Lean into It

by Betty Balaba

  “Yes,” we said in unison, slightly too quickly.

  *

  I thought I would have to give four weeks’ notice. But in the end, I took unpaid leave and left after two weeks. My mother would soon be leaving physio and returning home. At my request, there wasn’t even a leaving do; just a huge bunch of white roses, which were my favourite, and an envelope with cash inside. I knew that it had been Sophie’s idea to give me cash instead of a present. She knew I would be living on my savings and as she said, ‘every little helps.’ I was touched by their thoughtfulness and generosity. Everyone promised to keep in touch and said we would have to do drinks soon. But I was not sure if that would happen, not with all of them at any rate; as people always said things like that but life got in the way of plans.

  I was surprised at Emma though. She had given me a hug that squeezed the breath out of me, and whispered: “Be like a cat, when you fall, land on your feet.” In a louder voice she added. “You will be missed. Thanks for all your great work.” I nodded in slight embarrassment, but she wasn’t done yet. “You have talent, do not waste it. Look after yourself.”

  “Thanks!” I said. She finally let me go.

  “They broke the mould when they made you… and I mean that in the nicest way!” She quickly added the last bit, in case I thought she meant physically!

  “Thank you,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say. She was being genuine, and so was I. Greg hugged me from his great height, which surprised me too, because I did not think he was the touch-feely type. Sophie escorted me to the lift.

  “I am not going to say goodbye because this is not goodbye,” she said seriously.

  “For sure,” I agreed. And we had a long hug. I was overwhelmed. I had enjoyed my work and my colleagues were great. But I couldn’t help feeling that this was the end of an era. I wondered what else life had in store for me. Onwards and upwards – hopefully.

  *

  Back home, I found myself sitting on the couch staring at the two pictures Sophie had taken of me. I used to like having my picture taken, feeling like they captured a moment that could be enjoyed in years to come. Ever since the pounds had started to cling on me, I had stopped being a fan of having my picture taken. The camera, I discovered, not only never lies; but told you truths you didn’t want to see. Still, I had printed the two phone pictures and had put them on the mantelpiece. I remembered the first picture Sophie had taken of me in reception when she had taken a tape measure to my waist. The hourglass silhouette was definitely in place, and I seemed to radiate happiness. I looked like someone who was in control of my life.

  Some words came back to me, spoken by someone at work. “I’ve never met someone so sure of what they’re doing. There might be plenty of nerves, but they’re no second thoughts.” Now it seemed amazing I had ever been able to give that impression; let alone really feel it within.

  The other picture Sophie had taken when we had met for lunch. My clothes looked way too tight. I could see not one but two ‘spare tires’ through my jumper, and my arms were simply bulbous. Never mind the buttons, which seemed about to pop off and take someone’s eye out. There would be no more wearing sleeveless dresses for me.

  I was smiling but the smile did not reach my eyes. A word came to me. Melancholy. I had become a melancholic person. My eyes also looked like I hadn’t slept for months; bloodshot, with terrible bags under them. Worse, I was actually thinner than I realised when the picture was taken. I had put on more weight since then: a lot more weight. Picking up the picture, I almost took it out of the frame. Why did I even frame it in the first place? The memory came back to me that I had done it as a reminder never to neglect myself again. I put the picture back on the mantelpiece, deciding to let it stay there. Yes, an incentive to get back to ‘Blue Lace Dress’ size. It would be amazing to see myself in it after I had lost all the weight. A wave of determination come over me: the picture would stay until I again became the person I once had been.

  Chapter 16

  Afternoon Tea

  I never thought I’d end up living back at my mother’s house. Now here I was again, in the back room overlooking the garden. It was familiar, like an old trunk you find in the attic full of things you suddenly remember. The cream wallpaper had patterns on it that, if you looked close enough, you could see butterflies in flight. I used to think this wallpaper was the coolest thing I had ever seen. Now it looked dated and I was surprised my mother hadn’t changed it for something more stylish; but it still felt comforting. The grey-blue carpet of my room used to be very thick and lush, but now had been walked on so much that I could no longer lose my toes in it. And I suppose my toes were bigger.

