Larger Than Life

by Adele Parks

  Joke.

  I’ve already been to the loo twice tonight and it’s freezing on those bathroom tiles. I lie still for a few more minutes and will the inflated balloon to go away, but it doesn’t. In fact, all I can think of is Victoria Falls. I get up, brave the icy tiles and then decide to read a brief Julia has drafted. It’s all about odour control in shoes. It’s a good paper, and I only have to mark one or two amendments in red ink, like a teacher correcting an essay. One of Brett’s team already has the creative solution anyway, so it doesn’t much matter what Julia’s brief says. He wants to use Moby’s song ‘Why Does My Heart Feel so Bad?’ and change the words to ‘Why Do My Soles Smell so Bad?’ I’m torn. It’s a really beautiful, gravelly, soulful song. If Moby (or more likely, his agent) gives us permission, we’ll probably make a great ad that will render odour eaters cool and undoubtedly send the record back up the charts; but I can’t help thinking that it will be a shame if Moby’s agent does accept the offer. I mean, which lyricist can seriously want their song associated with pongy feet? Just as I am contemplating getting back into bed and fighting Hugh for my half of the duvet, the phone rings. I dash to it, heart pounding; I hate middle-of-the-night calls. They invariably spell trouble.

  ‘George, George. It’s me. It’s happened!’

  ‘What has, Sam? Are you OK?’

  ‘Never better. George, it’s happened. Gilbert’s proposed!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gilbert.’

  Is she still drunk? Isn’t he the one we’ve been questioning the parentage of all evening?

  ‘Gilbert, as in the one who stood you up the night before last?’

  ‘Well, yes, but he explained all that.’

  ‘He was working late, right?’

  ‘No, his tyre blew.’

  ‘And he couldn’t get to a phone?’ I ask sceptically.

  Sam ignores my question. ‘George, he’s proposed!’

  ‘Right. Yeah. God, how embarrassing, you hardly know him. How did you get out of that?’

  Silence.

  I suppose I should want to eat my words, but I’ve only said what everybody must be thinking.

  ‘I didn’t want to get out of it,’ says Sam, trying desperately to keep the offence out of her voice. ‘I accepted.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He’s lovely.’ ‘Good.’

  ‘Seriously lovely.’

  ‘Oh, seriously good, then.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’

  I stare at the carpet that is still wet with the water from the broken vase. It seems an indecently short amount of time since I was spooning a sobbing Sam into the waiting cab. Admittedly, I’m not good with sudden change. I’m known to be a creature of habit but this strikes me as the opposite extreme.

  ‘It just seems a little sudden. It would be a mistake to accept the first proposal that comes along, you know, Sam. Just because you want to get married.’

  ‘Oh, and do you suggest I wait for a second one? At the current rate that will be when I’m seventy,’ she snaps. ‘I love G and he loves me.’

  ‘Who’s G?’ I ask, momentarily confused.

  ‘Gilbert. I’ve decided to call Gilbert “G”.’

  ‘To make him sound more twenty-first century?’

  ‘No, because I want a pet name for him,’ she defends.

  ‘How about G-spot? I mean, he must have hidden talents that you’re not telling me about.’

  ‘That’s very nasty, Georgina.’ Besides which it’s stupid, because she’s told me everything about G. Me and everyone else for that matter.

  ‘So you love him?’

  ‘Yes. He’s reliable and honest.’ Except when he stands her up and tells lies about it.

  ‘Those are the reasons you employ a plumber or buy a car,’ I point out.

  She ignores me. Of course she loves him. Nearly every woman would agree that to be a single woman in London after the age of thirty is not pleasant and when you’re tipping thirty-five it is distinctly uncomfortable. Sam thinks it’s absolute social failure.

  I weigh it up. Should I continue my honesty policy? Which is obviously as popular as a naked Keith Chegwin. Or do I tell her what she wants to hear? I hear myself mutter an apology and I do my best to sound sincere. That is the problem with saying what you think, it’s rarely popular. Better to stick to the appropriate responses. Sod honesty.

