morning.’ He picked up Peter’s coffee and started gulping it down. ‘Those fatties are doing well, aren’t they?’ he said, leaning across me to grab a handful of my breakfast muffin.

  ‘You were watching Boot Camp?’

  ‘I watch all their training sessions, Kate. And don’t look so twatting surprised. I do give a twat what happens at my magazine. I tell you, my old mum would have loved this,’ he said, pointing at Fat Camp, who were laughing in the distance with the camera crews. ‘She was terrified of sport, didn’t want to look ridiculous in front of my old man. But if she’d had this, all these other ladies to be with, I think it would have made a difference. When you have money, Kate, you can always buy what you need: personal trainers, gym subscriptions, twatting therapists and dieticians. You can even buy love, or at least sex but it’s the same twatting thing. Money is the key to any lock. But without it, well, people need things like this. And I think Fat Camp have worked well hard. We should give them a treat, nothing sugary of course, something to make them feel glam.’