by Betty Balaba
“A continental shelf!” Their laughing was getting worse, and so was my temper. I knew lots of people were prejudiced against larger people; the odd word here, a stifled snigger there. But it was still hard to witness. I had never struggled with my weight before, but always tried to put myself in others’ shoes. How awful it would feel to hear this being said about me. And it seemed they weren’t finished yet.
“Exactly, you could rest a tray on it.” They snorted, collapsing into more giggles.
I’d had enough. No one deserved that! What was wrong with these people? I stepped forwards.
“That is not funny,” I snapped. They looked at me as if I was a ghost, then finally found their voices. They hadn’t realised they had been overheard.
“It’s just banter,” said one, still smirking.
“Well, I doubt she would see it that way.” I wasn’t letting them off the hook.
“Look, if you are that big, you’re lazy.” He fought back. “Get to the gym, and then no one can make fun of you.”
“The gym doesn’t work for everyone,” I snapped again. “And people have feelings, you know.”
“She can’t hear us!” piped in the other one. “Anyway, what’s it to you? It’s not like you’ve got the same problem.”
“And if I did?” I said.
“Then you’d better get used to banter. Fat people have personalities. They can take it, you know!” He finished triumphantly.
They continued to laugh. I didn’t join in. My sense of humour had taken a permanent bypass by then. They stared at me as I left; half-defiant, half-sheepish. Little did I then know how prophetic their words had been.
Chapter 3
Late Meals and Tape Measures
I woke up feeling full, which was very unusual for me. And not just full: it was as if I’d been force-fed eight courses. It obviously hadn’t been the best idea to eat a stuffed-crust pizza and a melt-in-the-middle pudding at 10:30 p.m. I never used to eat after eight in the evening but going to bed hungry seemed like a worse option. Even so, I knew how easy it could be at times like these to slip into eating late; despite the consequences of waking up feeling like this in the morning.
Food shopping when you’re ravenous is the evil twin of eating late. But then the alternative – ordering a takeaway when you haven’t eaten for ten hours – is hardly better. With these thoughts circulating, my bloated self and I got ready for work. At least I didn’t look bloated. Yet. Or maybe it was just the wide navy belt I cunningly wrapped around my pencil skirt. Remembering the lesson of the day before, I left the heels firmly parked in my shoe rack. Instead I slipped on the lowest navy heels I could find: court shoes that only added an inch.
On leaving the Tube station I noticed my fast metabolism had kicked back into gear. I bought a fruit salad at the nearest cafe, keen to make a healthy choice after last night’s feast. Behind me in the queue was a man in a charcoal suit, with something of a sophisticated air. Conservative with a twist, I’d say, not unlike my own style.
“May I say you’re looking elegant this morning!” From his side thrown smile I realised he was referring to me. Well it was unlikely to be directed at the two builders paying for their sandwiches. “Thank you,” I said, leaning in slightly to inspect him closer. He looked like he’d just stepped out of the pages of GQ Magazine; a kind of modern Cary Grant.
“May I buy you a drink?” Hell’s bells! And with a voice as smooth as melting chocolate. A drink though, really? It was a bit early for that! I must have looked puzzled. He grinned indulgently.
“Tea, coffee?” he added. I smiled, feeling a bit like a fool. But I had to find my voice quick before I looked like a fool too. Clearing my throat I prepared to muster up my most elegant tone. “No thank you, I’m just grabbing this.” He smiled wistfully but I had to get a move on. The excuse of an encounter with a gorgeous man wouldn’t cut it back at the office.
Walking into the building, I was surprised not to spy Sophie at the reception. The desk was very tidy: nothing unusual in that. We always joked that Sophie had slight OCD: don’t mess her desk up unless you wanted a war! But she was usually always at her desk before me. Sure, I had arrived before everyone – to ensure I could leave earlier to go the hospital – but it was still odd for her not to be there. There were three white clocks on the wall behind the desk, showing the times in London, New York and Paris. Quite why, I wasn’t sure; because we didn’t have an office in either of the two other places. I guess it looked good. There were four plush cream leather chairs a little to the side that surrounded a square glass table, which that morning had been graced with a vase of lilies. There was a small display table with marketing industry and fashion magazines. The fashion magazines were Sophie’s addition, they weren’t really supposed to be there, of course.