  Lying on a single bed again, I smiled to myself. It was still one of the most comfortable beds I had ever slept in! I think it had a lot to do with the pillow-top mattress, which my mother had insisted on buying because I needed a good night’s sleep for my exams. I loved a single bed: it made me feel safe somehow, wrapped up in your little cocoon. Even though I was now used to a double bed, I always kept firmly to my side; not even ruffling the covers on the other side. What can I say? I am a creature of habit.

  After lying there for half an hour, the room and I felt re-acquainted. The nail on which my nature-photography calendar used to hang was still there above my bed. It seems I had liked photography, even then.

  I looked at my pine double wardrobe that I had insisted be painted cream to match my walls. Again, even then I had a thing about cream! Not the most practical colour – and maybe I hadn’t appreciated the natural beauty of the untouched wood. I should have lost the argument on having it painted. But I had really wanted a mirrored wardrobe that I had seen in a fashion magazine and had received a flat refusal about that. And so cream was the next best thing. My dream of course had been to have a walk-in wardrobe, the type I imagined really stylish people possessed. And I did indeed have one – in the flat I had left behind.

  The garden outside had now shrunk, having been eaten up by the new conservatory. The apple and pear tree still stood to attention opposite each other, as if they were competing on whose fruit would make the most pies. I remembered how I had enjoyed my Sunday lunch followed by apple-and-pear pies, decadently served with double cream or the thickest vanilla custard, which took an age to pour out of the jug but was always more than worth the wait.

  Some might think it a step backwards for me to be back there. But it felt somehow comforting. At least I wouldn’t be running back and forth so much. And it would not be forever, I told myself for the hundredth time, just whilst my mother needed me. Yes, I had walked out of my flat. But I hoped I hadn’t walked out of my life.

  *

  I settled into a routine that began with helping my mother in the morning – after the carer had given her morning wash and breakfast. Then I was on tea and physio duty. I made lunch, and then sat with her while she did her crossword or read the paper. Then it was her nap and I had some time to myself. I never put the TV on for fear of becoming one of those people that stayed indoors watching TV all day with endless fizzy drinks and potato chips. And the kitchen cupboards were indeed already stocked with an endless supply of ‘treats’ for yours truly.

  I was living off my last month’s salary. When that ran out, I would dip into my savings. It would not be for long, I told myself. I felt sure I would make the money back so my deposit or rainy day fund would be safe.

  After two and a half months, Sophie’s demands to meet up became unavoidable. She had been trying to meet up for the last month and, to tell the truth, I had been avoiding her. Well that wasn’t quite true: I was really avoiding everyone. I had put on another stone and a half since I had left, you see.

  In the end, I got over myself and agreed to meet up for afternoon tea – one of my favourite things. Before I knew it, there I was, sitting in Richoux; waiting for the fateful moment. I knew the moment she came through the door, like her usual whirlwind self. She threw it open and beamed at the restaurant in general. Peopl
e noticed her and smiled, but she was scanning the room for me.

  I saw her eyes cast over me and then slowly return. She soon gave me her full attention and came rushing over. I stood up and she threw her arms around me.

  “Hello stranger!”

  “Hi. It is great to see you,” I replied hesitantly, already anticipating her coming analysis.

  She let go of me as we studied each other. She was in her black leggings and thigh-high suede boots with a black long baggy jumper. She looked good – whereas of course I was dressed in a black jumpsuit with a long, red, ‘comfortable’ cardigan.

  “Why are you hiding?” she asked as we sat down. Not wasting any time, clearly!

  I inclined my head at her, a little confused.

  “You don’t need the cardigan. It doesn’t go with the outfit!”

  I knew that when I put it on. I had worn it for its length, not its style points. But it was good to see her. She told you what she thought; no filter! I had to smile.

  “Well, I can see you haven’t changed!”