  ‘Well, congratulations, Bird. I’m really happy for you.’ I struggle for something nice to say about him and finally come up with, ‘Good bridge player.’ I’m referring to a tiresome evening Hugh and I spent with Gilbert and Sam last month. We had dinner at her place and, naturally, got very drunk during the evening. I suggested we play cards. A light and easy game of ‘Aces High’ was what I had in mind, but Gilbert was tediously competitive and insisted that we played bridge instead.

  ‘That was a fun evening, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Hilarious,’ I lie.

  ‘To think I’ll be married by the end of the year. I’ve always wanted to be a winter bride.’ This at least is true. In as much as she’s always wanted to be a spring, summer, autumn or winter bride.

  ‘Have you told Julia?’ I’m interested to hear what Julia has to say about the hasty engagement. I introduced Julia and Sam to one another a year or so back. As they are both single they took to going out together, ostensibly to be independent and go clubbing, patently to find men. However, whilst Sam was hunting for someone to glide down the aisle with, Julia was looking for something altogether less churchy. Her idea of permanency is two dances in a row. Julia, the queen of treat-them-mean-keep-them-keen, does however have a far greater success rate when it comes to follow-up calls. They both regularly treat me to (radically different) accounts of their exploits. Sam is dangerously romantic, poetical and idealistic; the three things that are most notable about Julia are that she is spiky, funny and a bigger bitch than Bette Davis. Therefore she is an excellent gossip; I can’t wait to hear what she has to say about this engagement.

  ‘No. I haven’t called Julia yet. I thought you should be the first to know.’

  I’m itching to swap notes.

  I sit down on the floor and settle with my back against the radiator; I sweep the skirting boards with my little finger in an attempt to eradicate all dust.

  ‘OK, so tell me everything,’ I instruct, summoning every molecule of enthusiasm in my body.

  And she does. She tells me how when she got home from my flat he was waiting for her, armed with bribes (a bouquet of red roses, a magnum of champagne – not that she needed anything more to drink – and a reservation at the Ivy).

  ‘They let you in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But…’ But she could hardly stand. I can hardly say so.

  She reads my mind. ‘They’ve seen worse.’

  I suppose they have. The Ivy is famous for its lush celebs; the alcoholics count is second only to the Groucho club. Besides which, it will have been late. Ten o’clock maybe. Those who go to the Ivy to see and be seen go for eight-thirty.

  She tells me that when they got to the Ivy, they didn’t eat anything from the menu because he had already prearranged a bespoke selection. He’d chosen all his favourite foods that he wanted to introduce her to. Wasn’t that sweet? They started with oysters, which actually Sam hates but she ate them anyway, she’s swallowed worse things. Then they had foie gras and water biscuits. It’s a good job that Sam had already eaten a fish-and-chips supper, that way she could pretend to have the appetite of a bird, an impression every woman feels compelled to give. And the waiters made such a fuss of them. Gilbert is a regular, and Sam thinks they’ll both be dining there frequently in the future. They had such a fun time, neither of them stopped laughing and there wasn’t a single pause in the conversation. The food just kept coming, as did the champagne. And it is so elegant. Proper linen tablecloths and decent-sized tables. I let her repeat every word, gesture, inflexion, several times, and largely I manage to stay awake.
/>   ‘Well, I’m very happy for you, Sam,’ I say, trying to bring the conversation to a close. Bored to death, I wiggle my toes; my legs and bum are so numb I fear that rigor mortis has set in. I check my watch – Sam has been on the phone for an hour and a half.

  ‘How are you?’ she asks dutifully, obviously feeling a teensy bit guilty that she’s neglected this social nicety for ninety minutes.

  ‘Fine.’ Instinctively I know that this isn’t the ‘I’m pregnant!’ moment either.

  The tedium of Sam detailing the entire contents of the Pronuptia catalogue overwhelms me. I congratulate her again, then I hang up. I’m not sure she notices.

  10

  I’ve been in the office precisely ninety seconds. Julia and I don’t bother with niceties, but cut to the chase.

