The Hungry Mirror

by Lisa de Nikolits

  My heart lurches, and I wonder if we’ll be inheriting big, blond Max and if so, how I’ll manage that.

  I don’t have to worry though. We are getting some girl called Colleen.

  Of course we are, I think. Kenneth likes his girls.

  I feel a bit embarrassed about my heart-pounding Max-reaction but decide not to think about it. I acknowledge that I have a bit of a crush on him, but so what? These things happen, and just because one is married doesn’t mean one is dead, as they say.

  I look over at Brit who is miserably wiping her eyes with Kenneth’s now-destroyed hanky. I have no idea what to say to comfort her. I have watched her eat piles of carob-covered rice cakes for breakfast and I wanted to yell warning cries from across the room; rice cakes, particularly carob ones, are triggering and totally loaded with fat and calories. But of course I couldn’t say anything.

  With regard to her night-time chocolate fix, I tell her maybe her body is craving chocolate and that she should eat it until the craving goes away. I think she wants to hear that and I also think it’s the truth, although it’s not something I would practice myself.

  “‘Craving,’” she says and starts flipping through the book again. “They don’t have ‘craving,’” she wails. I get up and take the book away from her.

  “I think you need a Valium,” I say. “Or get an Ativan from Kenneth.”

  “I don’t believe in self-medicating,” she says miserably. “It’s all falling apart, oh, God.”

  I wish I could confide in her, tell her things are definitely deteriorating for me, too.

  Blame the Dave Matthews Band

  MATHEW AND I GO TO see the Dave Matthews Band and it is another over-catered affair in a luxurious suite and I lose control badly. So badly that I have to seek solace in the washroom and throw up, even though there is a long line waiting and I never do that unless I am absolutely certain I won’t get caught or I don’t have any choice, which is the situation in this case. It is a dangerous thing to do, and I am frightened by my loss of control; not just in the eating but in the throwing up also.

  I am also frightened because I am supposedly in control, using this disgusting but neat trick only as a help button if I need it, kind of like a personal, portable little Command Z Undo. But now it seems my monster has me by the throat.

  So Meg and Brit aren’t the only ones losing it. I am too.

  I had, in the vaguest possible sense, told Mathew about my food and weight issues before we got married but even then I could see he couldn’t grasp the concept at all. I also made out like those concerns were definitely past tense, not relevant any more, and I wasn’t lying, it was truly what I thought, hoped, and believed; that with the arrival of my Prince Charming, the evil spell would lift. In any case, Mathew had found the whole notion of eating and throwing up bizarre. His attitude was eat if you want to, leave it if you don’t.

  If only it could be that simple.

  I get back to my seat at the concert, and exhausted by the emotional fear of what I have done, I fall asleep. I have also weakened my legendary willpower by letting myself drink close to an entire bottle of wine, which is a surefire way for me to lose control. I should really be more careful about drinking.

  I wake up to find my throat parched. I go to get a mineral water, picking at the leftover desserts along the way. My eyes feel increasingly swollen after my sleep and I hope no one notices.

  I feel horribly grumpy. I’ve never liked Dave Matthews anyway. Maybe if he and his band had been more interesting, the entire binge/undo wouldn’t have happened. So it’s all Dave Matthews’ fault. I didn’t even want to come but Mathew can never say no to free things and in his line of work, does he ever get a lot of free things.

  I once asked him if he had ever turned down an invitation and he looked at me like I was crazy.

  When the concert ends Mathew says he wants another brandy, of course he does, and so I carry on picking at the desserts, and wishing I was dead. Thank heavens we leave before I can polish off the contents of the entire table.

  I have always had my control to rely on, but after tonight, it seems it has gone. I have let myself down in a big way and the future does not bode well. If I can’t rely on myself, who does that leave?

  It’s like I am all alone in a horrific plastic bubble with everybody looking in at me. I can see them talking but I can’t hear what they are saying. Are they trying to help me or are they laughing at my stupid weakness? Am I just some kind of freakish amusement, a woman lost, invisible to herself but visible to the world to condemn in all her pain?

