The Year I Went Pear-shaped: A fat woman's tale of love and insanity

by Tamara Pitelen

I jabbed them with one foot, watched the numbers whiz around, and then checked that the needle was exactly over the 0 when it came to rest again. They were weighing a fraction over. I adjusted them and did it again. This time it was a fraction under. After six test runs, I was finally happy that the scales were reading accurately. I held my breath and slowly, slowly placed first my right foot, then my left foot, onto the footpads. The number flew around finally stopping at just over 69 kilos.

  Damn, damn, damn! One kilo heavier than a week ago. How the hell did that happen? Familiar feelings of anger, frustration and depression rolled over me like a thick fog. Fucking hell, it just wasn't fair. The thick fog deepened into a black thunderous cloud.

  Stepping into the shower, I tried to rationalise it. Maybe my period was going to be early. Maybe it was just fluid retention from all that water I'd drunk today. Or maybe I was just a big fat lard arse who would never be able to attract a man and would die alone, surrounded by cats.

  'stop it you idiot. You're about to spend an evening with the man of your dreams, who cares about an extra bloody kilogram. Pull yourself together!"

  But it was no use, the damage was done and all I wanted to do was put on my pyjamas and sit in front of the TV with a big mug of hot chocolate and a container of Haagen-Dazs ice cream. Bizarrely enough, whenever I got depressed about my weight, I have an irresistible urge to totally pig out. It's the same with money. When I'm broke, I go out on a spending spree with my credit card. But there’d be no getting out of tonight's soiree, not least of all because it was officially a work thing and I needed to get the story.

  So I stepped into the shower, lathered myself up, pushed shampoo then conditioner through my hair and generally tried to perk up. It was almost working until about an hour later when Anita came into my room looking to borrow some gold flake mascara. She looked breathtaking in a revealing gold cocktail dress that shimmered when she walked. She was tall, with golden bronze skin and white blonde hair. Her green eyes sparkled like emeralds. If I'd been a man, I'd have pounced on her then and there.

  "God, you look fantastic Neets!” I said as she wandered into my room.

  "Thanks Chick, so do you! That dress fits perfectly just like I knew it would you moron!”

  “Well thanks, but next to you I feel pretty ordinary. Do me a favour and keep right away from me all night will you and when I tell Gordon you're my drag queen friend, just go along with it ok?”

  “Ah shaddup you idiot! Now, gimme that mascara and hurry up, I've called a cab and it's picking us up in twenty minutes. Can you claim the cab fare on work expenses?”

  “Yeah, course I can, it's a work gig. I reckon I can also claim any food, drink and lines of coke that we need to fork out for as well but here's hoping it’ll all be freebies.”

  With any luck there’d be a plentiful supply of cocaine being bandied about. It was great stuff for losing weight. A few lines of Charlie along with four days of only eating fruit beginning with A should well and truly knock off that extra kilo or two. I was feeling better already.

  Chapter 14: Ball Skills

  As promised, Gordon was waiting at the entrance of the MCA dead on 8pm when Anita and I pulled up in the cab. The photographer, Ian, was already there so I introduced Anita -- whispering something to Gordon about lesbian tendencies as I did -- then the four of us enthusiastically kissed the air behind each others ears and made "mwah" noises, before setting up a few shots at the entrance of Gordon air kissing other celebs as they turned up. When one of the heads that reads the news on Channel Five rolled up in a stretch limo, we borrowed it for a few minutes to mock up a few shots of Gordon supposedly arriving. I found out later that he’d actually turned up on a push bike because he didn't live that far away but as far as Lush! readers would be concerned, Gordon arrived at the biggest A list party of the year in a white stretch limo with a bottle of champagne and some glamorous, mystery woman (Anita) for company. It was all going beautifully and I was just about to usher Gordon inside so we could get stuck into the cocktails when a cloud appeared across his face. Looking over my shoulder to see what he was looking at, I saw a tall, black haired, dark skinned beauty step out of the silver Jaguar that had just pulled up and float up the carpet to the entrance. Her name was Talia and she played the exotic salsa instructor from Cuba on Love on the Wards who"d ended up in hospital being treated by Dr Ramswell after breaking both legs in a freak dance accident involving stray pineapples falling off someone's costume. Apart from her soap work, she'd also just released her second single and was being touted as this country’s answer to Shakira. The woman was sex on legs and she was coming towards us. My heart felt like someone had thrown it into a blender with vinegar and hot chilli sauce.

