Larger Than Life

by Adele Parks

  And everyone laughs loudly, as though his joke was absolutely the funniest thing anyone’s ever said.

  15

  ‘Darling, how are you?’

  ‘Fat, sick and tired.’

  My mother ignores my answer because it’s not what she wants to hear, and I’m left wondering if I spoke at all.

  ‘Guess where I am.’ Before I can take a breath to reply, she continues, ‘Heathrow. Quick stop before I go to New York. I have to shop.’

  She says that she ‘has to shop’ with the same seriousness that other people reserve for ‘I have to pass these final exams’ or ‘I have to battle this debilitating disease’.

  ‘Cape Town does a marvellous sunset, but it’s rather dire when it comes to retail therapy. Let’s meet up.’

  What will I wear? It was a depressing day when I could no longer button my jeans all the way to the top, but it was nothing on today. Today I couldn’t tug them past my knees. Every bit of me has metamorphosed. I knew pregnancy was about getting a big stomach; if only it stopped there. It’s about big stomachs, big legs, big arms, big bum, big cheeks, big ankles, big bosoms.

  And small self-esteem.

  I’ve religiously read the pregnancy book and followed, with some trepidation, its obsession with comparing the foetus to food. It grew in size from a small lime to a peach, and is now the size of a grapefruit. It’s puzzling, therefore, that I am the size of a baby elephant.

  I look down; my present garb could hardly be described as high fashion. I have resorted to wearing Hugh’s clothes because they are the only things in the flat that fit. However, he won’t let me wear anything half decent (not since I was sick on his Nicole Farhi flannel trousers), and so I am forced into wearing the stuff that has lurked at the back of his wardrobe since his student days. This morning I was under-whelmed with the choice between a sweatshirt embroidered with his college crest or a Meatloaf T-shirt. To be twinned with tie-dye trousers (purchased in India during his years out) or a green suit with a double-breasted jacket (apparently it was his first interview suit and he kept it for sentimental reasons). I opted for the sweatshirt and hippy trousers and then called in sick – it was easier than washing my lank and unmanageable hair or trying to conceal my sallow skin under layers of foundation. The bags under my eyes are bigger than Posh carries home from Bond Street.

  I can’t let Jessica see me like this. She has standards.

  ‘I have an invite to an art exhibition at a gallery in Walton Street. Some ghastly new artist. Hermia something or other, I forget. Unlikely to be her real name anyway. Probably be dismal but I have to go, it’s Clarissa’s daughter’s gallery.’

  Clarissa and my mother have known each other longer than either of them care to remember. Clarissa’s daughter Freya and I are roughly the same age and therefore we have endured a lifetime of being compared and contrasted by our highly competitive mothers. Jessica had always been perfectly happy to enter into this comparative game, providing I won. I passed my piano and violin grades before Freya, I thrashed her at gymkhanas, exceeded her marks at school and, whilst advertising wouldn’t have been my mother’s first choice of career, she takes comfort in the fact that I earn shed-loads of cash. Things were fine until the mid 1990s, when Freya netted herself a count or duke, or something or other. Jessica never really forgave me. Freya then went on to have three bouncing babies in quick succession. Not that Jessica was in a great hurry to be a grandmother; she wasn’t. But she hated, on principle, my coming second to Freya. To add to my mother’s irritation, Freya never put on more than 18 lb for any one of her pregnancies – I’ve already put on twelve, even though I’m just fourteen weeks pregnant. Nor was she sick or spotty; she positively glowed and no doubt made shampoo from the placenta. I can’t imagine ever being able to retrieve my position.

  ‘Are you having lots of beautiful thoughts to help your baby’s karma?’ asks Jessica.

  ‘Mostly murderous.’

  ‘Darling, I thought you said you wanted this.’

  ‘I do want it. I just didn’t want it to be so hard.’

  ‘Well, you can’t have everything.’

