by Jane Fallon
It occurs to me that this morning that no one gave me a second glance. In fact, they all did their best not to look at me, in case that would result in them having to engage in my plight. I wasn’t a fat woman attempting to get fit, and therefore an object of ridicule. I was a fat woman running for a bus, something that is apparently much more socially acceptable.
It’s a revelation.
6
Surprise surprise! Saskia texts me to tell me she has an appointment with Wonder Man. I remind her about the offer of a coffee after (if she wonders why I’m so persistent, she doesn’t ask. She probably just thinks I don’t have many friends, and she’d be right. I’m one of those classic ‘lost touch with her female friends once she settled down’ women. I hate to admit it, but it’s true. Robert never had that much interest in my friends and I just sort of let the friendships slide in favour of new couply acquaintances – usually where the man was someone Robert had a connection with and I would have to engage in a slightly forced camaraderie with the wife. I have no doubt about who gets to keep them all in the event of a divorce. Not that I care. I’d take one Myra over ten of Robert’s friends any day) and she accepts graciously.
I square it with Myra that I can take time out (hospital appointment that I somehow, conveniently, forgot to tell her about). I promise to work an extra hour or so at the end of the day. Saskia and I have agreed to meet in the Pain Quotidien in Highgate close to the clinic. I hop on a bus outside work and I’m there in less than ten minutes, casually sauntering along as if I’ve just nipped around the corner.
Saskia is already sitting outside when I arrive, nursing something in a large, handleless cup. She smiles when she sees me.
‘Hey!’
Have I mentioned that I hate people who say ‘Hey’?
‘Hi. How was it?’
‘Amazing. And he’s taped it all up, look!’ She rolls up the sleeve of her T-shirt to show me the blue kinetic tape. ‘It’s actually not agony for the first time in weeks. I owe you big time.’
Have I told you I hate people who say ‘big time’?
I wave the waiter over and order a latte. We make a bit of small talk about our aches and pains and how shit it is to be getting older. I still don’t really understand why she took me up on my offer but then she says:
‘How long have you and Robert been married?’ Just like that, out of nowhere. Ah! So what she wants is info. She wants to torture herself with all the details of her lover’s home life that he won’t share with her. I prepare to be interrogated. Remind myself: big eyes and no air of chippiness. Sweet, open and trusting.
‘Eighteen years,’ I say, smiling, as if that thought makes me happy. ‘Nearly. It’s our anniversary in a couple of months.’ Might as well throw her a crumb for nothing.
‘Amazing. Are you doing anything special?’
Remember, she needs to feel sorry for me, not like she’s going to have to fight me to the death for her man. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Robert’s so busy …’
‘They do all blend into one after a while, don’t they? Josh always says …’
I miss the rest of the sentence because all I’m thinking is, ‘Who the fuck is Josh?’ And then it all comes flooding back, Robert moaning because the broadcaster had hired Saskia’s husband as the show’s new producer. Bleating on about how she’d get all the best storylines now. I’ve met him. I’ve been to her house. Joshua, of the brief Wikipedia mention, is Saskia’s husband, Josh.
‘Josh’s your husband?’
She nods. ‘Didn’t you know? Eight years.’
We’re interrupted by a couple coming over to ask Saskia for a selfie. She manages to be both gracious and patronizing at the same time.
‘You’re even more beautiful in real life,’ the woman gushes, and I have to stop myself from grimacing.
The couple move off, happy, and Saskia gives me a ‘What can you do? Is it my fault I’m so popular’ look.
‘You don’t have any kids, do you?’ Now I’m starting to be as nosey as her, but I really do want to know if I’m not the only collateral damage. I’m pretty sure there are none, but for all I know Josh has three from a previous marriage and Wikipedia never thought to mention it.
‘No. At least not yet. I’m in no rush. Not that I want to leave it till it’s too late but, you know, the time has just never seemed quite right …’
I zone out, imagine swatting her away. When I tune back in she’s still talking.
