Just My Luck

by Andrea Bramhall

  “Okay, sweetie, I’ll turn it on for you—”

  “I can do it. I’m not a baby, you know?”

  “Sorry, I forget how grown-up you are now. Do you want some juice?”

  “And a biscuit, please. Choco chips.”

  “Okay. Do you know where it is?”

  “The ’puter is in the front room. It’s an Apple ’puter and it’s got a picture of an apple with a bite out of it on the telly when it comes on.”

  “That’s right. And what do you do next?” I prompt her.

  “Now I gots to open up the twitterwebs. That’s the big letter ‘E’ just like the end of Rosie, with little Mickey Mouse. That doesn’t look like Mickey Mouse. There’s the twitterwebs.” She stares at the keys. “Mum, what letters do I need to press?”

  “Well, what do you want to spell?”

  “I need the right colour to say thank you.”

  “Okay, I’m not sure we can find that exactly, but how about what colours mean?”

  “Okay.”

  The hunt for the correct colour for gratitude is rather elusive. But I learn several other things instead. Did you know that blue is for trust and loyalty, pink is for good health and not just for girls, and that grey is for brainy people? I didn’t. I’m obviously not a grey person. But gratitude is not something for which there is a specific colour. Light blue means sincerity, which is about as good as we can get here, so Rosie decides on this as a good paper colour, and on purple crayons “Cos they’s respectful,” according to Rosie’s twitterwebs.

  Let the letter writing begin. I put a glass of juice and a plate with two biscuits on the table in easy reach for her and read over her shoulder.

  Deer Gena.

  I’m sending u a leta to say fank u for my nu skool. Mumy sed u av bean very portant in getings my place ther. Fank u 2 for my nu puta wiv the twitterwebs on it. It is clevererer than Mumy and is a big help with learning fings. I likes my nu skool a lot. I gots 3 teechers. Susi helps me wiv riting and ful stops and stuf. Manda helps wiv numbers and adds and stuf. And Mista Petes tells us everyfing els. He nose lots of stuf. Like rel re riligon and famus peoples and aminals and stuf. Very cleva mans. I made a nu frend 2. Sali. Shes 8 but she can’t rite her name yet. She poorliererer than me. She nis tho. We lafd at play time on the swing. I fink u wud lik her. Wen r u comin for t 2 c me? I mak Mumy mak somefink nis 4 us. Lik piza.

  Luv u lots n lots n lots n lots n lots

  Rosie

  “Mum, finished.”

  “Are you happy with it, sweetie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll get an envelope and we’ll send it to Genna. She’ll love this.”

  I write the envelope out quickly while Rosie’s still finishing her biscuit. It’s the only way to stop her from wanting to do it. And as skilled at code-breaking as the Royal Mail is known to be, I’m not sure they’re up to Rosie-isms. I let her lick the stamp and stick it in the corner, though. Is it a hanging offence to put the Queen’s head upside down on a letter? She thinks that’s how they do it in Australia. Someone told her it was the Land Down Under, so everything was upside down. It’s cute, I know, but it makes me worry. Like, how far do I let things go before they go beyond funny? Do you know what I mean? I mean her gran calls her Happy, and Rosie loves it. But it’s wrong, right? I mean, the old bitch is taking the piss, and Rosie doesn’t know it and has embraced it. Will there come a point when she does understand, and instead of laughing at it, she cries? I don’t know. No one does. But how do I protect her from that? There are some hurts in life you can’t protect your kids from, no matter what you do and no matter who they are. No matter what, how much you wish it were different.

  The post box is right outside the front door, so I watch from the doorway while she runs out and posts it. She likes the sense of freedom and responsibility that little things like that give her. She likes to feel grown-up. Since that’s not something she’ll ever really get to do, I like to give her the small things when I can. I wish it weren’t true. But unfortunately, it is. And that’s all my fault. Damn pangs again.

  “Come on, then, Rosie, it’s time for your tea.”

  “Coming.”

  CHAPTER 10

  GENNA

  Have you ever agreed to something that really made you question your own sanity? Yeah? Me too.