  Apparently not. Even accepting that the pregnancy has left me – what were my words? – ‘Thrilled, absolutely thrilled’, I can’t help but think there’s a design fault somewhere along the line. Why can’t I just go and pick up a baby in John Lewis? The fact that giving birth is supposed to be the most exquisite, enriching, natural and substantive thing a woman can do has passed me by. Zoom, straight by. I don’t feel mother-earthy; looking at me no one in their right mind would ‘give it up’ for the fertility gods, or high-five for Aphrodite. And whilst I concede that it is a miracle that you can hear the baby’s heartbeat at this point, I’m less thrilled about the fact that the small intestine had developed and is now capable of producing the contractions that push food through the bowels, reducing me to little more than a public convenience.

  ‘Are you listening to whale music? Freya listened to whale voices throughout her pregnancies and then had water births. Personally, I find that rather gimmicky but from all accounts the children are angels. They all slept through for eight hours by the third night.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Gospel. So I recommend whales.’

  Well, this little bugger should be all right then, as it’s being born to a whale.

  ‘And plenty of exercise, darling. You are still visiting the gym, aren’t you? At least three times a week.’

  Yes, I’m exercising – I’ve nearly worn through the carpet en route from the settee to the fridge and the loo. I avoid answering the question directly by agreeing to meet at the gallery at six-thirty. This gives me roughly five and a quarter hours to transform myself from grungy hippo to something that she may recognize.

  My first stop in the search for my former self is the bathroom. I know that it is paramount to wash and style your hair before you visit the salon. If you go in looking dire the stylist assumes you have low standards and then proceeds to disappoint them. If you go in looking good you have a chance of leaving looking spectacular. In fact, I have a hair-salon league, and it has been known for me to visit a division-two stylist in the morning, just as prep for an afternoon appointment with a premier-league stylist. The same is true of clothes- and shoe-shopping. I’ve learnt that it’s vital that you wear your current best outfit to shop for new clothes, and always polish your shoes and check your hosiery is in order if you are shoe-shopping (time permitting have a manicure and pedicure as well). My problem today is that in my present state I look too awful even to visit my beautician, so I resign myself to home treatments. This demands a battle with my lethargy, but will save me the humiliation of being seen by my beautician.

  I shower using my Aveda body polish and moisturizing gel. I try to lose myself in the fragrance and strive not to notice that the power shower feels like pins and needles being jabbed into my tender boobs. When I do have thoughts like, ‘Whose ankles are these?’ (mine are slim, toned, worked out and for – the ones on the ends of my legs are podgy, puffy and distended), I attempt to push them from my head. I endeavour not to get too depressed when I finger the place where my hip bone used to make an appearance; the bone is now safely shielded behind inches of flesh. I comfort myself that, whilst at the moment I simply look fat, in a couple of months I’ll look pregnant and that will be a genuine improvement.

  Which just goes to show how bad things are.

  After I have cleansed, toned, moisturized, loofahed, exfoliated, brushed and pummelled every inch of flesh I have (side benefit: this is a really good upper-arm workout) and shampooed, conditioned, brushed, blow-dried, serumed and rebrushed every hair (including my eyelashes and muff – you really can never be too well-prepared), I am beginning to feel vaguely human. I carefully apply my make-up (to a stranger’s face – even my eyes have changed colour; the emerald green is now more of a Thames-river-sludge colour; surely that’s my paranoia).

  I consider what to wear. I root through my lin
gerie drawer, ignoring the flimsy little bras with cups that would no longer support my nipple, never mind a complete breast, and locate a clean boulder-holder. I’m tempted not to bother with knickers at all, on the grounds that, at the moment, they are about as comfortable as sitting on a cheese grater; I’ll have to buy the next size up as soon as I have an opportunity. I wish I had a tent to wear but I don’t, so I root through my summer clothes, which tend to be less tailored than my winter wardrobe. I try on a number of cashmere cardigans and cotton T-shirts, but the cardigans won’t fasten and whilst some of the T-shirts do stretch across my Pammy Anderson tits, the hem rises at the front, so I look farcical. In the end I opt for a button-up shirt of Hugh’s, which is outsize enough to make me look still not quite elephantine. And I settle for a pair of linen trousers. Unsuited to the climate maybe, but they are a step up the sartorial ladder from the tie-dye number or the green interview suit. I grab the car keys and my credit card and set off.

