The Biggest Female in the World and other stories

by Wendy Perriam

  And I should be with them myself, Muriel said silently. With an angry gesture, she motioned Yvette inside, led her through the house and out into the garden.

  ‘Do you mind if I look everywhere?’

  ‘Please yourself,’ Muriel muttered, making no attempt to help. Her garden was so overgrown, it was doubtless full of hiding-places for disobedient dogs. She didn’t have the strength to keep it tidy, or the money to waste on Lotus Landscape Design. While Yvette tramped her way across the weeds, she remained standing by the fence, fighting a surge of dizziness. The champagne she hadn’t drunk was churning in her veins; the steak she hadn’t tasted curdling in her stomach. She could smell the meat now, smell the smoke – an acrid, greasy, choking smell, the smell of disappointment.

  Wretchedly she sank to her knees, until her eye was level with the small hole in the fence. Peering through, she watched the throng of guests. They were all tucking in, as she should be – munching chicken, swilling champagne, holding out their glasses for a refill and their plates for fresh-cooked steak. A buzz of conversation rose above the fence, as friend greeted friend effusively, exchanging jokes and laughter.

  ‘I can see her!’ she said suddenly, her face pressed against the scratchy wood. ‘I can see your little dog.’

  ‘Where?’ Yvette was tearing over, her voice tremulous with relief.

  ‘By the barbecue.’ No, that wasn’t quite correct. Fifi was on the barbecue. Her mass of fluffy white hair was slowly singeing and shrivelling, drifting into the air in a cloud of powdery flakes. The thicker fur on her rump and tail took longer to scorch off, but finally the last remaining shred had charred to cindery ash. The succulent pink flesh beneath was soon broiling to perfection on the glowing, red-hot charcoal. Piers tended it with care, sprinkling it with herbs, basting it with oil, and frequently turning it with cooking-tongs, to ensure it was evenly browned. Then he took his knife, sliced it into slivers and passed the pieces round. At first the guests were hesitant, chewing only warily, but caution changed to pleasure in this new, exotic treat, whose unusual taste and tenderness intrigued their gourmet palates.

  ‘She’s not there,’ Yvette whimpered, all but pushing Muriel over, as she applied her eye to the peephole. ‘How could you play a trick like that?’

  ‘She is, she is!’ Muriel insisted, her gaze focused on the morsels – hands reaching out, teeth masticating – fillet-steak-of-Fifi churning to a squelchy pulp in people’s throats and bellies.

  Yvette had one last look. ‘Are you blind or something?’ she snapped. ‘Of course she isn’t there. And, anyway, if she had turned up, Piers would have come rushing round to tell me. You’ve raised my hopes for nothing, which is downright cruel – not to mention crass!’

  Was she cruel? She hoped not. And crass? Most probably. All she really wanted was the bows – satin bows and silk bows, tartan bows and rainbow-coloured bows, hound’s-tooth-check and polka-dotted bows. And that gentle brush singing through her hair, and the titbits as reward, and the fondlings and caresses, the loving little squeezes, the butterfly kisses planted on her nose. But, most of all, of course, the loving, doting mother.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘She’s not there. It was just a … foolish hope.’ And, turning on her heel, she walked slowly, stiffly, sadly back indoors.

  Wedlock

  ‘Jo, you must get dressed! It’s fearfully late.’

  ‘Coming,’ she called from the bathroom, still trying to dislodge an obstinate piece of carrot from her tooth.

  ‘Everyone will be in the church by now.’

  ‘My friends won’t,’ Jo remarked, sauntering out in her bra and pants. ‘If they get anywhere on time, it’s a bloody miracle.’

  ‘Well, my friends will,’ her stepmother retorted, with a disapproving frown. ‘Quick – let’s get you into your dress.’

  ‘Hold on a tick. I need to put my deodorant on. I’m sweating from sheer nerves.’

  ‘Perspiring, dear, not sweating. Only men and horses sweat.’

  Jo made a neighing sound, her jokiness disguising genuine fear. Pre-wedding nerves were normal. Weren’t they? ‘Damn! Where the hell did I put the stuff? It must have walked off on its own.’

  ‘Borrow mine. I’ll fetch it.’

