by Claire Allan
I sit up, stretch and walk to the bathroom where I run the shower. Stepping under the hot streams, I gasp. Sometimes I forget just how strong Daisy’s shower is. Each time I step out I check the plugholes to see if my nipples are floating down there somewhere.
I get out, dry off and make my way downstairs where Daisy has gathered the troops and is serving up the required Weetabix/Cheerio combo when all they really want to do is to play outside. The coffee is ready and she has the bread all ready to pop down in the toaster.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, turning towards the fridge to fetch some freshly squeezed juice.
“Not so bad. In fact, I’m looking forward to it. I only wish you were coming too.”
“Unfortunately, I do have to go to work sometimes. I’m only the boss,” she laughs, rolling her eyes. “But if you see some classy wee designer numbers in my size, please stick them in your handbag and bring them home for me.”
“Yes, boss,” I say, saluting her as I take a bite of toast.
❃ ❃ ❃
City Couture sits in the Craft Village – a gorgeous little retreat in the centre of town where traditional shops, aimed at the tourists, mix with the very finest in designer boutiques. It’s quite bizarre that in one shop you can buy a tacky ‘Kiss me, I’m Irish’ plastic hat and in the next you can buy the latest creation from Donna Karan.
As I walk through the door to City Couture a little bell pings. On the walls there are tasteful pictures of the LWL (ladies who lunch) dressed by Lesley. To my surprise the article I wrote while pregnant has pride of place over the counter. I wonder if she has put it there just for today?
The front of City Couture does little to show what goes on behind the much-talked-about gold curtains which run behind the back of the counter. This is merely a waiting area, with squashy sofas, a fridge with the finest designer water, and vases of fresh-cut tulips and lilies. A low coffee table is strewn with the latest glossy mags. I get the impression no one actually reads the magazines – it would disturb the display too much.
A CD player is on one side, some relaxing classical music playing. All in all, it looks like the kind of place I’m usually terrified to go into in case I break something, or leave a dirty mark or am asked to leave à la Julia Roberts in that infamous Pretty Woman scene.
Spotting the old-fashioned bell by the counter, I press the button and it rings. A voice echoes from behind the gold curtain that its owner (whom I’m now imagining to be the Wizard of Oz) will be out shortly to help me.
I take a seat and look at the covers of the glossies – last month’s Northern People is there, complete with a strapline about my Messy Play feature. Has it really been only a month since that day when I was up to my elbows in jelly and thinking that losing weight was something I would never achieve? I take a deep breath and steady myself. Everything happens for a reason – even nervous breakdowns and separations.
The curtain pulls open and Lesley is there, all 5’2” of her – skinny, blonde, perfect. She could well have been one of my bridesmaids.
“Grace,” she says, cheerfully, “I was just putting the finishing touches to your ensembles. How very lovely to see you again!”
There is a warmth in her smile that I was not expecting. In my experience fashion folks don’t deal with larger ladies all that well. They tend to give us a wee look up and down before directing us to the back of the shop – somewhere I have dubbed the Corner of Shame – where all the hideously shapeless clothes hang, almost falling off the hangers that are designed to show off clothes no bigger than a Size 14. For some reason the Corner of Shame always seems to be dimly lit as well. I’m sure the powers that be would tell you this is to create a slimming silhouette but I think it is more so that passing customers can’t see that this shop caters for the (gasp!) obese.
I extend my hand and smile at Lesley. “I’m a little nervous,” I admit, the words dripping from my mouth before I’ve had time to engage my brain. I hope she doesn’t think I’m nervous because the last time she dressed me I looked like a Fimble on acid by the time she was done.
“No need to be,” she smiles. “It’s only us girlies.” Deciding humour could be my best defence, I say, “Yep, but some of us are the size of two girlies!”
She smiles, shakes her head. “Nonsense, Grace! I promise you I will have you feeling like a million dollars by the time we are done. You have a lot of assets we can show off. My God, I would kill for a cleavage like yours!” She pauses, putting the closed sign on the door and locking it, then she turns back, stares down at her own small but perfectly formed chest. “I would kill for any kind of a chest at all.”