  After the whole debacle with Ruth and Granny Collins, Claire-my-ex-ex-best friend and my worm of a little brother put their heads together and came up with “The Plan.”

  “The Plan” is designed to get me away from the stresses and strife of daily life and all the things that are getting me down, winding me up, and generally making me crazy. So I let Claire talk me into a health retreat designed to “detoxify your body and mind.” They provide you with “nutritional and organic fine dining” and lead you on “daily walks with a tailored exercise regimen” that’s “just for you” to help shed “life’s unwanted baggage” and “unsightly extra pounds.”

  Yes. That’s right.

  Fat farm.

  She’s booked us both for a two-week stay at a fat farm.

  Now, I know I’ve gained a few pounds over the last couple of years, but seriously? A fat farm? Is that really necessary to lose five—okay, maybe ten—extra pounds? No, it’s not. For that, all I really need to do is go to the gym more than the once-a-year habit I have fallen into. Maybe cut back on the full roast dinners Mum’s been plying me with since I moved back in with her. That’s got to equate to a good portion of the ten—okay, maybe fifteen—extra pounds I’ve gained.

  Claire is supposed to be my best friend. I mean seriously? Fat farm?

  Don’t get me wrong. The place looks lovely. It’s a proper old-fashioned English country hotel with this huge open fire in the reception area, and a sofa and a love seat to sit on while you wait to check in or out. There are antlers on a plaque hanging high on the wall, creaky stairs, and a porter wearing a tweed jacket, flat cap, and wellies. I’m pretty sure I saw him smoking a pipe too, but I am very disappointed by one thing: he has no handlebar moustache. Sacrilege. He wrestles our bags up to our room and shuffles off after telling us we are meeting our program leader in the dog lounge at noon.

  Program leader?

  I know if I put my mind to it, I can lose the fifteen—okay, maybe twenty—extra pounds at home. I know I can. I’m sure of it. Fat farm? Bitch!

  “Come on, slow coach. I don’t want to be late. We’ll probably get press-ups or something.”

  “You said it was a health spa. ‘Relaxing retreat,’ you said. Where do push-ups factor into that? You’ve booked me into a bloody boot camp, haven’t you?” I’m tempted to launch my trainers out the window and claim I can’t participate due to technical failure.

  “It’s not a boot camp. Just a health and weight loss retreat.”

  Now, Claire, in all fairness to her, is a little rounder than I am, and somewhat shorter, in the leg…and the arm…and the body…department than most of the rest of the world. The cruel kids at school used to call her Weeble after the toys that were like balls weighted at the bottom so that when you pushed them, they all wobbled but they never fell down. She did slim down during the time we like to call “the forgotten years.” Apparently, someone told her that certain types of drugs were helpful for weight loss. So she tried many of them. In varying quantities. And now she has rather large sections of time that she can’t remember. Clean Claire is as weeble-ish as she ever was and in search of another method for weight control. So here we are with my less than enthusiastic attendance at a fat farm/bloody boot camp. I take a deep breath and steel myself for the inevitable, lace up my trainers, and follow Claire to the dog lounge, so named because the wallpaper is covered with pretty much every breed of dog I can think of.

  There are six other victims—sorry, participants—with us for the meeting. Just as we walk in, a seventh woman enters from another door. She has to be the program leader. There is just no other option, and I’m almost positive I’m drooling. She’s l
ike a blond Jillian Michaels off the Biggest Loser, and I’m totally looking around for Bob to come walking in next.

  “Hi, everyone. I’m Tory, and I’ll be your program leader for the next two weeks. What I think would be a good idea right now is if we all introduce ourselves and specify what our goals are and what we hope to achieve from the program. Let’s start with you.” She points to the woman to the far end from me, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  A tall brunette stands up. And I mean really tall. Maybe six foot two. “I’m Rachel. I’m here because I want to get in shape and lose a few pounds. I also thought this might be a good way to kick off training for a charity run I want to do.”

  “What a wonderful goal. What charity run is it you are hoping to do?”

  “It’s one of the Race for Life five-kilometre races.”

  “Excellent. Have you many sponsors so far?”