‘… didn’t have her first one till she was forty-three and it all went off without incident, but you just never know, do you? You just have the one girl, right?’
I snap back to attention. ‘Georgia. She’s off to uni this year. Well, hopefully … A levels, you know.’ I could bore for England about George and everything that’s so special and unique about her but I force myself to leave it there. I’ll let Saskia play the role of over-talker.
‘I bet you’ll miss her. It must be terrible, after all those years of having to think about their every move and then, suddenly, you have no idea what they’re up to. Not … I don’t mean she’ll be getting herself in trouble or anything like that. I just …’
I feel my eyes prick with tears. Swallow noisily. I’m trying not to think about Georgia moving away. Not with everything else that’s going on. I grunt an assent and Saskia looks at me with – what looks like – genuine sympathy.
‘Still, you know what they say. Life for a couple really starts again once the kids have gone. Maybe it’ll be like a second honeymoon, haha!’
I don’t even dignify that with a reply. Bitch.
And, by the way, I really can’t stand people who actually say the words ‘haha’ instead of laughing. Especially when it’s in response to something they’ve said themselves.
Here’s what I think about Saskia. If I didn’t know what I know about her, I would probably like her well enough. Not enough that I’d want to pursue a friendship, but enough that if I bumped into her at a party I wouldn’t want to slit my wrists. She’s a bit irritating but, on the surface, she seems to be a nice person. But I do know. And that makes all the difference.
I need to offer her more bait. ‘I can never really get Robert to take a holiday,’ I say sadly.
‘Well, filming is a bit relentless. How about in the summer break, though? He must have time then.’
I shrug, look down at the table. ‘I sometimes think it’s that he doesn’t want to. I don’t know … I shouldn’t …’
That’s got her. ‘No. Go on.’
‘Well, that we’re not enough for him, me and Georgia. Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this …’
She’s loving it. Ears pricked up. Hanging on my every word. ‘I’m sure that’s not true. What makes you think it might be?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing. Really. I think these things just happen when you’ve been married a long time. We’ll come out the other end of it, we always do.’ I blink back imaginary tears. Or maybe they’re real. I’m not sure at this point. The truth is that even though I’m done with Robert that doesn’t mean I’m not mourning the end of my marriage.
‘I haven’t even asked you what you do,’ she says, changing the subject as I down the last of my coffee.
‘I work in a bakery,’ I say. I wait for the customary downward eye-flick at my ‘curves’ and, to give her credit, she doesn’t do it. ‘Serving, obviously. Not …’
‘Which one?’
‘It’s private. I mean, the place is privately owned. Not that I’m not going to tell you where I work. It’s not part of a chain or anything. Over there …’ I wave my hand in the general direction of work but don’t add that it’s a couple of miles away.
‘God, how can you stand the temptation?’ I imagine she’s thinking that, clearly, I can’t.
‘I really need to get in shape as it is.’ She runs her hands over her perfectly flat belly as she says this. Waits, as people like her always do, for me to contradict her. And, because I am being Mrs Sweet and Unthreatening, I f
orce myself to do so.
‘You look like you’re in pretty good shape to me.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Looks can be deceiving. I’m one of those fat skinny people. I’m happy with the size I am but I have no definition.’
‘That’s better than being a fat fat person like me.’ I nearly add ‘haha’ but I can’t bring myself to.
‘Oh, but you’re not …’ she starts to say, and then she stops because even she must know it would be ridiculous to finish that sentence.
Let me just put my size in context here because God knows what you’re imagining. I’m big, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not at the can’t get out of bed without a crane stage. I am not yet familiar with extensions for airplane seatbelts, but they are starting to feel a bit snug. I have too much of everything – boobs, backside, thighs, upper arms – but it is all still identifiable, not yet one big, amorphous blob. I’m large enough that the first insult anyone reaches for when I piss them off – as I did yesterday when I accidentally barged in front of someone in the bus queue – is ‘fat’, though. Fat cow. Fat bitch. I’m a size 18/20. Fifteen stone and change when I last checked, although I don’t do that too often. When people look at me they see fat first and everything else second.
