DARRELL: She lives just down the road? Is that not a rather extreme coincidence? I would not be able to include contrived plot device like that in one of my books — editor would reach out and slap me.
LADY MO: In my opinion things work out like this because I am one of life’s lucky people. The lucky aspect being that I don’t have to stay sober to drive said babysitter home! Only risk now of getting hammered is being incapable of working out correct amount to pay him.
DARRELL: So I assume this all means that you’re actually going out somewhere?
LADY MO: You make it sound like I’m one of those gargantuan fat people who cannot be moved unless you bring out the crane! OK, no you don’t. I have fat on the brain at the moment. And on my butt, hips and middle, of course. I put on a dress I used to look incredible in — you know, that tight corsety black one? Gives me a cleavage that makes men’s eyeballs pop out with a ‘ba-doiiiing’ sound, like in a cartoon?
DARRELL: Know it.
LADY MO: It still gives me that cleavage. Trouble is, it gives me one out the back, too. I have back fat!!!! Great bulging WADS of it!!!!
DARRELL: Camouflage with pashmina wrap?
LADY MO: Do you know how hot it is here? No, will have to find a magic dress that sucks all fat and stores it in secret compartment somewhere in the lining. Sure such dress exists.
DARRELL: Why such angst over frock? Surely Chad thinks you beautiful in any old clobber?
LADY MO: Skimming over what Chad thinks of me at the moment, the issue is that it’s just not him and me who are going out. It’s also a bunch of his colleagues and their wives, who I can guarantee will all weigh no more than one of my eyelashes. Do not want to be sitting amongst them like manatee!
DARRELL: How do you know they will all be super-skinny?
LADY MO: The guys at Chad’s work make serious money. They will not be married to women who resemble dugong.
DARRELL: Is Chad making serious money too? Just asking.
LADY MO: He’s earning more than he was back home, salary-wise. But the giant moolah windfall comes at bonus time, apparently. That’s not for another few months.
DARRELL: Still — has he bought you anything nice?
LADY MO: I asked him to buy me a nanny. Hasn’t happened yet. So until it does, or Mary Poppins flies in on the east wind, I will make do with Gulliver the babysitter. Welcome to Lilliput, big man! As long as you like Dora the Explorer and torturing Tickle Me Elmo, the natives won’t tie you down and attack you with tiny spears.
DARRELL: You know, if I married Anselo, Gulliver would become my nephew.
LADY MO: And Aishe your sister-in-law! Pee-OW!
DARRELL: Does she look like him? Anselo, I mean.
LADY MO: How can I tell? On Skype he is size of postage stamp! Plus I am usually too distracted by studly torso to study his phizog. Anyway — back track. Are you marrying him or what?
DARRELL: I might have to.
LADY MO: Might HAVE to? Why? Has he locked you in the house? Chained you to the radiator? Is that why we are on chat not Skype — so I can’t see your bruised and battered bod?
DARRELL: Of course not. No, we are on chat because I do not want to be overheard.
LADY MO: Are you girding for a confession? I am agog! Aflutter, even! Don’t let me down. The most excitement I’ve had lately was opening a can of asparagus right way up!
DARRELL: OK. But you must promise not to tell. I don’t want anyone else to know.
LADY MO: Mum’s the word. Except of course here it is Mom.
DARRELL: OK. Here goes. Do NOT tell! Promise?
LADY MO: Impatient hand wave! Yes, yes, get on with it!
DARRELL: I’m pregnant.
LADY MO: Definitely? Not just feeling bloated and barfy — like after an all-you-can-eat buffet marathon?
DARRELL: Definitely. Three tests. I almost went back for a fourth but the pharmacist was starting to look at me funny.
LADY MO: Wow. Wait — you said you don’t want anyone else to know? What about the unborn’s father? Surely you have told him?
DARRELL: Not yet.
LADY MO: Darrell! Why the freaking heck not? You can hardly be worried he’ll do a runner. He wants to marry you!