  “Yeah. Loads of people at work don’t think I can even walk the distance, and I really want to prove them wrong.”

  “That’s wonderful, Rachel. How about you?”

  The blond next in the queue takes her turn in the spotlight. “I think that’s a wonderful goal, Rachel. I want to take part in a ten-kilometre charity race in Manchester later in the summer. My friends and I are helping to raise money for the Alzheimer’s Trust. My grandfather had the disease, and it’s just terrible. So I guess I have the same goals, really, as you do. Oh, I’m Fiona, by the way.”

  I hear warning bells in the distant recesses of my brain. You see, I have this teeny-tiny, barely worth mentioning at all, really very small competitive streak. Not worth mentioning, really.

  “That’s wonderful,” Tory says.

  Next in line is a woman wearing a chocolate-brown velour tracksuit with Cherry embroidered on the back. “I’m Cherry.” She twists around to make sure we can all see her name written across her back. “And I’m here to lose weight and get healthy so I can be a live kidney donor.”

  Oh, great. Now if I stand up and say, “Hi, my name’s Genna, and I’m just here for moral support,” I am going to sound pathetic. Got to come up with an adequate cover story. Maybe I can run the London Marathon. Nah, I hate running.

  “Hi everyone. I’m Linda, and I’m here to learn more about fitness and nutrition. I foster kids from deprived backgrounds, and I thought this would be a good way for me to have a little break while still learning some important stuff to help the kids.”

  Maybe swimming. I like swimming. I could swim the Channel for charity.

  “Hi, I’m Pat. I’m here to get in shape to run the Great North Run for charity. I want to raise money to help fund a wheelchair basketball team that my son is on. They have some potential to compete nationally, and if that happens, maybe one or two of them could end up at the Paralympics. But their funding is in jeopardy because of cutbacks in the recession. So I want to do anything I can to help my son and his team.”

  Swim the Channel? Am I crazy? That’s twenty-six miles! I can’t swim a marathon.

  “My name’s Chloe. I work for the BBC as a camera operator. This summer I’m part of a team that will be filming celebrities hiking the Anapurna Pass in Nepal for Children in Need.”

  Think, brain! Come up with something!

  “I’m Claire, and I’m here to lose weight. It’s something I’ve struggled with my whole life. My mother was anorexic—”

  I’ve known Claire’s mum for twenty years, and she’s as much a weeble as Claire.

  “—and when I was a child, she would control everything I was allowed to eat. I started binge eating—”

  Her mother’s idea of controlling what Claire ate consisted of letting her pick which takeaway joint they ordered from.

  “—so when I finally moved out, I guess I bounced completely in the opposite direction and tried to take back control of my own eating habits. Something went too far, and I guess I need a little help getting back to a healthy weight.”

  Can you say “bullshit?”

  Claire is “big boned” because she hates to cook and lives on burgers, pizzas, kebabs, and curries, all washed down with beer, red wine, and high-sugar energy drinks. Add a healthy hatred for the gym, and you get my best friend, Claire. Bullshitter extraordinaire.

  Everyone’s looking at me now. Every one of them, with their benevolent intentions and their sad background stories—or fabricated stories in Claire’s case. All looking at me. Waiting for my reasons slash excuses for being here. For being at Fat Farm.

  So I start. “I’m G—Genna, and I’m h…here…”

  Running out of words!

  “…and I am pla…planning on a charity event too.”

  There that should do.

  “That’s wonderful, Genna. What are you planning to do?”

  Shit! I forgot that details are required.

  “I…I…”

  I can see Claire grinning out of the corner of my eye.

  “I’m…I’m…”

  I so want to kill her right now.

  “I’m planning to…to…”

  Have I developed a stutter in the last ten minutes?

  “I’m p…planning to swi…swim…”

  “She’s going to swim all the lakes in the Lake District.”

  What the fuck! Since when?

  “Right, Genna?”

  I’m nodding. I am. I can feel it. My head’s nodding up and down as Claire speaks words. Words that stitch me up like a fucking kipper.

  “For a charity that helps people with speech impairments.”