The kitchen was an all-white affair full of modern gadgets. It had tall windows and a circular table, which served as unofficial conference room and social hub. I was alone in there when Sophie scurried in, running her hands through her hair. Her face was flushed and she was out of breath.
“Honestly I can’t believe people sometimes!”
“What happened?”
“I was going to get here early so I could prepare the boardroom for the directors meeting. But what happens?” Sophie liked to emphasise the drama in a story.
“What?” I duly replied.
She threw her hands up in the air. “Someone threw themselves under a train. And that really messed up the service!” She thrust two pieces of white bread into the toaster before continuing. "Threw themselves under a train at 8:15 in the morning. For goodness’ sake! Why do it during rush hour? So selfish!" She was reaching for a plate and some butter, punctuating every action with a bang. She glanced at me for agreement.
“I know,” I said slowly. “What were they thinking?” She started to grin, looking contrite.
“Okay…” said Sophie, starting to come around from her rant. “Am I being selfish?” I nodded reluctantly, and she gave an exaggerated sigh.
I leaned forward towards the door and suddenly saw colleagues loitering by the reception desk. “There’s practically a queue forming for you!” She rolled her eyes.
“Well, they’ll have to give me a minute, won’t they? What do they think, that I’ve come here to work?” I burst out laughing as she hurried to her desk. I went back to my mountain of emails, stalked by the smell of Sophie’s toast. I loved that smell but for once I wasn’t tempted: the fruit salad had saved me from myself.
Standing at the photocopier later that morning, a pair of hands grabbed me around the waist. I yelped. It was Sophie again, of course.
“Very 40s, today Becca! How small is your waist? I can almost make my fingers touch!”
“Only just,” I muttered. I could see Sophie was in one of her playful moods.
“Only just is enough for me thank you very much!” said Sophie. “Every time I look at you, I think you’re walking around with the body that I deserve!” That really made me laugh. Sophie’s hands were still around my waist. “Well?” She demanded.
“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “I haven’t measured it.”
“What’s wrong with you? Measure it!” Sophie was something else. We were in the office, not a fashion showroom! “Fine,” she said. "If you won’t, I will!" Before I could say anything, she had rushed off. I followed to find her whipping a tape measure out of her desk. What mysteries lay within! I gestured to her that we should go to the bathroom, realising that I was becoming complicit in this strange game. I quickly checked the cubicles to make sure there was no one in there. Unless we were alone then Sophie could forget about measuring anything! Sophie put the tape measure around my waist.
“Bloody hell!” she said. I didn’t say anything. “Bloody hell, Becca. Your waist is 25 inches. 25 inches! Shut up with your 25 inches!” I still hadn’t said anything. Sophie always had a way of making me smile. I felt like a prize horse, but didn’t mind as she was enjoying herself. “How
on earth do you have a 25-inch waist with your diet!?” I knew she wasn’t really speaking to me: she had gone into her own thought-bubble. I finally removed the tape measure from my waist.
“Back to work,” I chimed.
“I think I’m going into a depression,” she joked.
I laughed. “No, you’re not. Come on! Before we both get in trouble for using the loos as our own personal living room.” That tickled Sophie, and she giggled all the way back to her reception desk.
I was heading to the lift to pick up some lunch when Sophie called my name. As I turned around, she took a picture of me on her phone.
*“A photographer too, now? As well as a weight watcher and* expert cupcake baker!”
Sophie threw her head back and laughed. “You’ll be thanking me one day for taking this picture of you, looking your super slim self.” Little did she know how right she would end up being.
As far as I was concerned, there would never be a reason for me to stop being my super-slim self. I’d been the same size for years. Besides, I had never minded having my picture taken.
