Fat Chance

by Nick Spalding

  In fact, the Monday morning chats have exposed a couple of real entertainers in our midst. Dominica is a hoot to listen to when she talks in her broad Spanish accent about her dieting and exercise programmes, getting more and more animated with every passing week. George and Valerie have formed a mild-mannered comedy double act that I could see them taking to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe if they so desired. It’s not so much what they say, just the way they say it—in a laconic, dry style of humour that everyone gets a kick out of. You only need to hear the routine about a visit to the funfair that ended with George trapped in a seat on the teacup ride to get a good idea of how they bounce off each other.

  ‘It was rather bloody uncomfortable,’ George tells us.

  ‘And him in his new trousers,’ Val adds.

  ‘Yes indeed. Nice ones, too. Burton’s they were. Seemed a pity to rip them.’

  ‘That lovely young fireman was very insistent, though.’

  ‘Indeed he was. Reminded me of Gareth.’

  ‘Gareth?’

  ‘Yes. Boy from up the road. Big lad. Shoulders like a side of ham.’

  ‘You mean Grant.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes. Gareth was Paul’s best friend in school. Had a squint and the kind of haircut your mother warned you about.’

  ‘Ahh. You’re right, of course. Fruity lad, he was. I can’t see him being much of a fireman.’

  ‘No. His hands were too floppy.’

  ‘Without a doubt . . . Er, sorry Elise, what were we talking about again?’

  I can’t decide whether the absent-minded back and forth is natural or deliberately executed. Either way it’s highly entertaining.

  If the weekly check-ins are a ratings hit, then the monthly weigh-ins are the kind of audience bonanza that the station executives must be having kittens about.

  One weekend in every month people huddle round their radios and wait to hear who’s leading the competition.

  . . . at least they would if this was 1952. I know that most people listen to the radio now on their smartphones but I’m a romantic at heart, and I like the mental image of a family gathered round a big box in the corner of the living room. It helps to visualise all those people taking an unhealthy interest in how many pounds I’ve lost recently, and I choose to do it in a way that’s appealing to me. There’s nothing romantic about a bloody iPod.

  The weigh-ins may be great entertainment for the listening public, but they’re nerve-wracking experiences if you’re actually taking part. Partly because you have to strip down (more or less) in front of a crowd to do it, and partly because the weigh-ins are the one time when you get to find out how well you’re doing compared to the other couples.

  Lest we forget, there are fifty thousand pounds up for grabs here, and the monthly weigh-in gives you a great idea of how near you are to getting your grubby mitts on them.

  Greg and I have never actually been in the lead as yet, but we’ve been in either second place or third place every time we’ve stepped off the scales and the scoreboard has tallied up our combined weight loss. Frankie and Benny have consistently been at the top of the leader board, with only one weigh-in not being won by them. This went to George and Val, who were having a particularly good month thanks to a weeklong visit to a weight loss spa arranged for them by their son Paul.

  We have the next weigh-in coming up next week and I’m really hoping that Greg and I will have closed the gap to Frankie and Benny enough to keep us in the competition as we head into the last few weeks.

  I find myself in a period of my life where at least one major aspect of it is a matter of great local public interest. Never has one woman had so much attention paid to her waistline. Not since Kate Middleton fell pregnant, anyway.

  My weight loss is now the main topic of conversation whenever I’m with my friends and family. I hear the same old questions over and over. ‘How much have you lost this week?’ ‘Do you think you’ve lost more than that nice black couple?’ ‘Do you have to wear those bright red outfits? Only they make you look like a tomato.’ . . . and so on, and so forth.

  My mother and father are extremely proud of me, I’m pleased to say. ‘It’s lovely to see you blossom like this,’ Mum said to me a few days ago, making me sound like a tulip.

  Dad’s contribution has been more blunt. ‘Just bloody glad to see you lose weight, darling. You were a coronary waiting to happen.’ His words would have held more meaning if he hadn’t been smoking a Marlboro at the time.

  The strangest change in my life thanks to my newfound local fame has been the relationship I have with my co-workers. The dynamic among us has shifted . . . and unfortunately not for the better in some cases.

  Zoe Milton has always been something of an ‘under the radar’ kind of girl at work. I like to think I’ve always done my job well, but I’ve never tried to stand out from the crowd, or bully my way into positions of power and influence. I’m the first to admit I don’t take all that well to confrontational situations, so have never done anything risky to climb the corporate ladder. I’m happy being a sales co-ordinator, and as long as no one tries to take it away from me, I’m equally happy not to make a fuss.

  However, it’s a little hard to maintain your flight path under the radar when you’re part of a highly successful competition and promotional campaign being run—at least in part—out of the same bloody office as the one you work in.

  Of course I’ve been kept away from any of the actual promotional and marketing work for Fat Chance. That’s being handled purely by Stream FM’s dedicated communications team, so there’s no conflict of interest. This doesn’t stop them annoying me on a regular basis for feedback and ideas, though. While I try to get on with my job selling advertising space, I keep getting interrupted by people asking me if I’d mind giving them a sound bite about how great it is to use one of the four-thousand-pound treadmills at Fitness4All, or what my thoughts are on the new poster going up in Asda.