  Oh God! Kill me now! I’m going to have to pretend to stutter for a fortnight!

  “Isn’t that right, Genna?”

  I’ve become a nodding dog, agreeing to every lie that comes out of her mouth.

  “She wants to give back to the people who have helped her so much. Once she gets over her nervousness, she can speak much more clearly. It just takes her a little bit of time. Or she has to sing her words. That was one of the methods they taught her. To sing to help her get past the stuttering. Didn’t they, Genna?”

  Sing! Sing! You’ve got to be kidding me. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Just tell the truth. Well, here are my thoughts on that scenario. I have two options. One, I tell the truth here and make Claire look like an idiot and I feel like a loser for not having a better reason to be here than “I’m a fatty, and I want to lose weight so people will find me attractive ’cos my bitch of an ex was screwing someone else in my bed” or “I’m supporting my bitch of a best friend here.” Not a great outcome. Option two has me going along with swimming all the lakes in the Lake District, pretending I have a stutter, and singing, with my completely tone-deaf voice, in front of strangers.

  There is only one choice.

  Claire needs to die.

  “Yes, they did, my dear.” Sung to the rhythm of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” Through very gritted teeth.

  “Well, that’s wonderful.” Tory smiles at everyone. “It certainly gives me a fantastic place to start with programs for you all to help you towards your goals. Next, we are all going to head over to the gym and get started over there.”

  We all follow Tory like she’s the Pied Piper. We follow her out of the dog lounge. We follow her out into the freezing cold rain. We follow her across the car park and into what looks like a huge barn. Granite stone walls and oak timber beams with a sunken pool and Jacuzzi. A mezzanine floor over the pool houses a multitude of sports equipment and a medieval torture device.

  The scale.

  “First of all, I think we should all know our starting points so we can easily monitor and measure our progress. So we are going to weigh in and go through some basic fitness tests to see where we’re all at.”

  We follow her up the stairs and into the gym. There is a whiteboard there on display. All our names are written down the side. At the top are words like Goal Weight. Actual Weight. Bust. Waist. Hips. Thigh. Arm. And a tape measure, a long one, hangs over the corner of said display.

  Claire definitely needs
to die.

  Painfully.

  Each woman is weighed. Measured and forced to share this humiliation with everyone in the room. Not like at Weight Watchers, where there’s only you and the woman who weighs you who knows if you’ve had a bad week. You know, broke a nail, went to KFC and put on half a stone. No, here everyone can see it in black and white. No self-denial that it’s only five, maybe ten pounds that you need to lose. Nope, it’s up on the whiteboard that you need to lose ten, maybe fifteen, pounds. Everyone can see that I need to lose fifteen, possibly twenty, pounds.

  Did I mention that everyone can see this?

  “Genna?”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s your turn. Just come on up here, and we’ll get your measures up on the board.”

  If I run, do you think they will hunt me down? A vision of me running through the countryside being chased by hunting dogs and horses pops into my head. The really disturbing part is that I’m wearing a fox fancy dress costume with face paint whiskers. Twenty horses and riders crashing through the countryside in red and black jackets, chasing little old foxy me!

  Claire pushes me forward and out of my daydream towards my nightmare instead. Now, it may seem as if I’m overreacting a bit about this weighing-in thing. But seriously, I don’t have a lot of confidence in my appearance. I mean, I’m ginger, and I have been teased mercilessly about this all my life. I have so many freckles they go all down my chest and look like extra nipples. Slight exaggeration? Maybe. It depends on the lighting. I have hips and an arse; I have cellulite on my thighs, and my tummy wobbles when I run for the bus, never mind the way my boobs try to meet my chin at those moments. Oh, and did I mention that I have bingo wings? You know, saggy arms like old ladies have that go flapping when the ladies wave their winning bingo cards in the air for the usher to come and check. Bingo wings at twenty-four! So the thought of being under the scrutiny of all these women with my bingo wings on show is not appealing.

  Have I mentioned that Claire needs to die?

  I kick off my trainers and wish I’d had time to go for a wee before this shit started. No such luck. I take a deep breath and step…