  My second stop, in search of my former self, is Bond Street. I automatically dismiss the smart boutiques that sell sexy, skimpy numbers (which are normally the staple of my wardrobe) and I walk right past the large designer stores that don’t stock anything bigger than a size 10. Effing fashion fascism. The retail environment may be more relaxing if you don’t have to encounter heaving women in the changing rooms, women that are universally depressed about their cellulite thighs and post-pubescent figures, but it’s not very real, is it?

  I head for a small maternity-wear shop, the stock of which has been described to me as ‘adorable, perfect, divine’, so I’m quite hopeful that I’ll be able to buy something glam and appropriate. I’m feeling surprisingly upbeat. It’s been a couple of months since I’ve indulged in any retail therapy and my credit card is feeling as under-exercised as my inner thighs.

  After five seconds in the shop I realize that the description of the clothes as ‘adorable, perfect, divine’ omitted the all-important caveat, ‘for maternity clothes’. The disappointment is breathtaking. There are row after row of machine-wash trousers with elasticated waists. Of course machine wash is essential, as I discovered by week ten of my pregnancy, when I deposited no fewer than thirty-six outfits at the dry cleaner’s. The bill on collection could have bought me a week’s holiday in the Caribbean. Of course the trousers have to be elasticated, but does elasticated have to mean ugly? Apparently, yes. There’s nothing sheer, fun, flirty or exciting. There’s not a single tailored garment. There’s nothing high fashion (or even mid fashion). There’s nothing catwalk or statement. In summary, there’s nothing to get my libidinous glands secreting.

  The shop appears crowded. In fact, there are only four other women in the store, but three are pregnant and therefore space is at a premium; it feels similar to Harrods on the first day of the sale, except without the optimism. We don’t look at each other, but can’t peel our eyes away from one another’s bumps. The biggest dollop of resentment rests on the neat bump owned by the woman who is telling the assistant that she really is seven months pregnant, and, yes, everybody says that she looks tiny. It’s the yoga! The shop assistant also looks genuinely cheerful, but then she’s a size 8 and hasn’t spent the last few months staring at limescale on the inside of the toilet rim. I take a deep breath and push towards her. I explain that I need something special for a reception plus, with a sigh, I concede that I need some work suits and shirts, casual clothes and nightwear. Why do I feel like I’m losing the school trophy?

  The assistant bundles me into a changing room (small) together with a pile of clothes (large and occasionally large enough). The biggest shock is the pouch of material hidden in the front panels of the trousers; surely my stomach will never fill those excess yards. I try the trousers on and discover that they are too snug already and I need the next size up. The colours are drab, mostly beige, which I presume is selected for its camouflage properties; I suppose I should be grateful that there are no polka dots in sight. The ‘special’ outfit the assistant suggests is a black Empire-line, on-the-knee dress. Despite the fact that it has sequins around the neckline, it appears promising. And, whilst these clothes are obviously not a patch on anything Alberta Ferretti, Givenchy Couture or Marc Jacobs would produce, in the end I buy all the things she gives me to try on – just because they fasten right to the top. Relieved, I wait for my credit card to clear. It astounds me that whilst the fabrics, tailoring, designs and names don’t match my usual purchases the prices are about the same. The assistant smiles as she hands me the bags; obviously she has no conscience about fleecing the deformed.

  My third stop is the hairdresser’s. My stylist is very sympathetic. ‘Darling, lank, greasy hair is to be expected. Be thankful you don’t have a moustache.’ The floor stubbornly refuses to open and swallow me up, so there is nothing I can do except accept a herbal tea and sit through the catalogue of horror stories about pregnancy that the shampoo girl, my colour technician and stylist all insist on relaying.

  At six-thirty on the dot, my mother’s cab pulls up outside the gallery. I watch her hand over the correct money for the fare and tip, pull a comb through her hair and snap open a compact case so that she can check her reflection. I quickly turn to the gallery window, to check (as taught at the breast) that my teeth aren’t smeared with lipstick. My reflection isn’t bad, considering I’m pregnant. It’s been a lot of effort, but the outfit and blow-dry works, I think. I look… pleasant. Jessica will be pleased.

  Jessica hops out of the cab and almost walks straight past me. I stop her by leaning in for an air kiss.

