The Fat Woman's Joke

by Fay Weldon Weldon

  “Good heavens, no. What are you thinking of?” Brenda seemed surprised.

  “Don’t you want to get to know him better or something?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Then, why is he here?”

  “Well, he just came, didn’t he? It would seem inhospitable to turn him away. He is a stranger in a foreign land, after all.”

  “I expect he comes from the East End, if the truth was known. I don’t want to go on if he can understand. It is all very personal to me.”

  The two girls stared at him. He smiled and nodded, as if he would say something nice if only he knew how.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Brenda. “You see! He doesn’t understand a word we say. He’s just a nice friendly man having a cup of coffee in a foreign land.”

  “Very well. We’ll leave it at that. But just don’t let it go any further. You sometimes behave in a very eccentric way, Brenda. Your relationships can be very shallow.”

  “Oh no. I’m a very conventional person, I’m afraid. I’m not brave, like you.”

  They took their cups of coffee and sat by the gas fire—Brenda pulling her short skirt down to hide her stocking tops as best she could—and Susan took up the story.

  Alan was late at the office on the second day of the diet. Susan was watering the pot plants with a green-and-red watering can from Heals, especially designed for watering pot plants. Alan was bad-tempered. His agent had appreciated his novel, but his life had not thereby been transformed, and he felt cheated.

  “Oh, Mr. Wells,” said Susan, reproachfully, “you’re late.”

  “Well?”

  “You’re late.”

  “I am not late. I am just not as early as usual. If you can’t be polite, at least try to be accurate.”

  “I suppose your being so often late is a protest against your coming to the office at all. I think it would be sensible for you to hand in your notice altogether. Why spend your days doing something you don’t like? You only live once.”

  “It is too early in the morning for this sort of conversation. I might as well be at home.” He hung his coat behind the provided curtain and looked discreetly down at his stomach. It seemed much the same.

  “It is not early for me. I’ve been up since five.”

  “What ever for?”

  “The light is good at that time for painting. The whole world seems different, somehow, when everyone else is asleep. It’s unobserved, and it shows.”

  “You must show me some of your work, sometime.”

  “I am very particular to whom I show my paintings.”

  “You must try and be a little more particular about your typing,” was all he said, looking at the list of the day’s engagements which she had typed.

  She was wearing a white ribbed jersey, which seemed too small for her, an abbreviated skirt, and a leather belt which hung around her hips.

  He thought it scarcely seemed suitable attire for a secretary in an advertising agency. It would never have been allowed in a permanent girl.

  “How can it be,” he said, “that I have no meetings until late this afternoon?”

  She sat down behind her typewriter and spoke coldly, for she had been snubbed.

  “Today was the day you were supposed to be going to the Sussex shampoo factory. They waited as long as they could, and I rang Mrs. Wells and she said you’d only just left, so Mr. Venery went in your place. That’s why.”

  “Oh.”

  “They thought Mr. Venery would do just as well.”

  “Oh. Did they?”

  “And I daresay they were right. He can be very impressive when he talks.”

  “You are becoming quite impossible. I know you like to make it clear that you are not by nature a secretary. But since you are being paid, couldn’t you at least act the role? It is very disconcerting to have a girl like you sitting about all day.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled.

  “I didn’t mean that as a compliment, either. Offices are serious places, where work must always take precedence over everything else. I daresay, to a girl as emancipated and free-thinking as you, the work we actually do must appear strange, even bizarre. I can see that to an outsider the vision of a group of gray-suited gentlemen of high moral principle and even higher income sitting round a table discussion the attitude of teenage girls to dandruff must seem somewhat ludicrous. But teenage girls have dandruff. And they need and like to have it cured. And a great many people work in factories making the cure, and others like us work at selling it in its most acceptable and cheapest form. It has its own kind of dignity, the work we do—if only because it is so open to mockery. It is easy enough to laugh at dandruff—just so long as you haven’t got it.”

  “You could use that as a headline. I wasn’t laughing at dandruff in particular, as it happens, or at you. You’ve sold out, that’s all, and I think it’s sad. It’s a waste of your potentiality. I’m sure if someone had said to you when you were fifteen that you’d end up selling dandruff cures you’d have committed suicide on the spot, and perhaps you would have been right to do so. People have a duty to their talents. It’s a crime to throw them away.”

  “I have not ‘ended up,’ as you put it. And I sell a great many other things besides dandruff cures. And I think, incidentally, you are too old to be wearing that gear. It’s for teenagers, not grown women.”

  “Why do you feel the need to attack me? Why do you want to hurt my feelings all the time? Do my knees worry you so much?”

  “No. It is not so much your knees, as you well know, but your thighs.”

  “I am sorry,” she said. “If it worries you I will wear skirts to my ankles. If you ask me to do anything, I will.”

  “Good heavens,” he said, “good heavens, it’s much too early for this kind of thing.”

