Fat Girl Slim, page 21
Anyway, by the time I left, Dolph had all of the information that he needed to set everyone straight on what had really happened and I’m sure he lost no time in putting the word out. I have noticed over the last week that the neighbours are giving me friendly waves and saying hello instead of avoiding me or cutting me dead.
There’s just the funeral to get out of the way now; I can’t say that I’m looking forward to it and I did actually think do I really have to go? It’s not as if I need to be there is it? They could just shove her in the burner and dispense with the service as far as I’m concerned. If Doris and Gerald weren’t so insistent on coming then I really wouldn’t bother. I can’t pretend to myself that I care that Mother’s dead even though I’ll put on the pretence in front of others, which is a form of lying which I said I wouldn’t do but it’ll be the last time. Probably.
If I’m completely honest I’m relieved Mother’s dead, it means I can move on and start my life again, start to live my life how it should be. How it should have been except that now I’m quite rich.
So, all in all, life’s looking very positive and I have lots to look forward to. Funny, isn’t it? This time last year I was supersize and now I’m super fit. A chance sighting of Bella in Foodco changed my life which just seems incredible, doesn’t it?
And I’m free of Mother, which also seems incredible.
I feel quite affectionate towards Foodco although obviously I rarely shop there now; mostly I buy my food from Marks and Spencer. Although I did pop in there yesterday because M&S shut at eight and I was coming back from my run at about half-past-nine and I remembered I’d run out of raspberries for my breakfast. I popped in and was on my way to the till when the sound of laughter caught my attention.
Nasty, loud, mocking laughter and when I looked across the supermarket I saw that the laughter was coming from four teenage girls who looked to be about fifteen. They were all walking along in an exaggerated way, arms out to the side, legs bent with their heads down and shuffling along. Intrigued, I followed them and as I got a bit closer I could see there was a man in front of them. He was a bit younger than me but he was as fat, or maybe even fatter, than I used to be .
Those girls were mimicking him but the worst thing was that he knew it; I could tell by his ears, they were beetroot red. And they were getting closer and closer to him and they didn’t care that he knew they were laughing at him because he knew he was fair game because he was so huge. He was shuffling along in the way I used to; head down, eyes down, thinking it would somehow make him less visible.
I felt for him, I really did (see, I’m not a monster) and I wanted to help him. I wanted to tell him, look, just because you’re super fat it doesn’t mean that you don’t deserve politeness or respect, you’re still a person so put your head up and be proud of who you are and people won’t be so quick to laugh at you. Don’t apologise for existing.
But I knew he wouldn’t listen, the same way I wouldn’t have listened. If anyone had come up to me in Foodco and said things like that when I was fat I’d have thought they were making fun of me and trying to embarrass me. So what I did do was speed up a bit until I was right behind those four girls, and my little hand basket on wheels, those ones that I always thought looked so chic when other people pulled them? Well, I swung it around in front of me and somehow, I pushed it a bit too hard and it sort of went into the backs of their legs and the one on the end, the ringleader, she nearly fell over.
When they’d recovered themselves those four girls turned around and looked at me and they looked a spiteful lot; not afraid of anyone. I thought; they’ll start on me now but I can take it, you don’t frighten me.
‘Sorry,’ I said cheerfully, in a not sorry voice.
It was very strange. They all took a good, long look at me and then after a moment they looked at each other uncertainly and turned around and walked away.
I think I heard one of them say bitch , or it might have been witch .
And I thought, no, you’re wrong.
I’m fat girl slim .
THE END
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by
Marina Johnson
Chapter One
I saw a ghost once, a long time ago. At first I didn’t realise that it was a ghost. Day dreaming and people watching, I was sitting in my car waiting for the lights to change at the Sherborne road junction when I saw a girl walking down the hill from the old town. It was her clothes that caught my eye; colourful seventies flares topped with a tie-dyed t-shirt and a fluffy afghan waistcoat; her hair a mass of blonde afro curls. Fancy dress party, I decided, as I admired the effort she’d made, because she just looked so right .
I was still thinking that as she stepped out into the road in front of a car. My hand flew to my mouth in horror and I closed my eyes and waited for the screech of tyres and the bang of impact. But there was nothing; no sound at all and when I cautiously opened my eyes, she was walking back up the hill on the other side of the road without a mark on her.
And that’s when I realised that her feet didn’t actually touch the ground, she was putting one foot in front of the other but she was floating in the air a few inches above the pavement. Then the honk of car horns broke my concentration because the lights had changed and I had to move and when I looked again, she was gone. But I knew; I’d just seen a ghost.
So when I saw Jonathan today it gave me a jolt just as the sight of that ghost did all those years ago. Subconsciously I would definitely have been thinking of him even if I was fooling myself that I wasn’t consciously thinking of him. This is the first time that I’ve been back to Frogham in over seven years and it took a lot of doing. When the firm I work for decided to move I seriously considered leaving when I discovered where they were relocating to. But having worked there for six years, I was settled and loath to start all over again, so, here I am.