  I have also been thinking about Max. And that doesn’t make me happy, but I can’t seem to stop.

  The Flash Gordon effect

  IT’S NOT LIKE I THINK about Max a lot, not really. I just wonder what his wife is like. So I ask him and he shows me a picture of a tall, leggy, Playboy-type model with cascades of thick chestnut curls. “Of course,” I say politely. Then I show him a picture of Mathew.

  “Good-looking man,” Max says. “He’s quite famous to all us lowly sales guys you know.”

  He smiles and chews on a toothpick and I feel the power of Mathew’s position.

  “Yes, he has a big job,” I agree.

  “You guys must get all the best invites.” He looks envious.

  “Too many,” I say and sigh.

  “Give some to us then,” he says and laughs.

  “Believe me, I wish I could.” Then I leave his desk and go to the kitchen to make tea. I feel like an idiot for how sweaty my palms get when I talk to him and I wonder if I say stupid things. I am angry with myself for my reaction – cool, in-control me feels more than just a bit flustered, and I decide not to speak to him for a whole week after that.

  Then I arrive at work one morning to find him climbing out of his car. He smells all freshly showered, his hair still damp.

  “I had to drop Shannon off,” he explains. “I am never this early but she had a breakfast meeting.”

  Shannon is also in sales.

  We share an elevator going up and the closeness is unsettling. It seems like the elevator takes forever to get to our floor and by the time it does, my cheeks are flushed and I am once again filled with fury.

  I am sure he knows exactly how I feel. He has a slight smile that makes me want to slap his face.

  “Have a good day,” I say tightly and walk off.

  “You too,” he says, laughing.

  I can’t help but think about him and Shannon and wonder what they do when they are together. I mean, I am sure they have a lot of great sex but I wonder if they barbeque and shop and go to the movies. I wonder what they talk about and if he is kind to her when she is upset, and if he listens to the boring details of her day that she needs to share.

  At home that night, I sit on the sofa, and look out the window at my garden and ask myself why it all feels like such a mess. I feel like I am losing my grip and I feel completely alone even though Mathew is in the room right next door to me, his newspapers spread all around.

  I wonder how Mathew is really doing. When I ask him, he says he is fine but he seems so tense and distracted.

  He did say that lately there is been more pressure at work, that he has to stay more hours, that he has to work harder and smarter.

  Which is fine but it seems to me like he is mainly just drinking harder, getting home three sheets to the wind, and falling over as he tries to make his way in quietly.

  “It’s a cutthroat industry,” he tells me time and again. “I have to stay on top.” About a week ago, after one of his noisy, late night arrivals, he sat on the bed and repeated this mantra while he stroked my hair.

  “I know I haven’t been all that great to live with lately, little girl, but bear with me,” he said.

  I had nodded. It was fine, of course it was.

  “One day,” he said, “when I retire, we’ll have all the time in the world to be together.”

  That’s like twenty years away.

  So,
tonight I sit on the sofa, with all my work done, every plug-in air freshener in the house busy, and there isn’t one single chore I can think of to do. I tuck my feet under me and wonder again why I am not happy. I look at my wedding ring, replete with diamonds and rubies and even they seem dull to me.

  I think about work. Kenneth, Meg, and Brit. And Max.

  “I really should write a screenplay about women and food,” Brit had said to me earlier that day.

  Yeah right, I had thought, uncharitably. You can’t even get yourself to work on time. Like you’re really going to get an entire screenplay done.

  I decide to take Freddo for a walk. Maybe I’ll buy myself some flowers on the way back.

  Jack Sprat could eat no fat

  I WISH MATHEW WOULD STOP TELLING people we are like Jack Sprat and his wife. You know the saying, Jack Sprat could eat no fat and his wife could eat no lean?

  Well, it’s the reverse in our case. Mathew lives on beer, cigarettes, fatty hamburgers, and brandy but he never misses out on an opportunity to tell anybody who’ll listen how skinny he is. As if they can’t see for themselves.

  Jack Sprat could eat no fat and his wife could eat no lean. He says that all the time to people. I ask him to stop saying it but he just laughs at me.