  “I told you it didn’t seem early to me. I’ve been up for hours.”

  He circled her.

  “What am I going to do for the rest of the day, with nothing arranged? And you quite willfully tormenting me?”

  “Act like the middle-aged company man you delude yourself you are. Spend a useful day stabilizing your relations with the rest of the staff. Write memos to remind your superiors that you exist—it seems to be necessary. Go on a tour of inspection; there must be something to inspect. Ask your staff if they’re happy.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’m always happy.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I always do what I want.”

  “You are very fortunate, then.”

  “Not fortunate. Sensible. I dreamed about you last night.”

  “What?”

  “It was very private. It was marvelous.”

  “Good heavens,” he said, “good heavens. What do you see in me? I’m a middle-aged man with a middle-aged mind. You are young, beautiful, talented, intelligent and truly, truly, remarkable.”

  “You have a wonderful turn of phrase, just sometimes; did you know that? But a lot of the time you speak platitudes. What element in yourself is it that you hide from? You use clichés as a shelter, and it is not necessary. I hope you don’t use them when you write.”

  “It is a lovely day. Shall we go for a walk in the park? How very irregular! But we could talk about books. Did you know I have just written a novel?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “Would you be interested in reading it?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I haven’t got a copy at the office. There are two at home, though. I’ll bring one in. It might interest you. Many people might be shocked—but not, I think, you.”

  They put on the red “engaged” light above his office door and went out, by different staircases, into the street and met in the park. He felt the same pleasure as when he had played truant as a child; she felt agreeably conspiratorial. The sun shone.

  “What did you have for breakfast?” she asked.

  “Eggs.”

  “I don’t think food is
at all important, but I can see that for people who are used to it, going without would be most difficult. I don’t think you ought to, actually. You are a shadowy enough figure as it is.”

  “Shadowy?”

  “You lack substance. Men do tend to lack substance in women’s eyes. They are figments of lust, vague sources of despair. I think the least a man can do, in the circumstances, is to endeavor to exist well and truly in the flesh. I believe in you on account of you are so solid. It is the other way round with women. A woman has all too much substance in a man’s eyes at the best of times. That is why men like women to be slim. Her lack of flesh negates her. The less of her there is, the less notice he need take of her. The more like a male she appears to be, the safer he feels.”

  “My wife doesn’t half fight back, then.”

  “Is she very fat?”

  But he was silent.

  “Did you used to be a painter?” she asked presently, returning to safer ground.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “From the way you pick up a pencil. From the way you scribble over bad layouts. You seem to know exactly what you’re doing.”

  “You are very quick. I did study once.”

  “What happened?”

  “I had a couple of shows. But it was hungry work. Then I married. You have to earn a living. Once you embark on family life, it is too late to do anything else. Thoughts of self-expression fly out the window.”

  “Not if you have courage. I think perhaps you lack courage.”

  “If true courage lies in doing what you don’t want to do, from a sense of duty, then I am a truly courageous man.”

  “Not at all. True courage lies in doing what you want to do, and not caring whom you hurt.”

  “True courage,” he said, “lies in employing temporary secretaries with beautiful legs and wayward thoughts.”

  He kissed her in the bushes where he was sure no one from the office could possibly see. She was vastly pleased, and took the afternoon off—he could scarcely refuse—and went home and told William all about it.

  And all the way home in his taxi that evening he brooded about Esther’s malice in plotting to cook his omelette in butter the night before.

  “It all sounds rather sordid to me,” said Brenda, sipping her coffee. “Secretary and boss and stolen idylls in the park. It’s like the News of the World. My mother always said that men in offices were underemployed. That’s why she would prefer me to marry a professional man. They are so worn out by work they don’t cause trouble. She is very funny, my mother, in a sinister suburban way.”

  “It was only a kiss,” said Susan, “but afterwards all the colors in the park seemed stronger and the trees made strange shapes in the sky and when I went home and told William, I found my knees were trembling and so I knew I meant what I was saying. I was in love. The same man, not my boss, would probably have made no impression on me at all, I am honest enough to admit it. Status is a great aphrodisiac. His name was in black type on the telephone list and if you work for an organization like Zo’s, even temporarily, these things have the power to affect you.”

  “What do you mean, told William?”

  “I explained to him about Alan, and how it would be better for him to move out because it wouldn’t be fair to him, me being in love with someone else. He quite understood. We have a very civilized relationship. He went home. It all seemed, at the time, to fit in very well.”

  “You were presuming, weren’t you? I mean that more would happen between you and Alan than just a kiss in the park? You were getting rid of William before you were sure of Alan. I mean, next time you met him he might have pretended it never happened. I’ve met men like that before.”

  The foreign gentleman held out his cup. Brenda filled it.

  “His bladder will burst,” said Susan. “How can any man drink so much coffee?”

  “It’s because he doesn’t want to leave. The coffee is his excuse for staying. He is suffering greatly on our account.”

  “Your account.”