  “Thank goodness for that!” agreed Sophie. “I always look different depending on my mood though…”

  She looked at me, and we both ignored how much I had changed. It was not only the weight but I knew I wasn’t as well groomed as I used to be. The hair not as styled, the clothes not as ‘put together’.

  “How is your mum?” she said.

  “She is getting there… slowly but surely.” I sighed. More slow than anything. My mother could be stubborn but I was not going to say that to Sophie. The reality was that if my mum felt like doing her physio, then she would. But if she didn’t, then it was a big battle of wills. Whoever lost wouldn’t be happy, resulting in an atmosphere until dinner.

  I could see that Sophie was weighing up whether she should say anything or not, but decided against it for now.

  “How are you? Work?” I asked, hoping to keep her distracted. She rolled her eyes even before she started to speak.

  “Where can I start? Emma is going to be a part timer. They are going to hire a freelancer to do your job, and all the dross she doesn’t want to do.”

  I nodded. “She did mention that, but I thought they’d already hired someone.”

  She looked at me like I had taken her first born.

  “You didn’t say anything?”

  “I was going to but I was not sure what their final decision was going to be.” I looked straight at her and continued. “Well, they’re still working on the job description, so your seat is still vacant… you’re irreplaceable you know…” That was nice to hear.

  *“Will* you come back?”

  I shook my head firmly.

  “Nope! I don’t believe in going back to things!”

  Sophie nodded. “I don’t blame you. It’s good to get a fresh start.”

  The waitress came to take our order. Sophie closed her menu.

  “I’ll just have a cappuccino.”

  “I’ll have the afternoon tea that goes with it,” I said, hoping my order would go unnoticed – or at least uncommented-on!

  “I see you still love your scones with clotted cream,” she joked, eyebrow arched.

  I grinned back. “I do. What’s not to like?” I steered the conversation back to work. “How is Emma… and Greg?”

  “Well, Emma will land on her feet; as you know, she’s a jammy so-and-so. Part-time, my eye!”

  I chuckled, and Sophie took a sip of her coffee.

  I prompted “… and Greg?” She looked at me from under her lashes.

  “Well, Greg is still Greg. But he’s kind of growing on me since you left. I’m even slowly getting rid of his irritating habits.” I widened my eyes. “Don’t get excited!” she said. “He still wears an annoying scarf. That security blanket, I mean it just has to go!”

  Good luck with that, I thought. Greg wouldn’t be Greg if he wasn’t wearing that bloody scarf. Sophie leaned closer.

  “You have to come to the work Christmas party.” I was shaking my head already, without realizing it.

  “Nah…”

  Sophie made a face. “What do you mean, nah? Everyone would love to see you!”

  I couldn’t face going back. Not yet! I would be under scrutiny. I was bona-fide fat and I didn’t look or feel the same. Corporate go-getter, no longer. I just didn’t want people seeing me and looking at me differently. I would see the pity in their eyes as they thought ‘Oh, hasn’t she let herself go! What happened to Becca? Goodness, she looks different and not in a good way.’

  I lifted my eyes and saw Sophie studying me. “Everyone would be really pleased to see you.” I tried to smile but failed. “Becca,” she insisted. “You were very well liked.”

  “I’ll think about it…”

  My scones arrived and I tucked in. We both knew I was not going to the Christmas party. I was not sure if Sophie knew the real reason why, but I was hardly going to lay it out to her. They could all think what they liked of my no-show.

  “When do you think you will go back to work?” she said.

  “I don’t know.” I said, resigned to my situation for now. I took a bite of the warm scone with a generous helping of clotted cream.

  “Hmm,” I said instinctively.

  “Well, don’t stay longer than you have to. At the moment your life is managing your mother’s life, and you do what you need to do for yourself in the gaps in between, when it should be the other way round!”

  I didn’t say anything because that had been exactly my fear. You get too used to something and before you realize it, it becomes the norm. Sophie studied me more closely.

