by Anita Notaro
“Half a pound.”
“You couldn’t. A girl in our office lost nine pounds.”
“I know. I’m hoping it’s my period and that it’ll all have gone by next week.”
“Even if it has, you’ve now eaten practically a whole loaf and about a stone of olives.” Ellie laughed. “Oops, make room, here come the mainers.”
“Look, I’m having skimmed milk in my coffee later, instead of a latte.” Pam was trying to sound keen. “And a girl has to have a little treat every now and then.”
“Why does slimline milk have to look like dirty bath water, anyway? Very off-putting.”
On and on they went, dissecting everything from quick fat burning to inner hunger signals, until they all agreed they were totally confused and fed up.
“You know what?” Ellie said between mouthfuls of pasta. “I think we should forget all this for the weekend, then start again with a completely new approach.”
“What kind of approach?” Pam was shoveling food in at the mere mention of the word “start.”
“I don’t know, but between us we’ve tried everything and no one’s found the solution.” Ellie always had been the practical one, great at organizing. A grown-up Girl Guide but hopeless when it came to herself.
“That’s because there is no pain-free way to do it. It’s all hard slog and soooooo boring. I’ve given up. I think for the first time in my life I’m happy being fat.” Pam was smiling.
“You’re not fat.”
“Don’t lie.”
“Listen, you two, quit arguing.” Toni wanted to know more.
“I propose we pool our knowledge and meet once a week ourselves. We won’t have to pay any money yet we’ll still have the support, and come up with a plan that suits us.” Ellie was on a roll.
“Just how is that different to WeightWatchers or Unislim, then, Einstein?”
“No money to spend, as I said. Let’s see, no points to convert, diet meals banned—how’s that for a start?” Ellie hadn’t the faintest idea, really. “And maybe only weigh ourselves occasionally.”
“I’m in.” Maggie laughed.
“I’m not.” Pam knew she hadn’t a hope.
“You’re all in and that’s the end of it,” Ellie decided. “So, who’s for dessert?” she asked as Enrique cleared their plates.
“I’ll have tiramisu.”
“Chocolate squidgy cake with caramel cream.” “Whiskey and orange sabayon.”
“And I’ll have the fruit …” They all looked aghast. “… crumble. Gotcha.” Ellie grinned. “And cheese as well—runny Brie and smelly blue. Now, a toast please.”
“To what?”
“The WWW Club.” Ellie was definitely on something.
“What’s that?”
“I dunno, I just came up with it cause I’m sick of everyone banging on about www this and www that. Yesterday on the LUAS two old women were trying to decide what to cook for dinner. ‘All we have are eggs, onions, tomatoes and bacon,’ one said with a gummy smile. ‘I know, let’s log on to www.some bloody thing and I bet they’ll have loads of recipes that we haven’t tried,’ said the little gray permed one. My mouth was still open five minutes later. They could barely walk and yet they were surfing. I can’t even send an e-mail.”
“That’s not cool anymore,” Pam tut-tutted.
“I know. Never mind, I’ll enroll in a night class just as soon as Shameless ends on Channel 4 and I finish the tin of Cadbury’s Roses.” Ellie yawned. “I like the LUAS by the way. Much better than the DART. You really feel like you’re beating the traffic.”
“I know, www could stand for ‘Wish I Wasn’t Wasted.’” Maggie wasn’t listening to Ellie rabbiting on. “Remember our last liquid lunch?”
“Or, how about “Women Watching Weight”? Toni was getting into it.
“Not bad, we can keep adding Ws as we see fit. How about women watching weight watching wine …” “… watching wasabi …” “… watching wontons …”
“Walnuts.”
“Wyvita, if you’re Jonathan Ross.”
“Even if it fitted, do we look like the type who’d be watching cardboard crispbreads?”
“Wonderbras …”
“You can’t eat a wonderbra.”
“No, but it can help hold in all those wontons.”
“Cheers.” Four glasses almost shattered in their enthusiasm, always easy after plenty of pasta and wine.