  Jo was glad of even a few seconds on her own. She didn’t want an ageing, fussy bridesmaid – didn’t want a bridesmaid at all. It seemed desperately important to have this time alone, before she joined her life to someone else’s, for ever and ever and—

  ‘Here you are, dear. It’s a nice one – Estée Lauder Youth Dew.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Now what about your tights?’

  ‘I’m not wearing them. I’m hot enough.’

  ‘Jo, you must wear tights for a wedding.’

  ‘Why? Is it a law of the land?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. And please do get a move on. It’s ten to twelve already.’

  ‘Brides are always late,’ she said, wriggling her bare feet, with difficulty, into the stiff white leather shoes. ‘It’s our prerogative.’

  ‘Not that late.’ Shirley took down the wedding gown from its padded satin hanger and held it out towards her. ‘Careful! Don’t tread on the train.’

  As she stepped into the wide-skirted dress, Jo suddenly felt as if she were entering a cage; the prison door slamming shut as Shirley zipped her up. The brocaded fabric was extraordinarily heavy, weighing her down, enclosing her in a luxurious white padded cell. When she’d tried it on at the fittings, it hadn’t seemed so cumbersome, yet now it was squeezing all her organs, almost preventing her from breathing.

  ‘You look absolutely beautiful!’ Shirley said, standing back to admire the effect.

  Jo fidgeted in embarrassment. ‘Absolutely beautiful’ was way over the top and, anyway, according to the fairytales, stepmothers hated beauty in a stepdaughter.

  All at once, there was a bellow from downstairs. ‘Shirley! Jo! What the hell are you two playing at? We should have left hours ago. The driver’s doing his nut!’

  ‘Nearly ready, Dad,’ she shouted back. They had left him with the gin bottle, but he sounded anything but mellow.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Shirley tutted. ‘He can’t take stress.’

  Don’t criticize my father, she was just about to shout, but Shirley was advancing on her again, this time with the veil.

  ‘No, wait! My earrings first.’

  ‘We haven’t time for earrings. It’s a good half-hour’s drive to the church and, at this rate, the vicar will be pacing up and down, wondering where on earth you are.’

  ‘Look, Edward bought me those earrings, especially for today.’

  ‘Well, hurry up, for heaven’s sake!’

  Jo dashed over to the dressing-table and endeavoured to sit down, but the dress was so stiff and full, it didn’t seem to want to bend. Still standing up, she opened the tiny box, withdrew the diamond shamrocks, then fiddled about for a moment, trying to put one on. ‘Shit! The holes in my ears have closed up – I suppose because I haven’t worn earrings for such ages. And these ones are for pierced ears, so I just can’t get them in.’

  Shirley made a noise between a sigh and a groan. ‘I’ve got dozens of the clip-on sort, including a gorgeous little seed-pearl pair that’ll look perfect with the dress. Wait a sec and I’ll fetch them.’

  ‘No, I must wear Edward’s. The shamrocks are for luck and, anyway, the diamonds match the ring.’

  Another shout erupted from downstairs. ‘For God’s sake, Jo! Are you getting married or aren’t you?’

  ‘Look, I’d better go and calm him down.’ Shirley teetered out in her high-heeled sling-back shoes. She was wearing a vile shade of green and far too many frills. Though who was she to talk? Her own dress seemed ridiculously elaborate. In fact, when she examined herself full-length in the mirror, the reflection staring back at her bore no resemblance to the ordinary self she knew. Her dark hair had been twisted up on top, instead of hanging tousled round her shoulders. And her make-up looked t
oo thick, almost like a mask. Normally, she didn’t wear lipstick or foundation – only a lick of mascara – but Shirley had insisted on giving her the full works. (‘It’ll look better in the photographs.’) And the dress itself made her seem much older: a doomed figure in some Spanish Tragedy. What would Edward think? He rarely saw her in anything but jeans. But then it was his status-conscious family who had insisted on a big wedding in the first place.