  “It is true,” said Brenda, “that his eyes follow me, not you. I wonder why.”

  “Perhaps in the country he comes from they like their women to have massive legs.”

  “What country do you think it is?”

  “The Lebanon?”

  “Where’s that?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Perhaps Ceylon or somewhere like that. He seems an educated man to me.”

  “Now how do you deduce that?”

  “He has a very intelligent expression in his eyes. Don’t you think he’s very attractive? I like a silent man.”

  “I don’t. I like words. Alan handled words beautifully.”

  “Susan, if William is so civilized and understanding, why isn’t he here now?”

  “Because his wife’s having a baby. I don’t see why you’re complaining. You’re only here in the flat because he’s not.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sure.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. But naturally a girl prefers to live with a man.”

  “What about all those Kensington secretaries, sharing flats with one another?”

  “Cowards, or Lesbians,” said Susan.

  “Surely!” Brenda was disbelieving.

  The foreign man closed his eyes. Brenda moved over and gently stroked his forehead, even as she protested.

  “Brenda!” Susan was scandalized. “You hardly know him!”

  But Brenda stroked on. Susan rose and went back to the pub, leaving them together.

  7

  “BY THE FOURTH DAY of the diet I was in despair,” said Esther to Phyllis. “I can’t really bear to think about it. Shall we go and have some curry? It would do me good. I have hardly been out of this place for days.”

  “You’ll have to change,” said Phyllis. “You can’t go out like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re covered with soup.”

  “If I don’t care, why should you? I didn’t bring anything with me when I left. I don’t need clothes. I don’t want anyone to look at me; it’s their misfortune if they do. Are you ashamed to be seen out with me?”

  “No.”

  “You’re lying. People have been ashamed to be seen out with me as long as I can remember. I was a very dirty little girl. My mother used to tell me so. She’s a very small neat woman, as you know, and I, by comparison, overflowed. I seemed to have more surfaces than she, and every single one of them picked up dirt. While I was married to Alan I tried very hard to be clean. I dusted and swept and polished. I bathed every day, changed my clothes twice a day, bought new ones perpetually, had everything dry-cleaned. It is a very expensive business, being clean. I sewed on buttons, too. None of it was my true nature. In trying to be clean I contorted myself. This is what I am really like: I shall pretend no longer. If you are too ashamed to go into an Indian restaurant with me as I am, it doesn’t matter to me in the least. I don’t really want to go out, anyway. I have lots of English curry in the cupboard.”

  “You can’t still be hungry.”

  “It has nothing to do with hunger, for God’s sake.”

  “It’s psychological, you mean.”

  Esther did not deign to reply. She picked out a tin of curry and a tin of savory rice from the shelf.

  “It’s not real curry, this, of course. Real curry is very tricky to make. You use spices, added at precise intervals, and coconut milk. It’s not just a matter of making a stew and adding curry powder and raisins and bananas. You have to devote a whole day to making a true curry. It is all a great waste of time and energy, but it keeps women occupied, and that’s important. If they had a spare hour or two they might look at their husbands and laugh, mightn’t they? I am glad you stopped me going out. If I leave this place goodness knows where my footsteps might not take me.”

  “I didn’t stop you going out. You stopped yourself.”

  “Did I? How fortunate. Now where were we? One of the strange things
about not eating is how clearly you begin to see things. By the end of the week I could see myself very clearly indeed, and it was not comfortable. My home was not comfortable, either. It seemed a cold and chilly place, and I could see no point in the objects that filled it, that had to be eternally dusted and polished and cared for. Why? They were not human. They had no importance other than their appearance. They were bargains, true. I had bought them cheap, yet I had more than enough money to spend, so where was the achievement? Those old things, picked up and rescued and put down on a shelf to be appreciated, seemed to have taken over my whole life. They were quaint, oh yes, and some were even pretty, but they were no justification for my being alive. Running a house is not a sensible occupation for a grown woman. Dusting and sweeping, cooking and washing up—it is work for the sake of work, an eternal circle which lasts from the day you get married until the day you die, or are put into an old folk’s home because you are too feeble to pick up some man’s socks and put them away any more. For whose sake did I do it? Not my own, certainly. Not Peter’s—he could as well have lived in a tree as in a house, for all the notice he took of his surroundings. Not Alan’s. Alan only searched for flaws: if he could not find dirt with which to chide me, if he could not find waste with which to rebuke me, then he was disappointed. And daily I tried to disappoint him. To spend my life waging war against Alan, which was what my housewifeliness amounted to, endeavoring to prove a female competence which was the last thing he wanted or needed to know about—what a waste of time this was! Was I to die still polishing and dusting, washing and ironing, seeking to find in this way my fulfillment? Imprisoning Alan as well as myself in this structure of bricks and mortar we called our home? We would have been as happy, or as miserable, in a cave. We would have been freer and more ourselves, let’s admit it, in two caves.”