Weightless

by Michele Gorman

  ‘Your parents pay me to talk about nutrition.’

  ‘And look how successful that’s been,’ she said. Then, noting my expression: ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean that you’re not a good dietician. I’m sure you are. You’re just dealing with a very difficult client.’

  I sighed. ‘Kate. Don’t you want help to change the things you’re finding difficult right now?’

  She thought about this for a moment. ‘I don’t see how eating my veggies or drinking herbal tea is going to do that. Even if I was thin, Ariadne would still make my life miserable.’

  ‘It’s not about being thin. It’s about being fit and healthy. That could give you more confidence and then you wouldn’t be such an easy target for the bullies.’

  ‘Look at me, Ms. Markham. I mean really look at me.’

  I did as she asked, taking in the dark curly hair that hung like an overused janitor’s mop around her face and the teenage acne painted across her forehead and chin. Her school uniform was at least two sizes too big and I knew her weekend clothes were no better – baggy combat trousers and shapeless tunics. They were meant to hide her size but only called attention to it. ‘I’m looking at an unhappy girl who’d feel very differently with a bit of confidence.’

  ‘And where’s that confidence supposed to come from? How can I not feel like crap when they call me Cakey Katie and pick apart every single thing about me? Tell me that. Please. I’m listening.’

  I wanted to put my arms around her and squeeze until her world was brighter. But it wasn’t going to be that easy. ‘I’ve talked to your mum.’

  Kate rolled her eyes.

  ‘No, please listen to me. She’s said that it’s okay for us to have a day out together, if you’ll agree. Will you trust me?’

  She shrugged. ‘What have I got left to lose?’

  Usually I could leave my work at the office, but I was still thinking about Kate when I met Jack at his flat for our film night. Of course Mrs. Clements’ diabetes and wheat-intolerant William’s bloating were important to me. I was professionally committed to helping them. But I’d stood in Kate’s shoes. With her it was personal.

  Jack kissed me hello, then waved the DVD cases in my face. ‘I’ve got Four Weddings and a Funeral or Love, Actually.’

  ‘Is that by choice, or did you lose a bet?’

  His face fell. ‘I got them from LoveFilm. I figured you’d like them.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m more of a horror girl. Or psychological thrillers. I’m sorry. But we can watch one if you want to.’

  ‘No, no, that’s okay. I wouldn’t want to put you through that.’

  ‘You hate them too, don’t you?’

  ‘Can’t stand the bloody things.’

  ‘And you’d have suffered for me? You’re really very sweet.’ We crashed on to the sofa together, arms around each other with my legs tucked under his. ‘What shall we do now that we haven’t got a film to entertain us?’ Cuddling was just fine with me.

  ‘Play us a song.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  He gestured towards the far wall, where his housemate’s electric piano sat. ‘You used to play beautifully. I can still remember that Christmas concert.’

  ‘But it’s February. Christmas carols would be inappropriate.’ My heart began to thump.

  ‘Then play something else. I’m a very appreciative audience.’

  Mum had made me take piano lessons when I was about nine. I hated them. The teacher would only let me play scales. I didn’t even do that very well.

  I knew I couldn’t go on with the charade forever. I was lucky he hadn’t already found me out. I owed him the truth. I could feel my eyes prick with tears imagining his reaction. It would be the end of us. I looked at his profile as he lay there stroking my arm.

  I just couldn’t do it yet. ‘I don’t play anymore.’

  ‘How come?’

  In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘I had an accident…’ I stared through the doorway into the kitchen, willing inspiration to come. ‘I, er, dropped a food processor on my hand.’

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘I was moving it on a shelf. They’re very heavy you know.’

  ‘I know, we’ve got one.’

  And thank goodness it was in plain sight on the kitchen worktop or I might not have thought of an alibi. ‘Anyway, I don’t like to talk about it. I don’t play anymore.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, making me feel terrible. Then he kissed me. ‘I can think of a few other ways to entertain ourselves, but I wouldn’t want to feel like a sex object.’