  "Gorrrdon," she oozed in an accent straight from the sidewalks of Latin America, which was odd since she'd been born and raised in Campbelltown -- not that you’d find that little detail on her CV.

  "It's really good to see you," she flashed her big brown eyes and lightly ran her finger down his arm. We must talk properly later, yes?"

  "Hi Talia, I didn't know you were back in town," Gordon said, his mouth tight and his eyes narrowed. " Have you met my friend Darla? We went to school together."

  Oh my god, he called me his friend! Stop the presses!

  "Really? How sweet, pleased to meet you Dora," she said without taking her eyes off Gordon. 'see you inside Sweetheart." And she floated away, leaving a hint of cinnamon and musk in her wake.

  "Good Lord, if she was any hotter, she'd need 24 hour fire brigade back-up," I said.

  "Mmmm." He replied through pursed lips. "Keep your distance though Darla, she burns everything she touches."

  "I see. I take it you're speaking from experience Mr Worsley?"

  "Let's just say my fingers are still blistered," he smiled at me and the cloud lifted from his face.

  "C'mon," he said. "Lets go and take more photos that make me look all suave and exciting!" Then he took my hand - he took my hand! - and led me up the red carpet and into the party. We had to walk past about 50 paparazzi photographers who, at the sight of Gordon, launched into a frenzy of picture taking and name calling in the hope of getting the shot that all the weekly mags and the newspapers would want to run in their social pages. I glanced back to check that Anita and Ian weren’t too far behind us. Ian was getting shots of all the pap photographers focused on Gordon and me, while Anita was enjoying a taste of celebrity as the pap photographers madly clicked away at her as well, just in case she turned out to be someone famous or the scandalous new mistress of some politician.

  As we left the photographers behind and got our names ticked off by an Amazonian, take-no-prisoners door bitch wearing a Lycra bikini, we finally entered the inner sanctum of movers and shakers. First, we were greeted by half naked characters straight out of Greek Mythology bearing trays of cocktails. I accepted an apple martini from a gorgeous minotaur while Gordon took a glass of white wine from some kind of bare-breasted nymph who wore nothing but a white cloth around her waist and was covered in blue paint from head to toe. Then we entered the main party area, which was a huge, darkened room pulsing with funky break beats, which kept time with the psychedelic images playing on the walls. In the four corners of the room were fake Greek columns, on top of which were cages and in each cage, two virtually naked male and female dancers were throwing themselves around to the music with orgiastic abandon, stopping just short of actual penetrative sex.

  "Crikey," I said, nudging Gordon and pointing at the dancers, "it's just gone 8.30pm. What are they going to be doing by midnight?"

  "I don't know, I'm usually in bed with my liquorice root tea long before then."

  Just then, Anita and Ian came up to join us.

  "Bloody hell," said Anita, "it's wall-to-wall eye-candy and I'm already onto my second mango daiquiri! I thought you said these things were boring Darl, this is the best fucking party I've been to in years! Oooh look! There's that guy off that police drama, Blue Shoes or whatever, and there's t
hat chick who used to be on Beauty and the Beast, do you remember her? She once chucked this almighty tanty and stormed off the set. And there's Bruno Mars! I didn't know he was in town right now..."

  Anita head was whirling round so fast, steam was coming out of her ears.

  "Anita, are you going to start hyperventilating soon? Just let me know when to slap you. You're getting horribly close to a bad case of starfuckeritis. It's an ugly disease Honey, before you know it, you'll be in a cubicle in the men’s discussing Star Wars characters and sexual positions with some vaguely familiar drummer from a band you saw on TV last weekend."

  "Aww be nice to me Darl, I don't get to see famous people this close up very often. I'm excited, let me enjoy it. You might find it all terribly dull and be oh-so-unimpressed but for me it's a total blast. What more could you want? Free food, free alcohol and I'm rubbing shoulders with all the people that normally live in my telly. Hell, I might even drag a game show host home tonight!"