“So, what did we all think about CJH this week then?” Pam asked. CJH was the code name for their favorite newspaper columnist, the one Ellie and Maggie had been discussing earlier. They had code names for everything, it made them feel like a secret club. CJH was easy to remember because they were the initials of a former prime minister who allegedly had an affair with a journalist—and they all fancied having an affair with this particular journalist, even though he was married to an absolute bitch, they’d long since decided. The initials also made up the names of three actors they reckoned he resembled. They’d never seen him, mind you, not even one of those black-and-white photos taken in Junior Infants, the kind favored by most hacks to show them in the best possible light. The C came from Colin Firth, ’cause he sometimes appeared dark and brooding and his writing could suddenly switch and be quite black. The J stood for Jude Law. They all just somehow knew he’d be cool in a couldn’t care less/forgot to wash my hair/don’t know what a skin peel is sort of way. And the H came from Hugh Grant (after some initial protest by Pam, who said he made her want to throw up). But the others persuaded her he would definitely have that “self-deprecating, ordinary guy who never gets it quite right and is endearing” quality, exactly like Grant was in Notting Hill—number 9 on their list of chick flicks to watch with a bottle of wine and a curry when feeling depressed.
Anyway, they reckoned CJH really understood women, and especially their obsession with weight, and his observations were sometimes close to the bone, often really sharp and nearly always hilarious. However, except for the nose job, they all agreed that this week’s was not his best work. Roll on next Saturday.
Two
The day was not going well for Jack Bryant. He flung down the newspaper and threw out his coffee. He stared at the neglected garden where the local bicycle of a cat, Marcie, was peeing on some sort of exotic plant. He rubbed the back of his neck. The last few days, in particular, had been a struggle. He knew he had to get his life into some sort of order. Mind you, he’d been saying that to himself for well over a year.
He walked back into his study and sat down to work on his latest book. He was getting nowhere fast there too and was avoiding his editor’s calls. As he began to tidy up the previous page he heard a high-pitched scream and looked up to see his two daughters running in through the front gate, closely followed by his sister Kate. They’d been swimming, but it seemed that and the exercise hadn’t diminished their energy levels one bit. He wished they’d transfer a bit of it his way.
He opened the front door just as his sister had put her key in and they tumbled inside, smelling of soap and chlorine and McDonald’s.
“Hi, Dad, we had a great time. I swam twenty times up and down.” Samantha looked all shiny and happy. She was nearly seven going on seventy.
“Are you exaggerating just a teensy, weensy bit, by any chance?” He bent down and tickled his eldest daughter.
“Hi, Georgia,” he said to Kate’s youngest daughter who was behind him.
“Hi, Jack.”
“Did you swim, or were you just helping out with the monsters?”
“No, I swam for ages.” She was a bright twelve-year-old with twinkling eyes and a cheeky grin.
“I had my arms on.” Someone was determined not to be left out, as usual.
“Did you, Jess? Does that mean that you can take your arms off sometimes?”
“No, silly. I mean my plastic ones.”
“I think you mean arm bands.”
“The pink ones.”
“Them’s the very ones. Right, int
o the kitchen for a glass of milk to build up your bones.”
“We had Coke.”
“You weren’t supposed to tell, stupid.” Samantha ran off, followed by Jessica who wanted to do everything the same as her big sister. Georgia followed.
“Sorry.” Kate grimaced at him. “All the kids were having it and I couldn’t leave them out.”
“You know I don’t mind. Never did me any harm.”
“I guess it’s a hangover from Lorna. She hated them having it.”
“She didn’t really, you know—wasn’t interested enough. It was the last nanny, what was her name?”
“Victoria.”
“That’s the one. She made the rules. Lorna just repeated a few of them ad nauseam because it made her sound like a caring mother.” He moved toward the kitchen and she followed. “Which, as we all know, is a load of bollocks.”
“Dad, you’re not allowed say that word. It’s a sin.”
“You weren’t supposed to be listening.”
“You have to put ten cents in the Trocaire box.”
“Will do.”
“Put a euro in. You never pay up.”
He grinned at his older sister. “See what I’m living with? Two conniving, materialistic women.”
“Can we watch Shrek?”