“Send me a copy,” I yelled, and she gave me a thumbs-up as the lift doors closed.
I hadn’t seen my boss all day, mainly because the directors’ meeting had run on as usual. She finally came out of the boardroom just as I was finishing my lunch al desko. I followed her to her glass-fronted office, hoping to catch a moment alone. “Emma, do you have a few minutes?”
“Not really,” she said. “It will have to be quick!” She wasn’t a woman who was keen on small talk. If you didn’t get to the point, she’d cut you off until you did.
“My mother is still in the hospital. To catch the consultant before he leaves, I need to be there at 4:15 this afternoon.” Her eyes widened slightly then softened, but she said nothing. “That said, I’ll come to work early again tomorrow – and work through lunch – so I can leave early.”
“Um, how early?” she asked pointedly. I knew she was in a difficult position, so I didn’t hold it against her.
“Eight,” I replied promptly. “But I’ll work right through… I may need to leave at 3:30 on most days to be honest,” I tentatively added.
“Okay.” She picked up some papers; her usual sign that you were being dismissed. As I turned, she added: “I do hope your mother feels better.”
“Thanks…” I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to say more. But I had taken up enough of her time.
Back at my desk, I saw that Sophie was giving me what’s up glances. Like clockwork, I received an email from her. “R u in trouble?” it read. “No,” I typed. “Why the audience then?” she dug. I grinned: Nothing got past her. “It’s personal.” “Where have you been this past year? There is nothing personal in this office. If you want to keep to yourself, you better work in Accounts!”
I laughed openly and ignored the curious head turns. At 3:30, I grabbed my raincoat and headed to the lift. Sophie appeared from nowhere, stepping out in front of me.
“I’m sure you’re going out with one the directors, and he’s whisking you off somewhere?”
She raised her eyebrows mockingly.
“Behave,” I said. “As if!”
“Well, I haven’t forgiven you for ignoring my emails!”
I didn’t have time to ignore her now, so I’d have to just come out with it. “My mum’s in hospital… so I have to go early to see how she is, and catch the consultant who leaves around 4:15.”
“Oh…” Then silence. “I’m sorry your mum’s not well. Is it bad?”
“Hopefully not. She’ll be out soon. Anyway, now you’d better go get back to work!”
The lift doors opened.
“While you’re in the hospital, you might as well make yourself useful.”
“How so?”
“Keep your eyes peeled for any dishy doctors!”
“I’m not looking for a romance there, Soph.”
“I wasn’t talking about you. Report back! I’d happily take your place if the right doctor’s on duty!” I stepped into the lift with a smile. I’ll say this for Sophie – she’s the only one who could take my mind off worrying for a few minutes.
I was at my mother’s bed when the nurse came in with – finally – the Consultant. Standing up, I shook his outstretched hand and realised he was the same doctor whom had helped me with my mother in A&E. How did I not notice his good looks last time we met?! I must have been so stressed. His hands were baby soft. I was surprised. Weren’t they always in water? Being washed before this or that procedure? I guessed he was in his late thirties. He dressed like a man who cared how he looked; and introduced himself as James Duncan.
“Your mother is doing as well as can be expected. But because she is diabetic, we don’t want her leg wound to cause any complications. The blood thinners will be doing their work on the clots in her lungs.”
He gave me a sympathetic look and smiled at my mother reassuringly. He seemed calm and that reassured me more than his words. My mother turned her head like she couldn’t really face anything. The fear I had managed to suppress whilst at the office came back in a rush. You hear about clots in people’s legs moving elsewhere in the body and killing them. And my mother’s were already in her lungs! I took a few deep breaths to steady myself.
“When will the clots go?”
“It’s hard to say exactly, but the medicine will get to work dissolving them”
“Is that why she was so out of breath?”
He nodded. “It will get easier.” He smiled at me reassuringly.
It was finally dawning on me that this wouldn’t just be a few nights in hospital. I didn’t want her to stay long because in my mind, the longer she stayed, the more likely she was to pick up one of the bugs you read about in the paper.