  ‘Then why not make me feel like a sex object instead?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  As Jack and I kissed on the sofa, I opened my eyes and noticed Felix stretched out along the back cushions. He was staring at me in judgment, as if he’d never lied a day in his nine lives.

  Chapter 7

  We were at dinner a few nights later when suddenly I saw a familiar face coming towards us. Jack jumped up before the bloke had even reached the table.

  ‘Mike Evans, how are you?’ Jack said. ‘God, how long has it been? Two, three years? Are you still working for The Independent?’

  Mike Evans nodded, clapping Jack on the back. ‘Are you still with Fox?’ As they caught up, lots more half hugs and back slaps followed. Meanwhile I watched the cracks start to appear in my façade.

  Mike Evans was at school with us. He was one of the lucky ones who levitated above the cliques. Being friendly with everyone meant he definitely knew Christy. The question was: how well did he know her? Had they kept in touch after she moved to France?

  If I got through this, I promised myself, I would tell Jack everything. As I sat there I saw how horrible it would be for him to find out from someone else. I couldn’t do that to him, even if it meant the end of us.

  ‘Mike, do you remember Christy Blake?’ Jack was clearly very excited to see Mike, though I didn’t remember them being particularly close in school.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. Then he realized Jack was gesturing to me. ‘Christy?’

  ‘Hi Mike, it’s been a long time.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mike asked. ‘Are you two…?’

  Jack grinned wildly. ‘We are. Amazing, huh? We met up at the reunion. Did you go? I didn’t see you, but then we left early. We’ve been together ever since. Like I said, amazing, huh?’

  Mike nodded, still staring at me. ‘I was at the reunion, mate.’

  He knew. I could see it in his eyes. Or if he wasn’t quite sure, at least he suspected. I could only pray that he wouldn’t say anything in front of Jack. Please, just give me the chance to tell him myself.

  Mike hovered at the table. I certainly wasn’t going to ask him to join us. It seemed that Jack was reluctant to let him crash our date too.

  ‘How’s your brother doing?’ Mike finally asked me.

  ‘He’s fine, thanks. Doing just fine.’

  ‘Is he?’ Mike shook his head. ‘I thought you only had a sister.’

  I don’t know what possessed me to utter the next words. ‘Oh, you mean my sister. Yes, of course, well, she was my sister. That was before the operation. Gender reassignment.’ I mouthed. ‘We always refer to her as him now. So he’s doing just fine. Thanks for asking.’

  ‘You look different, Christy.’

  ‘Well, you know, ten years is a long time.’

  He nodded. ‘It is, but we saw each other just last year. Don’t you remember?’

  I froze.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t remember.’

  ‘Funny. Most women remember spending the weekend with me.’

  ‘Christy? What’s going on?’ Jack asked quietly.

  ‘I’m sorry, mate, I don’t know what she’s told you, but this isn’t Christy Blake. Believe me, I remember Christy.’

  Jack was quiet for a moment. ‘Mike, can you leave us alone please? It was nice to see you.’

  Mike made a speedy exit, as any assassin would.


  Jack’s thoughts were written all over his face. I couldn’t keep the tears from leaking out. ‘I am so sorry, Jack. I meant to tell you, really I did. I’ve been so stupid. When you mistook me for Christy at the reunion it seemed so harmless.’

  ‘Just please stop,’ he said. ‘Don’t say anything more.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Of course you’re right and I don’t blame you for not wanting to hear me out. I could never be with someone who’d lied to me like I’ve lied to you. I’m not surprised you hate me.’ I knew I wasn’t helping my cause but I couldn’t stop myself. All the anger at how stupid I’d been came pouring out. It was too late now anyway. ‘What kind of person does a thing like this?! I’d feel exactly the same way if I were you. I’d despise you for betraying the trust we’ve built. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Would you really?’ he asked, his voice cracking.

  I felt like such a bitch for making him feel like that. ‘Yes, I really would. I’d hate someone for doing that to me. Honesty has to be the foundation of a relationship. Without it you’ve got nothing. I don’t think I could ever forgive him.’