  Twice a week, missionary position

  BRIT SAYS HER SCREENPLAY IS coming along well. She seems a bit less hysterical in general and is calmer around food.

  While Meg, it seems, is keeping even less down than before, although that hardly seems possible.

  “You are getting thinner and thinner,” one of the editors remarks to her disapprovingly at one of the abysmal Thursday night staff socials. I look at her. He is right. She looks skeletal in a scrap of black cloth.

  Meg looks at the man and smiles. “Actually my brain just keeps getting bigger and bigger,” she says with her throaty jazz voice and she laughs and piles more food on her plate.

  The man’s comments make Brit and me nervous and we exchange glances. Brit responds by going over to the table and eating heaps of food.

  I watch the tall thin girls, Miss Worlds One and Two, who are both eating and drinking heartily.

  I envy them with all my heart. Especially Thin Lisa who seems to be having fun again. She is dressed in skin-tight black velvet and looks incredible. I watch her eat pastries and drink beer and I wished I could be like her.

  I am about to join Brit and Meg at the snack table when I feel Max sidle up beside me. I glance at him.

  “Why,” he asks, “do you always wear clothes that cover you so much? You are like a Muslim girl; all you need is a burqa.”

  He laughs at his own joke.

  I flush red. “My husband thinks the way I dress is sexy,” I say.

  Which is true. “I have been wanting to get my hands up these long, long skirts ever since the first time I saw you, years ago,” Mathew told me drunkenly the night he bumped into Miranda and me in Yorkville. “And now,” he said, several dates later, as he dipped his hands under the fabric and caressed my thighs, “I am.”

  “Sexy? Ah, I see,” Max says in response. He appears to be thinking. “Twice a week, probably Friday night, then Tuesday or Sunday, missionary position,” he states. “Never any kind of oral, from either of you. Maybe sometimes he turns you over so your face is in the pillow and he takes you from behind so you can both pretend you are with other people.”

  I am shocked. “You are totally disgusting. How dare you comment on something as personal as that? What makes you think you can? Somewhere along the line, I must have given you the wrong impression. Don’t ever talk to me again.”

  I walk out and don’t even say goodbye to Meg or Brit. I feel like I will cry if anyone speaks to me. I am so stupid. I had thought Max was attracted to me. How could he talk to me in such a degrading way?

  All I want is to get home to Mathew who understands me, loves me, never violates me.

  Mathew is late, as usual. I sit on the sofa and wait for him. I had a scalding bath as soon as I got home. And yet, despite that, I am still shaking. I am so upset by the coarseness of Max’s words and I wonder if there is any truth to what he said.

  Am I just some frigid excuse for a woman and is Mathew mechanical? Does he like sex with me better when he doesn’t have to see my face?

  I start to cry and I can’t stop, I sit there, hot tears spilling out of my eyes, a stinging river of salt.

  Eventually Mathew comes home. I hear him fumbling with his keys. I run to the door and open it. He is fairly drunk but not too bad.

  “Ah,” he says. He tilts his head and holds his hands up in surrender. “Please don’t shout at me, I know I’m late. I mean, not that you do shout at me, because you don’t, but if you did I would understand. I mean, you have reason to but please don’t anyway.”

  I hug him tight.

  “Hey little girl,” he says. “Are you okay?” He holds me away from him. “Why are you crying? What’s wrong? Hang on, I have to go to the washroom. Let me put my stuff down and you can tell me everything.”

  When he emerges, I am calmer. He is here now, everything will be fine. “Mathew, do you know Shannon and Max Arnold?” He looks confused for a moment.

  “Oh,” he says, “you mean Playboy’s Miss July and her pro-wrestler?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Well, I think Max might have made a pass at me; well, maybe not a pass but he was really disgusting, in what he said to me. I was very upset.”

  I tell him what happened. I leave out the part about my schoolgirl crush.

  Mathew listens carefully, his head cocked to one. Then he loosens his tie and clears his throat.

  “Let me get a nice big brandy,” he says. He comes back with his snifter and sits next to me. “Little girl, how can I say this?”