By the time I have to leave to get back to work, me and Saskia are best buddies, even though it’s taken all my self-control not to lean over the table and throttle her. And I’d say ‘haha’ while I did it too.
‘We should do this again,’ I say. Luckily, it looks as if Saskia is hooked on the idea of this private insight into her boyfriend.
‘Definitely. I’ll let you know when I book my next appointment.’
‘Lovely.’
She actually leans over and hugs me as we say goodbye.
‘Later,’ she says as I walk off, and I pause for a moment, assuming there’s the rest of a sentence to follow, which, of course, there isn’t, so I’m kind of left in suspended animation until I realize, and off I go, waving a hand behind me.
If I didn’t know what I know there would be no reason I wouldn’t tell Robert that I’ve befriended one of his colleagues. It’s a tricky one, though, because I’m assuming Saskia won’t mention it, as it’d send him into a panic that he was about to be found out. I’m pretty sure he’d ask her not to meet up with me again. Then again, she must think that I’ll innocently tell him. So, on balance, I decide that’s the safest bet.
I wait till we’re eating dinner, the three of us, and then drop it in as casually as I can. I do it with a smile on my face so he doesn’t think I’m about to attack him.
‘Oh, guess who I saw today? Saskia.’
There’s a moment when I think he might choke on his risotto but then, actor that he is, he composes himself. ‘Really, where?’
‘We had coffee. It’s a long story. Well, it isn’t, but it’s not that interesting.’
‘I didn’t even realize you knew each other.’
‘We don’t, really. She’s the one I spilt the drink on at the party.’
‘Right.’ I can see that he’s dying to ask more but he doesn’t want to give himself away.
‘She seems OK. Bit full of herself, obviously. Talks a lot. It’s a bit hard to get a word in,’ I add, to amuse myself.
Robert makes a laughing noise that doesn’t really feel like a laugh. ‘She does a bit.’
‘Did you wash my white top?’ Georgia says out of nowhere. And that’s it, subject closed. I imagine he’s thinking he can’t bring it up again with me because I might start to wonder why.
7
I’m finding it frustrating that most of what I’m doing is waiting. Waiting for opportunities to try to reconnect with Robert, waiting to see if Saskia contacts me again, waiting for my pitiful efforts at weight loss to pay off. I need to make something happen.
Having a friendly chat about football every week or so is not going to rekindle the embers of our marriage. Especially now the season is all but over. I have to be more proactive or, before I know it, October will have come and Robert and Saskia will have run off into the autumn sunset without a care in the world. I’ve tried making a list of all the things Robert and I used to do together but, beyond hunting for antiques and watching sport, I can’t really think of anything concrete. We just got on. End of story.
I suppose that I was different then. Not just in appearance. Less stressed. More confident. But then, so was he. Different, that is. More laid back. Less worried about how the world perceived him. Whenever I think back to the two of us in the early days, I always see us sitting outside a café, falling about laughing. We used to spend hours nursing a coffee, people-watching. Making up stories about the other customers or the strangers walking past. We used to try to imagine what they were saying, making up little dialogues, doing the voices. It sounds stupid now, but I can picture it like a snapshot of when I was happiest. I don’t know when we stopped doing that.
I decide that the only thing I can take control of is myself. Since my near-miss-with-the-bus revelation I’ve come up with a strategy. Every afternoon now as I walk the first part of the journey home from work, I lag back, a couple of hundred metres from the first stop, until I hear the bus coming and then, as it rattles past me I start to run, arms flailing. I always miss it by a mile. And then, when I have got my breath back (a good five minutes), I huff loudly, as if I’ve decided to walk, and then I do the same again with stop number two. I only do it twice. That’s enough to leave me sweating profusely, legs burning, face red for the rest of my journey on board.