  ‘Georgina?’ she demands, lifting her sunglasses on to the top of her head (an unnecessary accessory as it’s February and the chance of seeing the sun in the UK within the next five months is slim). ‘Georgina,’ she repeats, not quite believing her own eyes.

  I smile hesitantly.

  ‘We’ll have to do something with your hair.’

  16

  It’s the kind of party that I adore, or used to. It’s obvious to me from the moment I walk through the door that I’m not going to enjoy myself. The gallery is huge and white, with a polished wooden floor. There are two or, tops, three pieces of art hanging on the wall. They are very modern, mostly solid blocks of colour. If they have a meaning it passes me by. Heaving crowds of shadowy people try to compensate for the empty walls and empty pictures.

  ‘What did you say the name of the artist is?’ I ask Jessica.

  Jessica shrugs. ‘Some Italian woman – I forget.’

  ‘Well, she is certainly very well connected.’ I nod around at the guests. ‘All of London’s Great and Good are here.’

  ‘Or at least those who like to consider themselves to be so,’ adds Jessica haughtily. She prides herself on never being impressed.

  ‘Isn’t that Jemima Khan?’ I ask, genuinely thrilled.

  ‘Yes – don’t stare. Note, Georgina, she has two sons and has retained her figure.’

  I sigh, and point out someone who looks a lot like Elton John; no one can accuse him of keeping his figure. To describe the guest list in the vaguest terms, there are a number of politicians, TV celebs, journalists, and a liberal scattering of lords and ladies, marquesses and marchionesses, barons and baronesses. To be specific, there is every wealthy, powerful, jowly man in London and every beautiful, scare-crow-thin, peroxide woman. My black sequined number suddenly seems woefully inadequate. Between us, my mother and I know, at least by sight, nearly every guest, and we are intimately acquainted with a respectable number. So why am I standing alone with only the peanut bowl for company?

  I survey the champagne-swilling and vol-au-vent-eating room (the vol-au-vents are filled with goat’s cheese or Parma ham, so I can’t indulge), and wonder who I should speak to.

  ‘This one represents the legitimacy of death.’ A platinum-blonde, skeletal woman is staring at a red square and a black rectangle. Her companion, equally skinny but with titian hair, nods and comments, ‘A superb depiction, the very epitome of the lawfulness of dissolution
.’

  Actually, it’s still a red square and a black rectangle. I ponder their words, trying to make sense of them and then I decide I can’t; they don’t make sense. The words, like the pictures, mean nothing. The skeletal women may or may not know that their words mean nothing; they may or may not care that their words mean nothing. I suspect their real reason for being at the gallery today is to be seen, and if they can also manage to spout a bit of nonsense, which is mistaken for a profundity, all the better.

  I could talk to Patsy Kensit’s agent; he’s always good for a natter. I suppose I should congratulate the artist and tell Freya how beautiful her gallery is. I decide against this when Jessica announces Freya’s expecting her fourth child.

  ‘Really. Is she due much after me?’ I ask.

  ‘Six weeks before you,’ says Jessica, not even bothering to hide her flames of fury (ignited by her competitive streak, and well and truly fanned because it’s a competition she’s already lost). ‘You can’t tell, can you?’ she adds.

  I glance in Freya’s direction. No, you can’t tell. Her stomach is flatter than a two-day-old bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Why does my mother want to torture me in this manner? Why does she hate me? Why did she give birth to me? Why did Clarissa give birth to Freya? Why did Freya have to get pregnant at the same time as me? Why am I fat? Oh, back there again. I note that, as with Freya’s other three pregnancies, her skin is amazing and her hair is growing madly, I’ve never seen it so long. She looks terrific.

  ‘I chatted to her on the phone earlier today,’ comments Jessica. ‘She was so calm about this party and the exhibition. She’s definitely more serene than I have ever known her to be.’

  We can assume a comatose state, then, because Freya is normally so cool that she can chill a bottle of Chardonnay with a single glance. But why? Why isn’t she hostage to the roller-coaster ride that leaves me feeling delighted; bitter, blissed, blistering, all in as many minutes? I can’t resist twisting the knife. ‘Was she sick a lot in the first few months?’