  She walked slowly to the window, glancing out at the small back garden, with its apple tree, its square of lawn. She had climbed that tree, dug the soil for worms, planted a nasturtium patch, measured out her childhood in daisy-chains and hopscotch. Today it looked forlorn: the leaves yellowing and drifting down, the grass parched from the late summer heat. She turned back to the room, trying to drink in every feature, so she could imprint them on her mind: the bookshelf with its Beatrix Potters, the patchwork quilt Aunt Eve had sewn, the corkboard on the wall, with its mass of photographs, depicting her and various school-friends from kindergarten to sixth form. This was the only room she had ever had – the only home she had ever had – yet she would be leaving it in just a matter of minutes. Though it wasn’t really home now, not with Shirley there, putting her stamp on the furnishings and colour scheme, even chucking out the old sheets and towels. Tomorrow, no doubt, the photos, quilt and Beatrix Potters would also end up in the bin, dumped as so much trash.

  Shirley panted up again, her green eye shadow already smudged. ‘Your father’s in a dreadful state. And the driver’s in a tizzy, as well. He’s got another booking after this and says he—’

  ‘Look, if I go and fetch a needle, could you jab it through each ear? You’ll see the little marks where they were pierced originally, so it’ll only take a second to open up the holes again.’

  ‘Jo, are you out of your mind? You’ll get an infection and land up with a raging fever on your honeymoon.’

  ‘Of course I won’t. I’m tough.’ She had to wear the diamonds – not just for good luck, but because diamonds were for ever, so the adverts said. ‘For ever’ still seemed frightening – a path winding up a steep and dangerous mountainside, until it lost itself in mist. ‘OK, OK, I’ll sterilize the needle first, but it’ll only waste more time.’

  ‘Jo’ – Shirley’s voice was wire wool – ‘we haven’t time to be sterilizing needles. Once I’ve fixed your veil, we’re off.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No “buts”. We’re leaving in one minute flat.’

  Yards and yards of tulle suddenly descended on her head, blinkering her, blocking out the view. Images of gags and blindfolds flitted through her mind. ‘Ow!’ she cried, as Shirley fixed the wreath on top with what felt like sharp steel needles. ‘You’re hurting.’

  ‘Well, it’s got to be secure. You don’t want it falling off.’

  She wasn’t sure she wanted it at all. Weren’t wreaths for funerals?

  ‘Right, got your bouquet?’

  ‘It’s in the hall.’

  ‘Good! Let’s go.’

  Shirley preceded her down the stairs, Jo walking with exaggerated care. This wasn’t her – this was some impostor – the daughter-in-law Edward’s parents would have chosen, had they been given a free hand: a sophisticated woman in her twenties, not a crass kid of nineteen, and someone with a decent education, and what they called ‘background’ (which meant upper class, top drawer.) They disapproved not just of her, but of the fact that Edward had proposed a mere seven days after meeting her. He’d known after seven minutes, so he claimed. Which was one of the reasons she loved him – and loved the proposal. He’d actually gone down on his knees and recited a Shakespeare sonnet, then whipped a little box from his back pocket, opened it with a flourish to reveal the diamond ring, slipped the ring on her finger, and said she was never, ever to take it off, not even in the tomb. She’d been in the middle of cooking supper and the burgers she was frying had frizzled to a black, charred mess. Who cared? She would burn a million burgers for the sake of romance like that.

  Her father was waiting in the hall, looking hot and flustered; his ill-fitting morning suit straining over his stomach. He approached her almost shyly, lifting her veil to give her a bashful kiss. ‘You look sensational,’ he whispered.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she whispered back. It seemed imperative to whisper, so they wouldn’t be overheard. Fortunately Shirley was out of earshot, checking her hair in the mirror, and putting on her large green feathered hat. But after today, it would be her father and this woman on their own – she an occasional visitor. And it was clear where his priorities lay. OK, he’d given her a kiss, but already he had turned his back and was fussing over Shirley again – did she have her car-keys? Did she know the way? She would remember, wouldn’t she, to turn off at junction 9? ‘You’d better go ahead of us,’ he added, ‘so you’re in the church by the time we arrive, and can reassure the others. They’ll all be having kittens, imagining we’ve broken down, or I’ve had a heart attack.’

  Don’t rub it in, Jo thought. I know it’s all my fault. She had disappointed both her parents by always being late – late for school, late for appointments, even late being born, according to her mother; still clinging on to the safety of the womb a whole ten days after she was due. Would the new baby be late? The loathsome creature was expected this very week, keeping her mother a virtual prisoner up in Perth. A pregnancy at the age of forty-six carried the risk of complications, and they feared she might not get back home in time if she travelled such a distance.