DARRELL: I know! That’s the problem! I can see myself being sucked into a life of marriage and babies and every damn thing that goes with them! I can see my whole life ahead of me, every single milestone, for years and years! Only it won’t be just MY life, will it? I won’t even be ME any more. I’ll be a wife and a mother and an aunt and a sister-in-law and a God-knows-what-else-in-law! I don’t know if I’m ready for that. I don’t even know if I want it. I USED to want it but now I’m not so sure.
LADY MO: I understand. It’s a big step, like the start of a Sasquatch trail. But here’s the rub, Darrell — what choice do you have? It’s his baby too.
DARRELL: I’m only six weeks or so. I’m pretty sure I know when it happened.
LADY MO: Only pretty sure? Not breakage then?
DARRELL: Slippage.
LADY MO: Didn’t consider the morning-after pill?
DARRELL: Didn’t realise I’d need it until too late. Slippage not that obvious.
LADY MO: Which is why he doesn’t suspect. Would you really consider — you know?
DARRELL: I have a few weeks to decide.
LADY MO: And that will be a few weeks of secrets and fibs! Followed potentially by more of the above!
DARRELL: Could you just be a friendly ear for now?
LADY MO: Instead of a big fat censorious mouth? A fair call, I suppose. But a tough one. Might be too tough, if I’m honest. If you decided to — you know — I’m not sure I could forgive you. And I’ll guarantee that you’ll never forgive yourself.
DARRELL: No pressure then.
LADY MO: Look, seriously. Everyone freaks out the first time, even if they really want to be pregnant. You’ll get over it. And trust me, it’s worth it. Kids are spectacularly awesome.
DARRELL: OK.
LADY MO: Right. Great. That’s settled. Let me know how you get on with Mr Studly. He’ll be thrilled — I guarantee it. He will worship you like goddess. Just make sure he keeps having sex with you. Men have this weird idea the kid will pop out, jab a finger repeatedly onto Dad’s forehead, and say, ‘See how YOU like it!’
DARRELL: OK.
LADY MO: Good to talk, nice friend. I’ll let you know how the dreaded dinner goes.
DARRELL: Yes, because that’s important.
LADY MO: Darn tooting it is! If all else fails, I could sit on them. Revenge of the sea cow! Magnificent! Bye-ee!
10
I’m in an episode of The Twilight Zone, thought Michelle …
Or that movie After Hours, where the poor guy who just wants to get home spends the whole night being frustrated by crazy shit. Crazy shit from seemingly normal people, like the woman who lends him her phone but then chants random numbers while he’s listening to directory, so that he has no hope of memorising the one phone number that could get him out of his nightmare.
These people around me at the dinner table seem normal. They’re good-looking and well dressed but they’re not movie stars. They’re educated but not eggheads. They have kids whom they take to soccer and ballet. They have jobs, even some of the women. We used to have dinner with people like this back in Charlotte. I liked having dinner with those people; they were our friends.
But this isn’t the same. It’s as if some weird filter, some lens, has been placed over the evening and everything looks distorted. Not fun-house-mirror-level distortion. More of a subtle warping, a shimmering around the edges. Where you have to look twice, because you’re wondering if your eyes are deceiving you. Wondering if you really can see a face in the wallpaper, or if it’s just the way the light casts shadows on the pattern.
Or maybe it’s more like the movie Spinal Tap. Everything is dialled up to eleven. To most people, this lot would be tens: admirable, aspirational members of society. Myself, I know them to b
e cocksuckers. Giant eleven-dialled suckers of cock.
Yes, that’s what they are. Every man — and woman — jack of them. I hate them, and I am now in grave danger of letting that show.
If I were sensible, I would cut back on the wine. But the wine is some vintage Italian red that costs almost a thousand dollars a bottle, and I feel compelled to spend their fucking money by draining every last drop and holding out my glass for more.
Chad is keeping his eye on me. He’s trying not to be obvious about it, but I know him too well. He doesn’t like how much I’m drinking. Well, tough. I cannot believe for one second that he likes these people, so why should he expect me to like them? He’s here because he has to be, and he should have known there’d be a price for dragging me along with him.