I like my job in sales admin; it might be safe and boring but I’ve learned that safe and boring is good . The deciding factor was the redundancy package - basic to say the least. I’d seen the lack of other jobs available so I decided to take the plunge and stop being such a wimp. Besides, seven years is surely long enough to get over someone.
You wanted to come back pipes the Beccabird of Doom.
I tell her to shut up. The Beccabird always sticks her big beak in when I’m trying to convince myself that I’m doing the right thing. I think she’s my sensible self trying to stop me from making any more stupid mistakes but I swear she has a mind of her own.
Has everyone got a Beccabird of Doom? Maybe they have and I’m not as strange as I think I am, but I’m not going to be asking anyone any time soon if they have one too - just in case they haven’t. Because then I’ll look like a complete basket case.
So here I am, browsing the window of Brotherton Estate Agents searching for a place to rent. I’ve checked in at the Kings Arms for now but I really want to be settled in my own place before I go back to work after my weeks leave, I don’t want to be living out of a suitcase or wasting my hard-earned savings on hotel living. But a place of my own is a big ask, I’ve discovered, because all of the affordable flats in the window have let slapped across them in big, red letters and the only ones available are way out of my price range.
I may have to resort to house sharing again. Urgh.
A reflection in the estate agents window catches my eye, the profile a man who looks very like Jonathan. My heart instantly starts to pound and I swing around and watch the back of him as he strides down the high street. I stand frozen for a moment and watch him; a bit fatter than Jonathan and the hair is longer but the walk; the walk is so him. The confident swing of the arms, the slight swagger in the step, that walk is most definitely just like Jonathan’s.
Is it him? I’m not sure.
Without thinking about it I march off after him, keeping a safe distance so that he won’t notice me following him and for the life of me I don’t know why I’m doing it. The Beccabird is screeching for all she’s worth but I ignore her and continue to trail behind him. He eventually stops outside Joey’s Café and goes inside. I walk past the cafe and then cross over and stand on the pavement on the opposite side of the street. I pull my mobile phone out of my handbag and hold it to my ear and pretend to make a call.
I glance over as he sits down at a seat in the window where a woman with long blonde hair is waiting for him. He leans over and kisses her and I watch as she puts her hand on his cheek and even though I can only see her profile I can tell that she’s smiling at him.
I watch them for a while, not blatantly staring but turning now and then for a quick scan. I keep the phone clamped to my ear making ‘hmm’ noises and frowning and occasionally laughing in case anyone is watching me. I can’t get a full on look at his face but the longer I look the more I think that maybe apart from the walk he isn’t that much like Jonathan at all; perhaps I just wanted him to be.
Will you never learn? shouts the Beccabird. You’ve been back five minutes and you’re chasing after him already.
She’s not wrong. Even after everything he did I’ve missed him and now I’ve followed the first person I see who bears a passing resemblance to him. I need to get a grip otherwise who knows what will happen. I screw my eyes up and scrutinise his profile whilst pretending to pull my hair out of my eyes as I turn casually around.
He’s not that much like Jonathan; the hair’s all wrong and he’s definitely fatter. I don’t think it’s him at all.
I’m starting to feel a bit stupid standing here making a pretend phone call and I hope he hasn’t noticed that he has a strange woman stalking him. Deciding to put a stop to this stupid behaviour, I say goodbye to no one and finish the fake call and put my mobile back in my handbag. Time to leave.
I take a final look at them as I turn to walk back to the estate agents; he’s shaking his head and laughing at her like she’s made a joke. Which is when he does it, the thing that Jonathan always did; the catch of the bottom lip between his teeth that on anyone else would look goofy but on him looked sexy and cute. He turns his head slightly and I get a full-on view of him; it is him.
Out of nowhere I feel such a stab of jealousy that it almost takes my breath away. I feel nauseous and the street starts to spin and the Beccabird is screeching I told you so which really isn’t helping. I manage to ignore her and force myself to breathe in slowly through my nose and out through my mouth and after a while I feel calmer and the street rights itself and the world returns to normal.
There’s nothing to worry about. Everything is going to be fine. Things will work out. I repeat the sentences over and over in my head, the mantra that has kept me sort of sane – if you don’t count the Beccabird - these past seven years.
But you shouldn’t have come back, the Beccabird butts in. You’ve made a big mistake and you’ll be sorry .
I feel like I’ve seen a ghost but Jonathan’s not dead, he’s very much alive and those feelings that I’ve been denying for seven years – they’re not dead either, just buried.
I should never have come back.
✽✽✽
I go straight back to the hotel, all thoughts of flat hunting and estate agents forgotten. The doors to the hotel bar are open as I pass through reception and the welcoming thrum of canned music and ambient lighting calls to me with open, alcoholic arms. It takes all of my willpower to keep walking and go straight up the flight of stairs to my room.