“Again?
They both nodded in unison.
“That is a nice boulder.” He did his Eddie Murphy impression and bent down and grabbed Jess. They loved it when he did the voices and God knows he’d seen that movie so many times he could practically recite it as poetry.
“That’s the old one. We’re watching Shrek 2.”
“Me Darla.” Jess always wanted to be someone else. She lived in a four-year-old fairytale.
“That’s not Shrek, that’s Nemo, stupid.” Sam poked the younger girl in the ribs.
“I’m not stupid.” Jess kicked her sister and they were off.
“Any fighting and you won’t get to see anything, OK?” Jack put the kettle on as Kate sat at the table watching him.
“Bad day?”
“Bad week.”
“Want to come round for a bite this evening?”
“Any spare friends you could fix me up with?” He was teasing her because she was always hinting.
“Would you want one?” She brightened immediately.
“No.” He was sorry he’d made the joke. “I think I’ll pass on supper, Kate. Not much company, I’m afraid.”
“You don’t have to put on an act with us, you know that. Come round and I’ll make lasagna and open a bottle of Barolo. I’ll even organize Sarah to babysit.” Sarah was her sixteen-year-old money pit.
He gave in because he realized he could do with the company. “OK, thanks, that’d be great. Sorry for being a bore.”
“It’s allowed.” She gave him a hug. “Sure you’re OK?”
He nodded, knowing he was lucky to have her around.
“See you about eight so. Expect Sarah just before. And don’t fall for her ‘my folks hate me’ line. She’s a human piggy bank. Five euros an hour and no more.” She blew him a kiss, called her daughter and was gone.
The girls spent the afternoon playing and watching TV and he did manage to get a bit of work done with only a few minor bustups to adjudicate over. They were good kids really. He just wished he could see his cup as half full but lately his situation had really been getting him down. He was even beginning to resent the girls sometimes and then guilt almost finished him off.
He left them eating tea—fish fingers and frozen chips—again. After a quick shower he pulled on faded jeans and the same black, roll-neck sweater. All of his clean shirts needed to be ironed and it took him so long to do each one that he couldn’t be arsed tonight. He didn’t even bother to comb his hair, simply toweled it dry and ran his fingers through it, annoyed with himself for thinking about Lorna so much today. He’d been feeling way too sorry for himself this week, whereas the fact was that he was actually much better off mentally since she’d left, even if everything else was a mess. Things hadn’t been great for a long time, since she’d first become pregnant, really. The second time she was caught she became vicious and he still remembered the look on her face when she’d lashed out and called him a “fucking nymphomaniac.”
“I think that’s a term for a woman.” He hadn’t liked her tone of voice much either.
“Yeah, well, you’re a bit of a girl’s blouse, always were.”
He knew deep down it was over between them, even then, but admitting it was something else. They patched things up because they had to. There was a one-and-a-half-year-old baby and another on the way. He knew he’d been somewhat to blame; he was struggling with his career and he left too much to her and she deeply resented the lack of freedom that having children brought, even though he knew she did care about them.
Things were never really right again and that was even before Jessie was born and way before he discovered she was having an affair with the editor of one of the tabloid newspapers. When he confronted her he was scared by his lack of any feeling whatsoever toward her. Next day when he came in from the office she’d gone. Simply asked Kate to keep an eye on the kids, packed her things (and a few of his), left her keys and a note saying she didn’t want anything else and disappeared. It was her PS that nearly finished him off. It simply said, “Suggest you seek custody of the kids, I’m not the maternal type.” Up until that moment he’d assumed she’d taken them with her. Despite all that had happened, he was gutted.
Being a single parent of two small girls was a nightmare. He’d never really had that much to do with them before Lorna left, they’d always had nannies—three at one stage. One Monday to Friday from nine to five, another for the evenings and a retired nurse all weekend. He couldn’t ever remember changing a nappy or feeding the girls. Now he wiped dirty bottoms and mopped up puke and felt he’d completely lost his identity. He worked too much from home, hadn’t kissed or touched a woman he wasn’t related to in yonks and never went out, except to Burger King or the Saturday matinees.