Just goes to show, we women are never happy.
It is then I am invited behind the gold curtain, which I have decided now to dub the Curtain of Dreams. I wonder if by the time I come out of it I will have undergone a mad transformation à la the folks on Stars in their Eyes.
“Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be Mrs Adams again!”
The inner sanctum of City Couture is, I’m guessing, a shopper’s dream. Directly ahead of me is a full-length mirror. I can see another one angled behind me, so that when I stand before this imposing sight, I will also be able to see how large my ass looks as well. There is a small podium, somewhere I imagine I will stand to have my photo taken and have Lesley decide if her choices are suitable or not.
On one side there is a changing room, complete with yet another Golden Curtain of Dreams. Facing it there are some more squashy sofas, and a small table with a couple of wineglasses ready and primed to give me the Dutch courage I so need. A large clothes-rail is crammed, totally crammed, with clothes, and beside it sits a plethora of accessories. I am tempted to phone Daisy to tell her about the accessories if nothing else – but it would be cruel to tease her.
“Right, Grace,” Lesley says matter-of-factly. “You told me you want more of a yummy-mummy look, as well as something to feel more comfortable in at work – so I’ve put together a work wardrobe and a weekend wardrobe. There are some nice day-to-evening pieces in here as well if you fancy getting dressed up.”
I nod, my eyes glancing at the fabrics and colours, dazzled by the array of clothes – and then I spot the shoes. I gasp. Really, I should phone Daisy. Would it seem unprofessional?
Seeing that my gaze has been drawn towards the pair of green Mary Janes, Lesley smiles – looking ever so proud of herself – and says: “There are fabulous, aren’t they?”
I nod mutely.
“Let’s get started. I’ve put a selection of workwear in the changing room, set out in different outfits. Go in and get changed and we’ll see what works and what doesn’t.”
A bubble of excitement threatens to burst out of me. “Okay,” I grin, making my way into this gorgeous little Aladdin’s cave of nice, shapely clothes.
I take a deep breath, holding it in, pulling my tummy tighter as I look around me at the clothes Lesley has laid out. I breathe out, shocking myself that my spongy tummy doesn’t spring back out just as far as it would have done several weeks ago.
I step out of my clothes – my tatty old exterior – and look at what is before me. I feel the fabrics, their rich, starchy materials feeling so cool and fresh in my hands. I pray they will fit. I pray this won’t be one of those times I quickly dress back into my old duds before opening the curtain and shaking my head meekly in the international sign language for ‘Sorry, I can’t actually get this zipped up’.
First up is a skirt. A gorgeous, chiffony, black skirt which skims my calves. I slip it on and slide the zip up with ease. In fact, there is room, if I so wished, to put my hands inside my waistband without risking cutting off circulation. Beside it hangs a crisp white wraparound shirt. I pull it on, expecting the contrast of black and white to make me look like a nun or a penguin but find that instead of accentuating my gargantuan hips, the fitted lines of the blouse show off the fact that I have a waist. My God! I have a waist. When did that happen?
I breathe in again, c
lose my eyes and settle the voices in my head which are screaming with joy that the clothes fit. Slipping my toes into a sexy pair of kitten heels which Lesley has left by my feet, I feel myself stand straighter – my poise immediately changing from the slumped-over unconfident woman of my past. I can’t resist a stupid grin.
“Are you okay?” Lesley asks.
“Fine, just fine,” I grin, pulling the curtain across so that Lesley can see just how fabulous her work really is.
She pulls a face, puts her hand to her chin and juts just one hip out as if in deep thought. “No, no, no, Grace! That’s totally wrong for you.”
No, it’s not! I’m saying the words internally but I can’t bring myself to say them out loud. No, I look good. I know I look good. I am tall and gorgeous. You will not make me feel bad today.
“The skirt,” she mutters, stepping closer.