The first few times I can’t help glancing around to see who is sniggering. But, as before, no one is even looking at me, except with sympathy because I didn’t make it to the stop on time.
I’m a mass of chafe marks, blisters, unidentifiable under-boob rashes. My knees feel as if someone has taken a sledgehammer to them. Some mornings my calves refuse straight out to allow me to do anything but hobble.
I know I need help but I’m not ready to ask for it yet. Not ready for the surprised looks and the stifled laughs behind my back. Even if I had the faintest idea who to ask.
So I add the first morning bus stop into my routine. Start packing a rucksack with a change of clothes and a towel. Keep my secret to myself.
Myra, though, witch that she is, knows something is up. She badgers me relentlessly. She is like a pig with a truffle when it comes to secrets. She knows they’re there and she’d going to get to them if it kills her.
At first I think she thinks I’m having an early menopause. How else to explain the sweats and the need for a change of clothes every morning? Then, when I have made it clear that’s not the case, she assumes I must have some terrible problems at home (which I do, but of course she doesn’t know the half of it) and that I’ve moved into a grotty bedsit with no running water but am too ashamed to admit it. I’m running out of ways to put her straight when, one morning, she says:
‘Have you lost weight?’
‘I don’t think so …’ I splutter.
She stops what she’s doing – which is cleaning the coffee machine – and the jangle of the armful of bangles she always wears, the soundtrack to my working day, cuts out abruptly. She looks me up and down critically, hands on hips. I have to stop myself from pointing out that her short crimson hair is sticking out from her head in five different directions, as it always does when she’s been putting the effort in.
She squints at me. ‘You have. Are you OK?’
This is what happens when you have paid no attention to the way you look for years; people assume weight loss equals illness, not that it might be a choice. Although I don’t want to let anyone in on my secret, I also don’t want her to start worrying about me and recommending holistic healers and cancer-killing juice diets.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘It’s probably just worry about Georgia’s exams or something.’
‘Don’t you think Paula looks like she’s lost weight?’ Myra says at the top of her voice to one of the regulars, Mrs Cobham, w
ho is just settling down with a pot of tea and a slice of a chocolate ganache cake. Mrs Cobham peers at me through her thick-rimmed glasses.
‘I’m not sure. Maybe. Are you on a diet, dear?’
‘No,’ I say, and I make a big show of wiping down the counter, hoping that will signal that the conversation is over.
‘Oh, I forgot you were as blind as a bat,’ Myra says affectionately, and Mrs Cobham laughs indulgently. That’s the thing with Myra: she can say the most awful things to people but she gets away with it because everyone loves her and it’s obvious she doesn’t really have a mean bone in her body.
‘She’s just messing with you, Mrs Cobham,’ I say. ‘Trying to wind me up’.
Worn down, I invite Myra over on an evening when I know neither Robert nor Georgia will be there.
‘What’s going on?’ she says. Although we are good friends, I don’t often invite her over to the flat. Robert isn’t keen on unexpected guests. ‘Oh shit! You’re not going to tell me you’ve got another job, are you? Or that you want maternity leave? Are you pregnant?’
She peers down at my stomach.
‘Of course not! I just want to talk to you about something, that’s all.’
How can she resist?
She arrives on the dot of half seven, bearing a box of leftover cakes. I try to pretend they’re not there. It’s hard enough at work, but these are free and in my house.
We sit at the kitchen table and she opens the box, slides it towards me. I summon all my willpower.
‘Not at the moment, thanks.’
‘You are on a diet,’ she crows. ‘I knew it.’ She makes it sound as if she’s accusing me of a crime, which, in Myra’s eyes, dieting is. One of the things I have always loved best about Myra Jones is that she is completely happy the way she is. She’s bigger than me, older than me, she lives on her own and she couldn’t give five fucks about any of those things. She’s an inspiration.