When Samantha had started school he hoped it would get easier but Jessie was still a baby really and his days managed to be both chaotic and robotic. It was beginning to affect his work now as well. Because he was feeling tired and pissed off more often, wasn’t eating properly and probably drinking too much, his output had diminished dramatically and his editor was making more noises lately about taking a trip to Ireland, not a good sign. He decided that some sort of plan was called for, before he was carried off in a white van.
Three
“Come on, out with it. You know it’s good to talk.” In this sort of mood Kate made Oprah seem shy.
“Only women think that. Men think the person just needs a kick in the arse, which is probably true in my case.”
“You need a ride.” Good old Bill, Kate’s long-suffering barrister husband, usually managed to cut to the chase.
“That too, but it’s not exactly high on the agenda at the moment.”
“Go on, I’d say your hand’s worn out.”
“Bill, that’s appalling. Stop it.” Jack could never figure out why his sister still admonished her husband practically every day. It didn’t make a scrap of difference, he’d built his reputation on being outrageous.
Now they grinned at each other like naughty schoolboys.
“Ignore him, Jack. He’s a thug. Now, tell us what’s getting on top of you.” She had on her best schoolmistress voice.
“He needs a good spanking, Miss.” Bill recognized the tone and winked at his brother-in-law.
“I’m warning you, Bill Huston …”
“I dunno, it just all seems to be one long round of cooking and fetching and homework and ballet and trying to work at night and sleeping with two kids on top of me and … God, I sound like a nagging wife.”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes you do, Mrs. Doubtfire.” Bill was off again.
“I never thought I’d hear myself say this b
ut the house is a tip.”
“What about Mrs. O’Sullivan?”
“She’s great, I’d be lost without her, but she can only work mornings and by the time she’s tidied up after the girls, loaded the dishwasher and put on a wash, she’s ready for a cup of tea and a smoke. The other day I found her halfway up the stairs gasping for breath. All I need now is for her to pop her clogs with a toilet brush in her hand.”
“Would you consider another nanny?”
“I don’t think I could bear it.”
“Why not? It could be the answer to all your problems.”
“They’re all foreigners—and I’m not racist.” He held his hand up because he could see his sister getting ready to deliver a lecture. “It’s the language thing, it’s such a bleedin’ effort. And they want to talk day and night, to improve their English. And then they sit around all evening watching TV and you have to join them and be polite and watch the soaps. Ugh, I’d rather get married.” He grinned, all three of them knew that he’d insert a burning needle in his eye first.
“Just think of all those buxom Swedes or tight-assed frauleins.” Bill was trying to cheer him up.
“He’s been watching too many old Britney Spears videos on MTV.” Kate slapped her husband’s face lightly. “There are Irish nannies, you know, and they don’t normally live in, or if they do they go home at weekends.”
“I suppose.” They could see he wasn’t convinced. “I’ll think about it, I promise. Now, let’s change the subject. Even I’m bored with me.”
They were easy company and he left much later full of wine and stodge but feeling a bit better. Seeing them always restored his faith in relationships. They were complete opposites: Kate was calm and efficient and warm and nosy, Bill a big bluffer who liked to shock, especially some of his stuffy colleagues in the Law Library. He was a gruff man whose unruly exterior hid one of the sharpest brains in the country. Jack was enormously fond of him. He made up his mind to buy them both dinner to say thanks, but knew he’d probably forget until the next time they saved his bacon.
Sundays were the only days Jack got to spend time mucking about. He usually woke early—it was hard to sleep in with a fist poking you in the ribs on one side and a four-year-old who managed to spread herself right across a super-king bed on the other. At least the papers were always on his doorstep, courtesy of Tommy, the only news agent in Ireland still to deliver at six every morning no matter what life threw at him and never, ever, get it wrong. What could be worse than finding the Observer on your mat on a rainy Sunday morning if you only ever read the Star, or Ireland’s Own if you were a VIP girl? If Tommy delivered pastries Jack would have had sex with him, but the older man would be hard pushed to tell the difference between a croissant and a shrimp, he knew. Still, papers were his main fix.