  ‘Well then, I guess there’s nothing left for either of us to say. We both know how we’d feel about it.’ He got up, carefully placed his napkin beside his plate. ‘I’m sorry, Christy. Or whatever your name is.’

  ‘Annabel,’ I said to his retreating back. ‘My name’s Annabel.’

  There were tears in his eyes when he turned. ‘Names don’t matter now.’

  Then he walked out of the restaurant and out of my life.

  Chapter 8

  I called Jack at least a dozen times that night. At first it went through to voicemail. Eventually he just turned off his phone. It served me right. What did I think he’d do when he found I’d gone out with him and (ugh) slept with him under false pretenses?

  I’d have done anything to go back to the reunion and set the record straight at the start. That’s what I kept thinking about.

  I just didn’t know where to find a time machine.

  Kate knew something was wrong when we met on Oxford Street to put Operation Kate into action. ‘You’re not your usual perky self today, Ms. Markham. What’s up?’ she asked as we made our way to Selfridges.

  ‘Oh don’t worry about me. I’m fine.’ Aside from the broken heart and virulent case of self-judgment.

  ‘You’re a liar.’

  Which was exactly why I was struggling not to sob on her shoulder and howl at passing buses. I’d been so stupid to lie to Jack. He deserved admiration and respect, and what had I done? I’d played him for a fool. I felt sick thinking about how I’d treated him. ‘I’ll be fine, I promise,’ I told Kate. ‘Nothing that a nice day out won’t mend.’ Another lie.

  ‘Are we having a surrogate mother-daughter day?’

  ‘No, you’re having a makeover.’

  ‘You’ve been watching too much telly,’ she said. ‘Do you really think Ariadne will leave me alone because I’ve got a bouncy new haircut?’

  ‘No. Honestly, Kate? I don’t think Ariadne will ever leave you alone. I’m sorry to say that but in my experience, bullies like her feed on making other people feel like shite. She won’t go away, but you can do something to make her less important in your life.’

  ‘Oh, and what’s that?’

  ‘You can make friends, Kate, surround yourself with people who like and support you. As much as I hate to admit that looks matter to teenagers, you know they do. They always have and maybe they always will. So until we evolve to be universally kind to our fellow man, why not at least give yourself a fighting chance?’

  I hated saying these things to Kate. They shouldn’t be true. We should be judged for our kindness, humor and intelligence. But often we’re not and it seemed cruel to deny reality when a young girl’s happiness was at stake. ‘It isn’t that people will like you because you’ve got a nice hairstyle or clever makeup. You’re no more worthwhile because you do. It’s just that they might take the chance to get to know you. Teenagers are shallow creatures. I think you’ve got the chance to use that to your advantage if you’re willing to try.’

  She held my gaze. ‘You’ve always said that it’s what’s inside that counts.’

  ‘Inside is what counts. Don’t ever make the mistake of equating looks with worth. Doing that means you’re relying on other people’s judgment for your own self-respect. Only fools do that. But sometimes the packaging has to be right for a person to see what’s inside. You wouldn’t reach for a chocolate if it was wrapped in loo roll, would you?’

  ‘Are you saying that I’m poo?’

  ‘Don’t stretch the analogy. I’m saying that there might be the most delicious chocolate inside but if the wrapper isn’t appealing, you may never reach for it. Do you see what I mean?’

  ‘I guess. What kind of packaging are we talking about here? Will I have to turn into one of those vain girls who spend hours getting ready?’

  She wouldn’t do that any more than I would have. ‘Ten extra minutes in the morning, I promise, no more.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she pouted. ‘It still sounds like too much work.’

  I had one nuclear warhead and it was time to use it. ‘I didn’t believe your mum when she said you wouldn’t agree to do it. But I guess she’s right. She does know you best.’

  Kate’s dark blue eyes flashed. ‘Bollocks to that. Mum hasn’t had a clue since I was about ten.’ She stared at the throng in front of us as we waited to cross the road. ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘It can’t hurt.’

  Grinning, I linked her arm with mine.