  Since March I’ve gone from mild-mannered marketing type who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, to front-and-centre valued member of the team and mascot for the radio station’s success.

  Most in my office are happy to support me and have no problem with my new-found celebrity.

  Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for my boss.

  Caitlin Marks has never liked me that much anyway.

  From the first day I met her in the interview panel for my job, I got the distinct impression she wasn’t keen on me in the slightest. If the decision to hire me had been purely down to her, I would never have set foot in the building again. I have no idea why she took such a dislike to me. I can only imagine it was because she either didn’t like the skirt I was wearing or didn’t like the flippant jokes I made during the interview. Caitlin has the sense of humour of a bag of pig manure, so the latter is more likely.

  Over the years, though, our relationship has thawed a little, mainly because I’ve got on with my job and done everything she’s asked me to on time and with a minimum of fuss. Caitlin is the kind of person who likes people when they know their place, and up until a few months ago I knew my place very well: under her.

  Then Fat Chance started, and it all went to shit.

  You see, not only does Caitlin Marks not like it when other people get ideas above their station, she is also pretty damn fat. Not quite as big as I was, but she’s definitely a size eighteen—and not a particularly attractive one at that. Some plus-sized ladies carry it very well. They’re all sexy curves and sass. They stride through the world proud of being a larger woman and will make every effort to let you know that.

  Caitlin, however, is lumpy. Lumpy, uncoordinated, and sporting a complexion that can only be described as sallow.

  All the time that meek and mild Zoe Milton was fatter than her everything was fine, but once I dropped below her dress size and became the office talking point, he
r attitude towards me plummeted.

  The phrase ‘You’re late again’ has become her catchphrase whenever I’m around these days.

  It doesn’t matter that the reason I’m late is always because of Fat bloody Chance, of course!

  The situation came to a head last Monday when I turned up at nearly eleven thirty, thanks to the radio show over running by a good twenty minutes. Val and George were in the middle of a smashing anecdote about their week in the health spa and nobody wanted to stop them before they’d finished describing what it was like to be covered in mud and have pebbles balanced on your forehead. This was all very well, but it led me into a confrontation with Caitlin that the fatter, less confident version of myself would have run screaming from a mere four months ago.

  ‘Morning, Maz. Has Pigdog been prowling around?’ I say to Maz (real name Mary), one of the admin assistants who works alongside me in the office.

  Pigdog is a name Mary came up with to describe Caitlin a few months back.

  There’s always somebody like Mary in an office environment—the one who gives nicknames to everyone, the kind that are invariably funny or clever enough to stick with their recipient through the rest of their working lives. Pigdog is probably the least clever of Mary’s efforts, to be honest, but it does capture the essence of Caitlin’s personality well enough for it to have stuck in my mind, if nobody else’s.

  My nickname is Zoballs. Which could be better or worse, frankly.

  ‘Yeah, and she’s got a face on,’ Maz tells me.

  ‘Yuck. Really?’

  ‘Yeah. You remember last Halloween when Meems and I decked the place out in pumpkins and witches without getting permission from her?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Same face she made then. Only a bit more wrinkled around the forehead.’

  ‘Spectacular. I’ll just go keep my head down and get on with that email to Sanderson Construction.’

  Maz gives me a wink. ‘Good idea, flower.’ She then looks me up and down. ‘You’re looking good, Zoballs. And sounding good on the show this morning, too.’

  ‘Thanks, Maz.’

  ‘I’m glad I’ve got you and Gregster in the pool.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The office pool, silly. For who wins the competition? Me and Meems have got you, and I reckon we’re onto a winner.’

  ‘You’re betting on us winning?’

  ‘Absolutely! Meems has you in her hairdressing pool as well. She’s beside herself.’

  I feel cold fingers creep across my neck. ‘There are a lot of these bets going on, are there?’ I say in a squeaky voice.

  ‘Yep!’ Maz says with a huge smile. ‘Great, isn’t it?’

  Fuck, no!

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘You should put some money down on yourself. Extra motivation.’ Maz looks over my shoulder and the smile is gone. ‘Watch out. Here cometh the Pigdog.’

  I turn to see my boss marching across the thin green corduroy office carpet towards me, a thunderous look on her face. I steel myself for the onslaught.

  ‘I’ve been emailing you for an hour, Zoe!’ Caitlin says when she gets to me.

  I figure I’d better try and be as conciliatory as I can, so I affect an apologetic smile and put my hands up. ‘I’m so sorry, Caitlin. The show overran and I’ve only just got here.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. I’m sick of your excuses, Zoe.’ Her face has gone an unhappy shade of red. It looks like she’s really het up about my lateness this time. I fear a shit-eating grin and a sorry tone of voice may not be enough to get me out of this one.

  ‘Would you please accompany me to my office?’ she spits and turns on one heel, marching back across the thin green carpet.

  ‘Oh dear. Batten down the old hatches,’ Maz warns me.

  I take a deep breath and meekly follow Caitlin back to her office, preparing myself for the worst.