  "That's right Love, aim high. Just promise you won't bring anyone back whose ratings have been lagging lately, ok?"

  "Yes Mum. Now, I'm off to hunt down one of those men in the skimpy togas wandering around with trays of oysters then I might see if I can start up a conversation with the red headed guy from Killing Heidi, I've always quite fancied him."

  "Good luck darling!" I cried.

  And she was off, cutting a swathe through the crowd like a golden shark.

  I turned back to find Gordon talking to the newsreader who arrived in the limo. She was hanging onto his arm while throwing her head back and laughing at something hilarious that he was saying. With cheekbones like carving knives, it was a wonder that she didn't slit her own fingers open when she rubbed her face.

  "Darla!" said Gordon stepping back to let me join them. "This is my old friend Sonya, we met at a drama school party years ago after Sonya ended up in a corner pashing my old flatmate, a wicked lad called Justin...Sonya, this is Darla, we were at school together."

  Sonya smiled the kind of smile that made me feel special and held out her hand. "It's great to meet you Darla, do you have all sorts of humiliating stories to tell me about Gordy’s school days?"

  Dammit, she was thin, beautiful, intelligent and nice. Curses!

  “Oh, the stories I could tell about this lad would burn your ears off Sonya, but don't worry, I plan to write a tell-all biography about him so every sordid detail will be revealed.”

  Gordon flushed pink and Sonya laughed again.

  “The scary thing is Son,” said Gordon, “she really does have some bloody embarrassing dirt on me!”

  “Well, good! Because you've been too damn squeaky clean for too long. You need a good scandal to erupt. It'd be great to see the dark side of Dr Ramswell dragged out into the open. God knows, I’ve witnessed some of your murkier moments over the years. Not to mention the long line of broken hearts you’ve left in your wake! Thank God I'm just married and finally safe from him Darla," she said, turning to me with another stunning smile - what is it with these TV types and their smiles? "Just make sure you don't go getting all soft for him, he can be irresistible but he's nothing but trouble!"

  "Ha. Ha ha," I managed weakly. If only she knew. Hell, I had a shrine to the man, with incense and everything, in the corner of my bedroom! I was going to dismantle the damned thing as soon as I got home.

  "Don't worry Son, it'd take more than movie star looks, wealth and great personality to get me,” I joked, immediately wishing I hadn’t as a vaguely uncomfortable look flashed across Gordon's face as he and Sonya exchanged quick, knowing glances.

  "Um, I mean, ha ha, I've got a great boyfriend, well, life partner really. I haven't looked at another man in 10 years, me."

  "Really? Thank God someone's doing it right! You’ve given me hope Darla. So what's he like, this man of yours?" asked Sonya, Gordon hadn’t said much but I noticed that I suddenly had his total attention.

  ohgodohgodohgod.

  "Ah..."

  Think Darla, think!

  "...he's an, ah, architect. His name is, um, Brad. Brad Timberlake..."

  What the fuck? Brad fucking Timberlake? Where the hell did that come from you idiot Darla!

  "...and, ah, we met at a party. Anyway, I met Brad over the pool table. It was love at first break."

  "Awwwww! That's so great! Sonya squeaked. "God, you so rarely hear about couples lasting these days. What's your secret? I'm desperate to make my marriage work! It's my second one in five years."

  "And Darla has a relationships advice column in the mag, Son,” Gordon butted in.

  "Well, you're the woman to ask then,” she said, still with the smile, but this time touching my arm as well. Goddammit, she was so nice!

  "Mmmm," I said furrowing my brow in an effort to sound sincere and knowledgeable. "Y'know, if I had to boil it down to one main thing, I'd say it comes down to really working at communication..."

  Good one Darla, lets just regurgitate all those naff relationship clichés spouted by touchy-feely life-coach types who go into business with a counselling certificate that they got from a six week course run by the local church where the lecturer is on the wrong side of 80, has blue hair, and whose last relationship ended during the second world war because Bertie didn't make it back, poor bugger.

  "Yeah, I know you're right," Sonya nodded, kindly ignoring my inane hippy drivel, "but even if you talk yourselves blue in the face, sometimes it's like you're talking different languages, you know?"