  ‘What do you think?’ I demand.

  ‘Astounding.’

  ‘At first I didn’t have a clue who she was talking about.’

  ‘How could you fail to recognize the hallmark of “G”, the International Man of Mystery?’ sniggers Julia. (It’s natural that we should be a tiny bit bitchy.) ‘I bet that pissed her off.’

  ‘Well, I recovered by pointing out that she had called me at 3 a.m.,’ I defend myself.

  ‘I’m glad that you’re known for your enthusiasm and that I’m known for my lack of it, because otherwise I’d be the one receiving the excited calls at ungodly hours.’

  Am I? I consider ‘being known for my enthusiasm’ for a moment. Is it a good thing? Enthusiasm strikes me as a bit amateurish. Not very cool. Why can’t I be known for my sound advice? Or my level-headedness?

  ‘She just called me. I made a huge effort to summon up the proper amount of delight. Should I be delighted?’ asks Julia. ‘What’s he like? It’s all happened so fast that I haven’t even met him.’

  The thing is, we both love Sam.

  ‘Gushing is not my thing,’ I lie, trying on a level-headed persona which is alien to me. ‘But, yeah, I think we can be happy for her. He seems nice enough. I’ve only met him once but, unusually for a man of Sam’s, he seems genuinely interested in her, her friends, family, job, et al.’ I’m saying this partly because it’s true but mostly because I want it to be true. ‘And he’s certainly willing to commit.’

  ‘Definitely a point in his favour as far as Sam is concerned.’

  ‘A necessity.’

  ‘Don’t you think the speed is a bit suspect? Could he be a psychopath?’

  ‘Well, he’s getting on a bit. Mid-forties, he doesn’t have time to hang around.’

  ‘She said that the proposal was everything she ever wanted and more.’

  I find that hard to believe. ‘Good.’

  ‘She said he looks like a film star – does he?’

  I consider. ‘Well, not any particular film star that I could name. Not a Ben Affleck or Jude Law, not really a Tom Cruise either, but thinking about it’ (generously) ‘he does have a generic film-star quality. Perhaps Cary Grant – before we knew he was gay – crossed with Errol Flynn.’

  ‘He wears green tights?’ chortles Julia again.

  ‘Stop being mean. He’s other-worldly, decent and charming.’

  ‘Dull, then?’

  ‘As ditchwater,’ I confirm. ‘Still, she’s happy that he’s so other-worldly, because most men that she’s been with have been so “of this world” that their main hobby was downloading porn from the Internet.’

  ‘And she did say that the ring was the one she’d have picked out herself if she’d been given the choice.’

  ‘Oh, my God, the ring, I forgot to ask. It must be the square solitaire from Tiffany.’

  ‘No. I thought that, but it’s an emerald cluster.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Still.’

  ‘Still.’

  ‘She seems happy.’

  ‘That’s the main thing.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  Having said very little it’s obvious that we are in total agreement.

  I ring Jessica to tell her about Sam’s engagement.

  ‘How lovely for her. I hadn’t realized she was seeing anyone seriously. You girls are so secretive.’

  ‘No, we’re not.’

  ‘What did she say about your pregnancy?’

  ‘Er, I haven’t mentioned it yet.’

  My mother chooses to think better of me than I deserve. ‘Didn’t want to steal her thunder?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I mutter. ‘Well, what’s he like, this Gilbert?’

  ‘He’s a 47-year-old, nice enough guy who is a cautiously efficient MD of a small, reasonably successful firm that writes mildly interesting computer programmes,’ I say bluntly. I resist adding that he reminds me of everyone’s father.

  ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’

  ‘I hadn’t realized until today that my enthusiasm was so conspicuous,’ I grumble.

  ‘And now you have noticed, you’re trying to eradicate it?’ I can hear exasperation leak into Jessica’s voice.

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Why? Being enthusiastic isn’t a bad thing. Just because you are it, it doesn’t necessarily mean it is a bad thing to be. Why do you insist on always trying to be something you’re not?’ Jessica scolds. I wonder if she’s being ironic when she turns the conversation and mentions that she’s considering liposuction on her thighs.