Listen to these two. What are their names again? Oh yeah, Jay and Phil. Jay is trying to pretend he looks like George Clooney. Let me tell you, Jay, cutting back on the Grecian 2000 only gives you grey hair. It does not turn you into a suave god of sex who can turn a billion women moist with a glance. But hey — dreams are free.
Phil’s thing, which he keeps harping on about, is that he works out with a personal trainer. Judging by the strain on his lower shirt buttons, either he should pay his trainer more or this is a euphemism for sitting on the couch and masturbating to a Zumba video.
Phil and Jay are talking about cars. Normally, I like hearing guys talk about cars. But the guys I enjoy listening to love cars. They know how cars work. Phil and Jay wouldn’t know how to turn over an engine if their cars weren’t the kind that have buttons with START on them in big letters. Jay’s car has just been reupholstered in Connolly leather. Phil’s has been supercharged by Overfinch. Why does that set my teeth on edge? Because it’s a pissing match. There’s no genuine passion. They may as well be talking about their wives.
Elliot and Lloyd are talking about their wives. Both their wives do Pilates. Five times a week. If you weren’t listening carefully, you might get the impression Elliot and Lloyd admired their spouses’ dedication. But then I hear Elliot tell Lloyd that the best thing was that his wife’s ass had been elevated by at least three inches. You should see in her jeans now, man, he’s telling Lloyd.
I suppose it could be worse. At least he’s not adding that the sight of her True Religions sent him off to fire the flesh musket or strum the oompa-loompa.
You know, if I overheard Chad talking about me like that, I’d spear his hand to the table with a fish fork. But he wouldn’t. For one thing, what do I have that he could possibly brag about to these toss-wads? I’m prettier than all the women at this table but that doesn’t amount to a hill of beans because I am fat. Even if I weren’t hefting extra chub and was back to my old size, I’d still be fat compared to them. They look like Gwyneth Paltrow after she fell into her food dehydrator. When they bend forward, there’s an abyss between their boobs. No cleavage, just a dark cave corrugated with bones, like one of those ancient sinkholes where you might find the bleached remains of prehistoric bears. Miniature spelunkers could be lost in there right now. I thought fake boobs would be big in California, so to speak. But perhaps not in these circles. Perhaps they consider themselves a cut above the augmented bap crowd. They’re classier than the Victoria Beckhams and their WAG tackiness.
Fuck ’em, I say! Here’s to you, Posh. I toast you and your silicon funbags with this covetable wine. What’s it called? Let me look. Gaja. What kind of name is that? That’s a name for a pop star who wears insane footwear, not for a thousand-dollar bottle of wine.
You know, if there are around seven standard drinks in a bottle, that’s — OK, maths ability somewhat compromised — but I think it’s around a hundred and forty bucks a glass. Let me further stunt my mental arithmetic. Down the hatch with you, one hundred and forty bucks!
No good. I can’t see as clearly as before, but I can still hear them. The wives. Listen to them! This one over here — Bella or Becca or Baboon or some such. She’s saying how hard it is when there’s a work party and you don’t know whose husband’s earning what. You don’t want to strike up a friendship with someone only to find her man’s earning a mere million a year. She’s quite serious about this. So is the woman whom she’s talking to. I can’t remember her name at all. I’ll call her Bitchface.
Bitchface and Baboon. Why yes, I will have another glass of wine. Don’t mind if I do …
‘So you live in Marin?’
Jesus fuck. One of them is speaking to me. I think it’s Phil’s wife. I heard Phil telling Jay she’d recently had an acid peel. It blisters your face so badly you can’t go out into daylight for three days. Still, I have to admit her skin looks terrific now. Soft, smooth …
‘Sorry. Say again?’
‘Chad tells us you live in Marin. Was that by choice?’
See? Not overt rude. Subtle rude!