What about the skirt? I want to scream. The skirt is fine. I can fit both my hands in the waistband. I want to show her, to dance around the shop with my hands flapping in the side of my skirt in gay abandon. Of course, I just start breathing in tighter, hoping she realises it looks as good as I think it does. It falls down. I’m standing in my pants and Lesley is looking at the crumpled skirt on the floor.
“You need a smaller size, Grace,” she says and I don’t argue with her.
As I step back out of the changing room, in a skirt that fits, that looks even better than the previous outfit, my heart swells.
“Fabulous!” Lesley screams, clapping her hands with excitement.
Normally such a display of enthusiasm would annoy me but today I want to join in, so I grin a happy ‘I know’, and dash back in to change into work outfit number two. Slipping on a pair of gorgeous black hipster boot-cut trousers, I feel glamorous. When I slip the knee-length black and white wraparound dress over the top I see my reflection appear before me and I know I have a decent figure. Okay, I’m not going to give Kate Moss a run for her money and yes, there is definite room for improvement but this looks good. Zipping up some knee-length boots under my trousers and swinging some chunky beads around my neck I look – can you believe it – I look like a professional. “Perfect!” Lesley squeaks, readjusting the beads and pulling my hair back in a glossy chignon. “I have just the perfect accessory for this,” she adds, pulling out a black leather handbag of such beauty that I fear I may swoon. It is big enough for my requisite notepad, and also has room for a spare stash of nappies just in case. Hanging from the strap is a little leather butterfly and my heart soars.
Daisy would approve and I can’t wait to show her.
I don’t want to change out of this outfit. I love this outfit. I feel like Mrs Adams dressed this way, but Lesley is pushing me back into the changing room and I’m trying on trousers and skirts and dresses like never before. Some fit, some are too big, none are too small. This feels amazing.
Two hours later I emerge in a smart pair of boot-cut jeans, the funky green Mary Jane wedges on my toes and a layered top in green and cream. The requisite beads are slung around my neck again and I have a comfy cream cardi by my side in case it gets cold. I’m grinning from ear to ear.
Sinéad has joined us and is sitting on the big sofa, glugging wine and smiling broadly. “My God, Gracie, you look fucking amazing!” She sits back and applauds me (and Lesley too for good measure).
“I do, don’t I?” I say, twirling on the podium like a movie star. “When is Liam coming for the photos?”
“He’s not,” Sinéad says, a smirk creeping across her face. From the look on Lesley’s face I can tell she is in on whatever is going on.
“Why not? What’s happening?”
“You don’t think we would take your picture without full make-up and hair, do you?” Sinéad asks, her smirk now a grin.
“Grace, next Tuesday you are booked in for a total transformation. Hair, make-up, nails, the works. Then you get these clothes. Then you get your photo shoot and then we put this edition to bed.”
Chapter 25
I don’t feel nervous tonight. I know I’ve been a good girl. I know I’ve shunned wine and chocolate for water and fruit. I know I feel better, look better even and so I’m not as scared at the prospect of the scales. Daisy looks sick, however. She hasn’t been so good. She has been eating and drinking like there is no tomorrow – although she argues she should get away with more because her job involves running around after children while mine involves ‘sitting on your arse salivating over pictures of Dermot Murnaghan’. (Her words, not mine.)
I’m standing in the queue, waiting my turn at the scales. I see a few familiar faces. We nod, grimacing or smiling depending on the kind of week we have had, and each of us does a fake fingers-across-the-throat sign to signify we might get a shock. It’s not good form, you see, to admit to being über-good at the start of a meeting. We might all be here to support each other, but secretly we feel sickened if someone loses more weight than us. I know I definitely got some half-hearted applause last week with my half-stone loss. I see a new lady enter the room. Her head is bowed. She doesn’t want anyone to notice her and as she fills in her registration details she keeps her arm protectively around her clipboard – much like you would when trying to make sure no one copies you at school. I notice her shake her head as she fills in the details and I know what she is thinking. I know how low she feels and I want to run over and comfort her – to tell her that she is thinking the exact same thoughts I was two weeks ago but that it can and will get better. I want to tell her to be confident in herself. I want to tell her she is attractive and can do this. I also have a notion to tell her not to eat half a loaf of toast on Friday night in case her significant other takes the wobblies and her marriage falls apart. Instead I just sigh to myself and realise that I, myself, no longer want to hide away and while I can’t fix everyone else’s woes, I’m doing an okay job of fixing my own.