  And this time Sonya looked at me with a flash of real pain in those amazing blue eyes. The same eyes that looked straight at me every evening with a rundown on fighting in the Middle East or skirmishes in Israel. Oh god, this beautiful woman needs real advice and I'm just some tragic, totally unqualified agony aunt on a trashy fashion mag, who only got the job because the company were too cheap to pay a proper counsellor to do it, who's only ever had one real boyfriend and that ended four years ago. What the hell do I know about making a relationship work? Christ, just making the toaster work has me flying into a rage. And commitment? What's that? Being loyal to a brand of yoghurt at the supermarket is hard enough. I can spend 20 minutes standing in the deli section, staring at the hundreds of yoghurts in their little pottles, thinking things like, "what if there's some great new yoghurt that I'd totally click with but I never get the chance to taste it because I'm being faithful to my regular brand -- a brand which, I might add, is delicious, good value and exactly what I'm looking for in a yoghurt...but still, am I limiting myself? Would I be happier with some exotic fruit variety? A creamy organic brand? One that comes with a free toy?"

  "I know it's an awful cliché Sonya,” I finally managed to sputter, “but you've got to keep working at it, don't walk away too easily. Just as importantly you've got to work on yourself too, face your own issues because that's the baggage you're bringing into the relationship and we all have baggage. Then, I'd say open yourself up completely; let yourself be vulnerable and honest. Don't play games or expect him to guess how you're feeling. And don't suppress your emotions to keep the peace or whatever. Don't let your fears and insecurities hold you back and if they are, then that's the baggage you need to face. Honour and cherish him. And expect the same in return."

  I'd pretty much summarised the session with Dr Phil that I'd seen on Oprah that morning but it seemed to work. Hell, maybe it was even true. He's good that Dr Phil.

  "Thank you Darla," she said gently and took a step closer to me so because she was almost whispering. Gordon held back, throwing back the rest of his drink before grabbing another one from a nearby nymph and making short work of that too.

  "You really hit a nerve with me there," Sonya continued. "It's true you know, I guess it's your own issues that are the real problem. Like, how is Tim supposed to know that when he swears at the footy on the TV it reminds me of my alcoholic Uncle Jo who battered my Aunty Alice for 20 years and that that's why I then yell at him about something stupid. I need to tell him and I need to sort
out my own baggage re my dysfunctional family or I'm going to fuck up this marriage too."

  Crikey. This was not the kind of conversation I expected to be having at a party where half naked men from Greek mythology were offering me platters of goat's cheese vol au vents.

  "...so can you recommend any good counsellors Darla?"

  Oh hell, Sonya was asking me a question. It seemed that on the basis of my -- sorry, Dr Phil's -- advice, she was going to take the plunge and get some therapy to sort out some childhood issues of neglect and abandonment. Bloody hell, where were those blue nymphs with the drinks when you needed them?

  "Counsellors? Um, yes, I know some very good ones actually but there's one in particular, I’ll give you her name. She's a little eccentric but very good." And I gave her Tobsha's name and number, hoping to God Tobsha wouldn"t describe her "resonant horgasms" at Sonya's first session.

  "Thank you so much, I'll phone her tomorrow. Well!" Said Sonya, throwing winning smiles at both me and Gordon who was now onto his seventh lychee martini. "I'm going to leave you two to it, I'll mingle for another 15 minutes or so then fly home. I want to get back in time for a documentary on the ABC about jungle tribes in Sulawesi, it looks excellent. Darla, it was so great to meet you. Thank you so much for your advice, I'd really love it if you and Gordon would come round for dinner with Tim and I one night soon, I'll contact Gordon about it and he can let you know, ok?"

  I nodded and tried to equal her smile wattage right back at her. "I'd love that Sonya, it was great to meet you too, take care and good luck with Tobsha."

  Then she was gone, sashaying through the crowd wrapped in a cloud of Obsession by Chanel.

  I looked up at Gordon who was swaying ever so slightly. He grinned, a mix of embarrassment and alcohol.

  “Sonya is one of my dearest friends Darl, thanks so much for helping her."

  Ok, my conscience couldn't handle much more of this; I'd done nothing at all apart from listen. And even then I wasn't really listening, I was fantasising about letting Thorpie use my Garfield coffee cup.