“And how is her leg?” I asked.
“We hope to be able to do the scan tomorrow morning.”
“What’s the delay?” I interrupted, immediately realising how impatient I sounded.
“We tried today. But when we moved the scan over your mother’s leg, she found it too painful.” I looked at my mother, who carefully avoided my eyes. I’d talk to her when her surgeon had gone.
“Thanks,” I said to both him and the nurse who was hovering near him. When they left, I sat down next to my mother’s bed.
“You have to let them do the scan tomorrow, Mum. It’s really important. Once they know what’s wrong, they can treat you. We don’t want anything to get worse.” My mother narrowed her eyes at me. “I know it’s painful, but it needs to be done,” she sighed. “I’ll try,” she whispered. “That usually meant she’d think about it.”
“I’m going to take a look,” I said. Pulling the covers back revealed her calf to be a brownish-red: redder and darker than it had been when she came in, and covering a larger area. I was shocked.
“Have they actually seen your leg today?” I said.
“Yes, they saw it just before you came.”
I touched it as gently as I could and my mother cried out in pain. It was loud enough for the other three occupants of the ward to look over, as if I had burned her, or worse. I would obviously have to be with her when the scan happened. That meant doing exactly the opposite of what I’d promised Emma, and coming in late tomorrow.
I took the plunge and texted her. I couldn’t even give a time as I had no idea how long it would take. “I’m sorry,” I wrote. “I’ll have to be with my mother tomorrow morning. She’s having a scan. I’ll need to take tomorrow morning off.”
I didn’t receive a reply for a couple of hours and wasn’t sure whether she would be annoyed or not. But I knew I didn’t have anything pressing I needed to do at the office, and we both knew that I had never missed a deadline before. The reply when it came was short and sweet. “No problem, see you in the afternoon.” I just hoped that meant it really was okay.
I told my mother I was going to be there for the scan the next day. She was pleased but I could see she was unsettled. Maybe because she knew
that if I was there, I definitely wouldn’t let her get away with missing the scan again. Her anxious demeanour meant I ended up staying at the hospital way later than I meant to – until 10:00 p.m. – just to make sure she was comfortable. No one had said anything to me about visiting times and I certainly wasn’t going to mention it.
I eventually got home that night after a somewhat more scenic route than usual. The hospital wasn’t far from home but the trip seemed never-ending. No tip for the driver, that’s for sure. I found the number of a local Indian where I had eaten a few times. It took what little charm I could muster to get them to make something for me at this hour, and a lamb biryani and lamb samosa finally arrived half an hour later. I ended up eating so late that I beat the previous night’s feast time. And all in spite of the way I’d felt that morning. It turned out I was adjusting fast to this new schedule.
Chapter 4
Skinny Jeans and Cupcakes
Waking up at stupid o’clock, I rolled over to check the time. Still half an hour before my alarm was due to go off. Better than the day before, but I still felt exhausted. The sun was just rising although the rest of the street was still sound asleep. I loved the quiet but knew I could never live in the country. A weekend in Dorset had put paid to that type of future. There were wild beasts and who knows what else that would have probably snapped me up like a Sunday roast. So, quiet pockets in the sleeping city would have to do. And if I was honest, I also loved the beating heart of the city; its arteries flowing with excitement, hustle and vibrancy. Of course there was pollution, rudeness and germ-infested transport – but hey, my mental and physical immunity was all the stronger for it.
It turned out the scan appointment wasn’t until ten, so I decided to go for a sneaky run on work time. I used to be a sprinter at school and at university I ran longer distances to keep fit. I hadn’t run for about three weeks. It seemed the perfect time to get back into it, and hopefully burn off some of the stress too. Putting on my running skins, I realised from the first leg in that they were a little snug. I didn’t remember them feeling this tight! But of course: I must have been in a rush and washed them too hot. They had obviously shrunk. But it would have to do because I wasn’t changing again. It was a run, not a fashion show.