‘No, it was the first empty house I found, so I took possession. I don’t know if you have squatters’ rights here, but what the heck. I’ll take my chances.’
Her smile is wavering just a fraction. With luck, she’ll fuck right off again …
‘And you have two children? Little ones?’
Yes, that is the reason I’m so fat. You’ve hit on it. Well done, you.
‘One child. One spawn of Satan. Which reminds me, I’d better check on the babysitter. It’s his first time. Not everyone can cope with the revolving head and projectile vomiting.’
That did it. She’s gone. Chad is staring at me. Did he hear? Can’t have. Phil’s in his ear, banging on about something called Techno-Crunch. A new brand of protein bar? If it is, Phil should lay off them. They’re not doing his waistline any favours.
I wonder how big Phil’s dick is underneath that roll of fat. I bet it is tiny. I bet these guys all have teeny tiny weensy wieners. I bet they take photos of them, too. On their iPhones. And send them to women they don’t know.
More wine …
Oops. Glass knocked. Thousand-dollar red wine sluicing down the table.
Staring. Everyone. Not just Chad.
Why do I suspect that for him, this evening has not been a complete success?
11
‘She’s pretty.’
Michelle sensed ambivalence in the comment. Would Aishe prefer her brother to date a bush-pig? Or was she uncomfortable with the fact this was the first time she’d seen these photos? After all, it wasn’t her brother showing her these snapshots of his recent personal life. It was some stranger’s only slightly less strange best friend.
‘Yes, she is. She’s nice, too. Way nicer than me.’
Aishe lifted her head from the laptop screen and glanced across her kitchen table.
‘So I should be pleased that my brother’s shacking up with her?’
Michelle shrugged.
‘Not for me to say what you should care about.’
Aishe smiled. ‘Spoken like a true lawyer.’ She touched the laptop to scroll quickly through the rest of the photos Michelle had brought over on a memory stick. ‘Nice holiday. France. Italy. They must have some money between them?’
‘Darrell earns an OK living from her romance books, I think,’ Michelle said. ‘And your brother’s a chippie. Every builder I’ve used has charged so much I thought I’d have to sell a child.’
‘How did they meet?’
There was definitely discomfort behind the ambivalence, Michelle decided. Aishe wanted to know about her brother’s life, but she was burning with embarrassment about having to ask. Fair enough, Michelle acknowledged. It must be pretty humiliating to find out about your own family from a woman you’ve only just met.
If I had a brother or sister, Michelle wondered, would I make an effort to stay in touch? I suppose it would depend on whether or not we hated each other’s guts. Aishe doesn’t seem to hate Anselo, so there must be another reason why they don’t talk. The same reason she lives on the other side of the world, perhaps?
‘Darrell moved into a house owned by your cousin,’ Michelle told her
. ‘Or by your cousin’s wife or some other borderline incestuous arrangement. Anselo was renovating it. Which led to many poor quality jokes about getting nailed. Mainly from me, of course.’
‘Don’t suppose you know which cousin?’ asked Aishe.
‘The huge, scary one,’ Michelle promptly replied. ‘The one who looks like he could squish Robert De Niro like a bug.’
‘Patrick,’ Aishe nodded. ‘His wife is called Clare. I haven’t met her. Just seen — well, photos …’
Her voice trailed off as she stared at the screen.
‘They’ve had a baby, I think,’ Michelle frowned.
Aishe’s head snapped around. ‘Who? Anse?’
Michelle felt a small, unexpected stab of guilt. Which she ignored.
‘No, no,’ she told Aishe. ‘Scary man and the wife you’ve never met. They had a baby boy, as I recall. A few months before Rosie. He must be over a year old now.’
Aishe sat back in her chair and folded her arms. ‘Well, well. Patrick’s a father. I had no idea …’
‘Missed that particular family smoke signal?’ said Michelle.
‘The smoke signals only arrive when they want to guilt-trip me into coming home,’ Aishe replied. ‘When I’ve missed a big family occasion, for example.’
The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence Page 9