  He stares up at the ceiling for a while, thinking. “If, let’s say, you have needs, be they, um, emotional or uh, for that matter, physical, or of the companionship kind, or if you need to have some fun, or blow off some steam, or if there are any needs at all that you might have, and you need them to be met, and I am not meeting them, because I am not a very nice person and all I do is work, although I do love you mind you, then, as long as you don’t publicly embarrass me, I have no objection to your having those needs met, um, elsewhere.”

  He comes to a close. I have been following his rambling speech with difficulty. I look at him in horror.

  I think my husband just told me it’s okay if I fuck Max, a part of my brain says. Another part of my brain rejects the message entirely.

  “I am married to you, Mathew,” I say politely and get up. He follows suit. “You meet all my needs perfectly fine, thank you very much,” I add. “I am going to bed now.”

  I walk past him. He is swaying and his eyes are rolled back slightly as if he is listening to music, but the house is absolutely silent.

  I turn around. “I think it might be a good idea if you slept on the sofa,” I say. “I think you are more drunk than you might realize.”

  I go into the bedroom and shut the door.

  I sit down, and my hands are shaking. Isn’t he supposed to say he’ll kill the bastard Max? Isn’t he supposed to defend my honour, say I must never go back to a place where Max is, and that he’ll have his revenge? Oh, I know I have watched way too many feel-good movies but I have never seen any about a happy marriage in which the husband advises his wife to get her needs met elsewhere.

  I take two sleeping pills and climb into bed. I don’t want to go to work the next morning but if I don’t, what will I have? Nothing. I will have nothing at all.

  A cactus and a note

  THE NEXT DAY, FRIDAY, I get up even earlier than usual. My eyes are not too badly swollen, even though I cried so much when I got home. I slept like the dead, what with the sleeping pills. But I wake alert and ready to tackle the day. Sleeping pills never affect me badly the morning after, and I love that anaesthetized, coma-like dreamless sleep they bring. It’s like I’ve been bludgeoned for a while and thankful
ly, my brain has no choice but to shut down.

  I do, however, wake with the uneasy feeling that something is wrong and when I probe my discomfort I remember what Mathew said the night before. He was drunk, I dismiss it. It doesn’t mean anything.

  I put on a lot of makeup and leave the house quietly, with Mathew still snoring on the sofa. I drive to work with numb determination. My hands grip the steering wheel, my jaw is clenched.

  I get to work and there, on my desk, is a small cactus and a note. I stare at it, and my heart pounds. I look around. I wonder who has put it there and when. I immediately hope it is from Max but I rationalize it could be Brit, who often leaves me small gifts. I turn on my computer and skirt the issue of the note. I examine the cactus; it is a single thick thorny tube with a large, round yellow head, and tiny red flowers growing out of the yellow ball. I sit down and open the card.

  Sorry. Max.

  That is it. Sorry. Max

  I look at the note for a while then I tuck it into my diary, the one that lists all my calories and my feelings and my fat grams. I stick it down with a piece of tape for good measure. I move the cactus to the side of my desk, out of the way. Then I move it closer to me. Then I put it as close to me as I can.

  Max doesn’t make an appearance that day, which isn’t unusual. I have noticed he is often gone for long periods when he is out selling; then he comes and hunches over his desk and makes notes, his immense fingers seemingly at odds with the small ballpoint pen.

  Paperwork doesn’t come easy to Max; he frowns, chews on the pen, and writes slowly. “What did you do before you sold magazine advertising?” I asked him a couple of weeks back, on my way back from a printer run, which was really just an excuse to see if he was there.

  He laughed. “I was a jock of course. Pro-football for ten years and then I got injured. It happens.”

  “You must have made a lot of money,” I said, curious.

  “Hmmm,” he said, “well, the good times cost a lot, too. I liked to party hard. So now I’m here, selling ads for a yoga magazine. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, you could say. But I’m not going to do this forever. A friend of mine and me, we’re going to open a sports bar, but a different kind. I’ll tell you all about it one day if you’re interested.”