  ‘Ms. Markham, please don’t go all BBC drama on me, okay?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  We were just in time for the hair appointment that I’d optimistically made. ‘So Kate,’ said the slender young stylist, gently running her fingers through her dark tangle. ‘We’re updating your look, right?’

  ‘I’ve got a look?’

  The stylist smiled. ‘Let’s call it a relaxed look.’

  ‘I like the sound of relaxed. You’re not going to cut it short, are you?’

  ‘I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do. It’s your hair after all. If I were you though, I’d trim it so that it’s not covering your face so much, and give the curls some definition.’

  Kate looked terrified but listened to the stylist. Maybe if I wielded scissors over her head in our sessions she’d listen to me too.

  By the time we left over an hour later, Kate was smiling. ‘I do like it,’ she said shyly, touching the deep brown shoulder-length curls that framed her face. ‘It’s not too overdone, right?’

  ‘Definitely not. It looks completely natural. You’ve got really beautiful hair, Kate.’

  Her smile widened. ‘I had no idea they could get the frizz out so easily. What’s next?’

  ‘A tiny bit of makeup. Just a light foundation to help with any spots, and maybe a tinted lip balm. Your Mum doesn’t want you to use eye makeup and you don’t need it anyway. Afterwards we’ll go to John Lewis for a school uniform that fits. Are you ready?’

  Kate seemed to walk a little taller into the Starbucks where we went to celebrate after. Of course a haircut and a bit of makeup weren’t going to erase years of torment. Real life didn’t work like that. Ariadne probably wouldn’t stop picking on Kate because bullies were tenacious little farts. But if Kate’s new look persuaded even one of her classmates to talk to her, they’d see what a great girl she was and there was a chance that she’d find her own Laura Dunstable.

  ‘Are you going to make me drink twigs and berries?’ Kate asked as we stood in the queue.

  ‘Let’s compromise. Chai tea latte? I’m buying. Well, technically your Mum’s buying.’ Kate’s mum was more than happy to fund her makeover. I did feel sorry for her. It probably wasn’t easy having a happy teenage girl, let alone an unhappy one.

  ‘Then I’ll have a chai tea latte,’ said Kate. ‘Now will you tell me what’s wrong?’

  ‘I told yo
u, I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re so clearly not fine, Ms. Markham.’

  I sighed. I would not unburden on my fifteen-year-old client. ‘Let’s just say I’m trying to get hold of someone who won’t answer his phone.’

  ‘Then email him.’

  ‘I don’t have his email address.’

  ‘What’s his name? I’ll google him.’

  Could it really be that easy? ‘Jack Winslow. He works for Fox.’

  She tapped her phone. Scroll, tap, scroll, tap. ‘Nah, I don’t see him.’

  ‘He did say he was only a little cog in the wheel at work.’

  ‘Try Facebook. You’re on there, right? Twitter? WhatsApp, Instagram?’

  With each name I shook my head.

  ‘I thought you Olds were all on Facebook.’

  ‘First of all, I’m only twenty-six. And secondly, I never bothered with it.’ The last thing I wanted was for girls like Christy to have 24-hour cyber-access to me.

  ‘Chances are that he’s on there,’ she said. ‘You could sign up and send him a message.’

  ‘Thanks, maybe I will.’

  I knew I would because I was desperate to talk to Jack. I couldn’t shake the need to explain my behavior.

  So, with shaking fingers I joined the Facebook generation (apparently comprised entirely of Olds). I added a photo so he’d know who I was, and typed his name into the search box. More than a dozen Jack Winslows appeared down the screen. I could eliminate a few right away, like the portly man who lived in Seattle and the Jack Winslow who’s profile picture showed a very fit torso. Not that my Jack wasn’t fit, but his was more of a two-pack than a six-pack and he wasn’t the type to brag.

  Then I saw one who might be him. The photo wasn’t clear enough to know for sure, but when I clicked on his name, I saw our school name appear. My Jack. The Message button sat at the top of his profile, daring me to go ahead.

  I typed quickly and hit enter before I could chicken out.

  Dear Jack, will you please talk to me? I love you.