  February

  11

  Hugh ruins my Saturday morning almost the instant I open my eyes by asking, ‘Are you coming to the gym?’ I wish, and not for the first time, that I’d wake up to an offer that we go to the King’s Road together or, better yet, out for lunch. Ever since I met Hugh, or more accurately ever since he showed me the photo of the elegant, elongated Becca, the gym has been my torture chamber. It represents all that is evil in the world, i.e. the fact that my genetic make-up veers towards rotund, and the fact that naturally skinny is simply a cruel myth perpetuated by people who starve themselves. I find little comfort that for almost fourteen years I have been one of those perpetuating the myth. My natural state of slothfulness is further exaggerated as during the night someone has poured cement down my throat and now my legs are tonne weights. My back and boobs ache, gold-medal style.

  Hugh repeats the question about the gym but, before I can answer him, I have to make a dash to the bathroom to throw up last night’s supper. A ritual that has become as intrinsic to my morning routine as applying Estée Lauder moisturizer, or fishing around in the cereal boxes to find plastic models of dinosaurs.

  It’s almost impossible to think that this is the same bathroom that used to be a zone of erotic pleasure. Hugh and I used to have frantic, fantastic sex in the shower and long, loving bubble baths. The numerous candles and sensuous massage oils are being neglected. I can hardly bear Hugh being in the same flat as me when I puke, so the chances of him getting into the bathroom are microscopic; he’s having to grow a goatee.

  I am seriously considering suing the publishers and authors of all the maternity books I’ve read for printing incorrect information. Information that raised my hopes and allowed me to believe that pregnancy was in some way a bearable, if not a desirable, state to be in. The books warn me that a ‘small amount of nausea is normal’. Ha! Nausea. It strikes me that nausea is a pitiful word, woefully inadequate, far too refined to describe the reality of the state I’m in. ‘Ill’ is also a euphemism, because ill suggests that there will be a recovery. ‘Queasy’ is insultingly mellow, considering there is a huge and constant ball of bile and vomit swelling in my gut. A ball of spew that is insidiously leaking into my nervous and capillary systems, infecting every part of my body. Nothing helps. Not dry biscuits, nor ginger, nor sucking lemons. I consider explaining this to Hugh, but decide there’s no point – he gets squeamish if he sees me putting bikini-line wax in the trolley at Tesco’s. Instead, I stick to the facts.

  ‘No, I’m not coming to the gym. My personal trainer was a bit shirty when I threw up on the stationary bike last week.’

  ‘Y
ou threw up on a stationary bike? How embarrassing.’

  ‘It was. And I threw up in an umbrella stand in Harvey Nicks. The accuracy of my aim cost me £180. Nothing’s sacred.’

  ‘Poor you.’

  Yes, poor me. I climb back under the duvet and wait, hoping that he’ll offer to stay with me and while away the rainy Saturday. He could help me find something to satiate my hunger and at the same time calm my churning stomach. So far I’ve come up with pickled onions and tinned pears (simultaneously).

  ‘Well, come for a sauna or a session on the sun bed,’ suggests Hugh cheerfully, oblivious to my telepathic plea for company and sloth.

  ‘I can’t use the sauna or sun lamps any more,’ I reply, not trying too hard to keep the self-pity out of my voice. Pregnancy, I’ve found, isn’t simply about washing vegetables and giving up raw meat.

  ‘Well, it is much more fashionable to use fake tan,’ Hugh says.

  It’s not. It’s much more vogue to say you use fake tan but still use sun beds; they give a more even cover. I don’t say so. Nor do I comment that some of the maternity books I’ve been reading suggest it’s better to avoid fake tan as well for the duration of the pregnancy. The books are American; I can’t take them too seriously. Hugh doesn’t offer to stay with me, but simply comments, ‘Perhaps it’s a good thing that you’re throwing up so much if your workouts are going to be restricted.’ I can’t be bothered to point out that even if I do more tactical chunders than a supermodel, between now and the delivery, I’ll still be obese.