  Jo loosened one of the hairpins digging into her scalp. At first, she’d wept and stormed, but now she felt something close to relief. At least the day would be more peaceful without the ex-wife and the current wife spoiling for a fight, and without snide attacks on her mother as villainness-in-chief – walking out on her family because she’d fallen for a hairdresser half her age, who’d landed her with his love-child. It was the hairdresser that rankled as far as Edward’s parents were concerned. If she had run off with an Oxbridge don, or a surgeon, or a judge, all would have been forgiven, no doubt.

  Shirley was still racing around like a rabbit on adrenaline, locking up, turning any lights off, fetching her bag and gloves, and finally seizing the wedding bouquet and tweaking one of the roses into line, as if it, too, needed discipline. ‘Careful now – don’t crush them,’ she said, handing the flowers to Jo.

  I’m not a child, Jo didn’t say, wondering how red roses could feel so burdensome. She longed to have her hands free, longed to be wearing casual clothes, longed to scrub her face clean, kick off the crippling shoes. Tonight, with Edward, she would be naked, unconfined, just warm skin against warm skin. ‘Roll on tonight!’ she murmured.

  ‘I’m off, then, you two. See you soon. Good luck, Jo!’

  ‘Thanks,’ Jo muttered, frowning in annoyance as her father kissed Shirley goodbye. And a longer kiss than hers had been.

  All three of them walked out to the front path, Jo still moving stiffly, like a creature which had grown a shell and had to drag the unwieldy thing around wherever she might go. Having waved Shirley off in their scarlet Ford Fiesta, her father took her arm and led her out to the waiting car – a vintage Bentley in wedding-white. The chauffeur held the door for her and took charge of her bouquet, while she manoeuvred herself into the back, encumbered by the bulky folds of her dress. Her father scrambled in the other side, his reassuringly solid thigh nudging against her own. ‘OK, pet?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’ Any minute she would be leaving his official care, leaving this street, leaving her home town. He’d be ‘giving her away’, as if she were an object or possession, and probably glad to do so, now that he had Shirley in his life. Once, there’d been just the two of them, after her mother left. Had he forgotten that era completely, forgotten just how close they’d been, united in their grief? If only he hadn’t remarried, he could have come and lived with her and Edward in their smart new garden flat – the ideal situation: her husband and her father under the same roof. OK, she was
probably a total wimp, but she still didn’t feel quite old enough to leave a Dad behind.

  As they turned into the High Street, he begged the chauffeur to make up for lost time. ‘If you could you step on it, Ron, we’d really be obliged.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ the fellow said, putting his foot down hard. ‘Though this old lady’s a wee bit temperamental and doesn’t do much more than sixty-five.’

  Jo stared at the back of his head: neatly clipped grey hair beneath a navy cap. He must see so many weddings – bride after bride after bride transported in his car. But he’d be aware merely of the externals: the forced smiles, the gorgeous dresses, the impeccable façade. Marriage was like an iceberg, with only the tiny top part open to public scrutiny. Underneath were dangerous depths and currents that could sweep man and wife away. Her parents’ marriage had foundered. Suppose she’d inherited a gene from them – the unhappy-marriage gene? No, that was daft. Edward worshipped her and was everything she wanted: easy-going, funny, bright – even rich, for God’s sake. She was the luckiest girl in the world.

  She sank back against the luxurious leather seat. Most of this extravagance was being paid for by his family. As was their ritzy honeymoon. This time tomorrow, she and Edward would be wandering hand in hand along sand as fine as gold-dust, or sipping exotic cocktails beneath the shade of leafy palms. It was hard to believe, as she gazed out at the dreary stretch of motorway: lorries clogging the inside lane, scrubby grass withered on the verge, an overcast and sluggish sky threatening further rain. Although they were now bowling along at quite a pace, she had an extraordinary feeling that she would be stuck on this same stretch of road for the remainder of her life; high-speed cars roaring past, as the decades ticked away; the thrum of the engine and the whine of the wind reverberating in her ears until she was too old and deaf to hear. ‘What, Dad?’ she mouthed, her father’s last remark drowned in the snort and rumble of a huge pantechnicon.