Daisy tries to shove me in front of her as we reach the top of the queue. “Go on,” she grimaces. “I’m not sure I want to do this.”
“Don’t be daft,” I chide. “C’mon, the sooner this is over the sooner we can treat ourselves to a sausage supper for our efforts!”
We have made a deal, you see, that if the scales are good tonight we will go all out and buy chips on the way home.
We have promised to share a bag, mind. I’m not going to do the usual Grace Adams thing of beating a full bag down my neck and feeling sick and bloated the rest of the night.
Throwing me a defeated look Daisy steps forward for her chat with Charlotte. She breaks into a smile and before long walks towards me, giving me a sign I at first mistake for the fingers but then realise she is letting me know she has lost 2lbs. She is now back to where she started and she couldn’t be happier.
I step forward now. I’m suddenly nervous even though I shouldn’t be. Stepping on the scales, I force myself to glance downwards and see that the reading stops at 14 stone and 9 pounds. I have lost three pounds. That is 10 in total – which is nearly a stone. I can’t help but break into an excited grin.
“Well done, Grace!” Charlotte says, writing down my new total. “You really seem to be taking this on board.”
I nod, enjoying my moment as teacher’s pet.
But then Charlotte looks directly at me, crossing her legs and leaning back in her chair. “And exercise? Have you done much?”
I could lie. I’ve written enough about aerobics, pilates and yoga to fake a class or two, but what would be the point? I’d only be caught out when the article was printed anyway. Shaking my head, I realise I’ve lost my teacher’s pet position and I start to apologise. I’m waiting for Charlotte to tell me she is very disappointed in me, that she wants me to report to the headmaster to decide my fate but then I remember what she said last time. It doesn’t have to be a traditional exercise class, does it?
“I’m going to a dance class on Thursday,” I pipe up, my voice probably a little too overexcited. The only thing missing from my sentence was a triumpha
nt ‘So there!’.
Charlotte smiles. “That’s great, Grace. Dancing is amazing exercise. Good luck with it. I can’t wait to hear how it goes.”
“I’ll email you on Friday morning,” I say, confident I’m now in the good books again.
Daisy and I grin at each other as we walk out of the school hall towards our cars. “I’ll get the chips,” she shouts. “You get the wains!”
I nod and set off in the direction of Mammy’s house, where Jack and Lily will be waiting. I can’t wait to hug them and to tell Mammy the news of my weight loss. I would love to tell her about telling Louise to fuck off too but she doesn’t really appreciate foul language. I’ll have to edit the story to suit her sensibilities.
I park the car and see Daddy is cutting the grass. I smile at him and he turns the mower off, and comes over to kiss me on the cheek and say hello.
“The kids are inside running your mother ragged,” he laughs, wiping the sweat from his brow. “You look well, Gracie,” he smiles and I smile back.
“I’m feeling good, Daddy.” “You know how we worry.”
“There is no need, not now. I’m getting through this.”
“I’m very proud of you, darling,” he says. “I know it’s not been easy. I know we’ve given you a lot of grief over the years. I just want you to know you have always been enough – more than enough – for us and I’m sorry if we didn’t show it.”
This feels surreal. Daddy doesn’t do emotion. He doesn’t talk much at all apart from telling silly jokes at the dinner table or saying the occasional rosary. And yet, here I am, standing in the front garden with my father – tears in his eyes – apologising for the one and only thing my parents ever did wrong. I’m almost tempted to ask him to repeat himself because I’m not sure if I’ve actually heard him right, or just heard what I wanted to hear.