  “I can see you have changed from what you were.”

  I opened my arms out to show my torso off fully, but Sophie shook her head.

  “I am not talking about physically.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Unflinchingly honest, she continued.

  “Life used to ooze from you. Now it feels like you are trying to be full of life… but it isn’t quite there. Like you’re just existing rather than living.” She paused. “More than anyone I know, you had joie de vivre! It was there for everyone to see.” I concentrated on my plate, thinking I’d heard all this before. “I am telling you this out of love. Becca, don’t lose yourself in all this. You have to look after yourself too.”

  I still said nothing but I looked up. “You know me,” she finished. “I won’t say anything until it needs to be said.” I forced a smile and Sophie found my hand and squeezed it for a couple of seconds. “It will be okay, just do not forget yourself in all this.”

  I found my voice, finally. “I won’t,” I said.

  I ate in silence for a few moments then realised I needed to lighten the mood. I didn’t want to face up to what she had said directly. I hadn’t seen Sophie in ages and I did not want there to be any tension.

  “What’s the goss?” I said, knowing she would appreciate the question.

  “My, my, Miss Johnson! Take a leaf out of my book, why don’t you?” She took an exaggerated sigh. “Everyone is excited about Christmas. Of course that means the Christmas party, which of course I am organising. I couldn’t trust anybody with it or we’d all end up in some dingy pub,” she smiled brightly. “If you change your mind, we’d love to see you.”

  “A dingy pub wouldn’t do at all!” I agreed. “Are you thinking wine bar?” We both giggled.

  “Maybe or something better…”

  “Have you picked a place?”

  She flapped her hands excitedly.

  “We are having a medieval banquet.”

  She had always wanted to have a medieval event! Either that or a James-Bond-themed one. I clasped my hands together, grinning.

  “You finally did it!”

  “Yes. I know I’ve already asked but… please come!”

  I shrunk back. I wasn’t prepared to see anyone and answer questions about what I was doing or what my plans were. I didn’t even know the answer to any of those questions. Shallow it may
be, but I just wanted to hide.

  “I can see the wheels turning,” she teased. “Please say you will come.” I twitched my nose.

  “I’ll see,” I said vaguely.

  “That’s a no then?” she said unerringly. Sophie was persistent, I’d say that for her.

  “I do not know if I can face it.” Then I went to my default setting. “I will see how my mother is doing.”

  “Okay,” she said finally.

  I wasn’t sure why but I didn’t feel like telling her about the photo exhibition. Now it felt like I’d be over-compensating if I suddenly mentioned it. As we were leaving, Sophie wanted to take a picture of us. I recoiled, rejecting the idea with every fibre of my being.

  “Just one picture!” she begged. I really didn’t want this to happen. I knew I used to love it. ‘Capturing special moments’ I used to say. But now – having lost track of the extra pounds – camera-phones struck fear into me. Still, it felt churlish to say no. This was Sophie after all.

  I angled my body by twisting it into what I felt was its smallest size possible and held my stomach in, even crossing my ankles. Click, went the camera phone. I peaked at the result. I looked horrific! No matter what I did with my body, my face said it all. When did I get bloated? My cheeks were those of a hungry hamster.

  “It doesn’t look bad,” Sophie said gently. I pulled a face.

  “It doesn’t look good either,” I said plainly.

  “It’s just the angle of the picture…”

  I laughed; then sighed. I could have asked her to delete it, but any others would just look the same. I felt defeated.

  “Don’t worry,” Sophie said. “You’ll get back to yourself.” I am sure I would, the question was when?

  “Please send me the picture,” I bravely requested nonetheless.

  We hugged each other outside the door and headed our separate ways. As I walked past the shop windows, I glanced at my reflection. I looked huge! Suddenly wanting to get home quickly, I hopped on the bus.

  Once in the house, I went to my room and studied myself in the mirror. I can’t have done so properly for the last nine months since it had all started. Every time, I had rushed past my reflection or ignored it all together. Now, I stared.