When I get into the room I shut and lock the door and go over to the window and draw the stiff, orange striped curtains closed, shutting out the bright March sunshine.
Why? What am I afraid of?
Myself, mostly.
I turn on the battered television that’s fixed to the wall and turn the volume down to a muted murmur on the grubby remote control. I try not to think about the delicious gin and tonic that I could be sipping if I just walked along the corridor and down the stairs to the bar. I know it would make me feel instantly better but one wouldn’t be enough; one is never enough.
No. I won’t allow him to ruin my life again.
Why did I follow him? All these years away and the very first time I see him, all reasoning flies out of the window and I chase after him without a second thought.
I’m not normal. Why did I feel such jealousy when I saw him with another woman? When he smiled at her the way he used to smile at me I wanted to scratch her eyes out because he was looking at her and not me.
The rational part of me knows that he’s a cheating, selfish, lowlife who thinks he’s God’s gift to women.
But it doesn’t stop me from wanting him.
He still looked good and didn’t my stomach flip when I first saw him? Didn’t I want to stand on that pavement and just stare at him and drink him in? After all these years away from him I thought my feelings would have faded and I’d be safe, because wasn’t that the whole point of leaving Frogham, to put distance and time between us?
Yeah, but you really never moved on, did you? the Beccabird reminds me. You never found anyone else.
It’s true, I didn’t, and the trouble is that I can see Jonathan for what he is but when I’m near him I forget; my brain turns to mush. It’s how it always was; the evidence of his lying and cheating would be laid before me and there would be no denying what he’d done but somehow, he always said the right things. He made me feel loved and wanted and I forgave him willingly.
Do I still love him? The rational part of me says no. I don’t think I do love him but I could so easily fall in love with him again if I let myself.
Maybe I should leave now; tell Atkinsons that I’ve changed my mind about relocating, go back to Westchester and get another job and resume my old, safe, Jonathan-free life, because if I’m not near him then I’m safe.
Except that I can’t.
The room that I used to rent has already been let to someone else and how long would it take me to get another job? My savings would be gone in no time. No. I have no choice; I have to stay. My entire worldly belongings are in the purple suitcase in the corner of this room and stuffed into the boot and wedged on the back seat of my car. Which is pretty sad when you get to the age of thirty-four and your entire life fits comfortably into a Ford Fiesta.
What am I so afraid of? Frogham isn’t that small so chances are I’ll never see him again.
Unless I seek him out.
And that’s the trouble; I can’t trust myself. The rational part of me knows what Jonathan did and what he is but the other part of me can’t get enough of him; he’s like cheese and onions crisps; you know they’re no good for you and they stink, but they’re irresistible.
And really, what rotten luck that I saw him today, really what are the chances?
But you’d be bound to see him one day , says the Beccabird helpfully.
True. Maybe seeing him today was a good thing, because now I know that he’s still a danger to me, or rather I’m a danger to me. At least now I can prepare myself to be strong and keep away from him.
I kick my shoes off and flop back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling; the paint is peeling off in patches and a large brown water stain covers one corner. This hotel isn’t up to much; the sheets are clean and the bathroom is functional but even so it’s costing me an arm and a leg to stay here; I need to find somewhere proper to live.
When Atkinsons offered me the job here I asked if there was a relocation package available and they pretty much laughed in my face; the very idea , the HR assistant’s expression seemed to say, as if you’re important enough for a relocation package. So it’s up to me to find somewhere and I need to get on with it.
I drag my handbag onto the bed from the floor and unzip it, I rummage around and extract my phone and plug it into the charger on the bedside table. I’m going to be using it for a long time and I don’t want it dying.
I open up the browser and type in: Frogham Rent a Room .
✽✽✽
After several hours of looking at every rent a room site going, I’m starting to despair because most of them are sharing with at least three other people. My last house share was awful and I was mightily pleased to leave; four people sharing a four-bedroom house sounds okay but the reality of it was something else.
After months of feeding other people for free I’d resorted to keeping food in my room because otherwise it would simply vanish from the kitchen. Nothing was safe; two pork chops I’d bought for my tea went missing from the fridge; the discarded packaging left empty on the shelf. Milk was an issue too; I’d buy two pints and whenever I went to use it there’d be an inch left in the bottom.
No one ever admitted it but I did catch Evan-the-contractor (he only rented Monday to Friday) swigging straight from the bottle one morning. My bottle. He tried to pretend he thought it was his milk but I knew he was lying, and anyway stuff didn’t go missing so much at weekends when he wasn’t there. I couldn’t bear the thought of his gob all over my milk and when I found teeth marks on my cheddar that was the final straw. I bought an aging second hand fridge from the local junk shop and put it in my room, wedged between the wardrobe and bedside table. The top was quite useful for putting books on.