  Once her door is shut behind us, I get it with both barrels.

  ‘I’ve had quite enough of your attitude, Zoe.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Don’t interrupt me! The number of times you’ve been late for work is entirely unacceptable.’

  ‘Four times in as many months?’

  ‘Yes! And when you are here, your attitude towards work and your colleagues has become lackadaisical.’ I can actually see sweat beads forming at Caitlin’s brow. It obviously took a lot of effort to use that big a word in a sentence.

  ‘Are you saying I’m lazy?’ I reply, not liking the slightly whiny tone in my voice.

  ‘I certainly think your work ethic has dropped in recent weeks, yes. Your productivity has definitely suffered.’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry,’ I stammer.

  I look down at my feet shame-faced. I hate, hate, HATE being told off like this. I pride myself on doing a good job, and when someone in a position of authority questions my ability to do that, it makes me feel about three inches tall.

  I guess the competition may have affected my work. Maybe my work rate has gone down a bit?

  After all, I’m always tired these days thanks to all the exercise I’m doing, and my low-calorie diet may be affecting my levels of concentration.

  Perhaps Caitlin is right?

  Perhaps I haven’t been doing my job as well as I should have because of—

  Hang on a fucking minute . . .

  What the hell am I doing?

  I’m letting Pigdog convince I’m in the wrong . . . and for no good reason!

  My work has not suffered because of Fat Chance. If anything it’s got better. The new Sanderson contract I’ve negotiated, selling all that air time to the local cinema, the deal I struck last month with Makepeace Car Sales . . .

  I’ve been doing a good job, thank you so very much, your royal Pigdoggyness!

  This isn’t about my work: this is all about her not liking the changes Zoe Milton has been going through in recent weeks.

  The unlovely truth is that my boss is jealous of me right now, and intends to show her displeasure any way she can. This is a blatant power play. Caitlin wants to re-exert her authority over me—it’s as simple as that.

  And I almost let her get away with it.

  My fists clench.

  In the back of my skull I can hear the meek and mild obese girl I once was screaming at me to unclench, take the lecture, and return to my desk.

  Don’t rock the boat, Zoe. Don’t make waves, Zoe. Don’t do anything risky, Zoe. Girls like you don’t get to win, Zoe. You get to take all the shit thrown at you, and then you get to go home and eat an entire trifle to make yourself feel better.

  You swallow down the anger, then you swallow down the calories. That’s the way it works.

  Except I’ve lost over three stone. My face is plastered across billboards. I’m on the radio. People are actually betting on me to win something.

  I don’t have to swallow anything anymore if I don’t want to.

  ‘Caitlin,’ I say in a level tone of voice. ‘I don’t agree with your assessment of my work.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asks, incredulous.

  Unbelievable.

  She actually can’t understand how I could possibly disagree with her.

  ‘I mean I don’t agree with you. My work has not suffered. My attitude is not bad, and while I have been late for work a few times, I have a very good reason, which you are fully aware of.’

  ‘Now listen to me—’

  I hold out a firm hand. ‘No, please let me finish. I don’t believe you have any cause to question my work, other than because you have a problem with me on a personal level. I believe you are being highly unprofessional, Caitlin.’

  Good grief. I’ve gone mad.

  Pigdog’s eyes are like saucers. ‘How dare you say that to me!’ she wails. ‘I will have you up on
a disciplinary!’

  Now I’ve well and truly got her. ‘Please do. In fact, I insist upon it,’ I reply calmly, and fold my arms.

  This throws an ocean of cold water over her towering anger. Caitlin’s expression instantly changes to one filled with doubt. Her bluff has been called. ‘I’m sorry, Zoe. That was uncalled for.’

  ‘Oh no! Please. I think we should launch a disciplinary investigation. That way I can show that my work has not suffered in the slightest.’ My eyes narrow. ‘I can even talk about it—and you—on the radio next week. It should make a really good story for Elise and Will to get to the bottom of.’

  I’m tempted to pull out my phone and take a picture of Pigdog’s face. I’ve never seen pure terror captured in such a glorious manner before.

  ‘There’s no need for that, really,’ she says.

  It’s nice to hear my own apologetic whiny tone of voice from a few minutes ago projected back at me.

  ‘No? Okay then, Caitlin. Let’s forget about it then, shall we?’ I reply. Let’s face it, I’ve won this argument and there’s no point in pushing my luck.

  ‘Yes, I think that would be best.’ She straightens up again. ‘Let’s just make sure you’re on time for work from now on and a bit more proactive around the office.’

  Incredible. She stills wants the upper hand.

  ‘You know what, Caitlin? Fuck you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said fuck you. You’re a bully. And not a very good one at that.’ I point a finger. ‘Come after me again for no good reason and I’ll make sure everyone knows about it.’

  This is going too far. I know it even as I say it.

  Threatening her like this means she’s going to be out to get me from now on. If I even put a foot wrong I’ll be immediately at risk of getting kicked out of my job. The thing is, I can’t help myself right now. Caitlin the Pigdog has become symbolic of all the people who have ever tried to squash me beneath their feet in the past.

  I fall silent, as does my boss.