by Sophie Hart
Whilst all her friends looked great in strappy little tops and skinny jeans, Debbie covered up in baggy trousers and shapeless jumpers. Fluctuating between a size eighteen and twenty, depending on where she shopped, Debbie was hardly the biggest woman on the planet, but there were days when she felt like an elephant amongst her slim, toned friends, with their neat little bosoms and impossible-to-achieve thigh-gaps.
The front door banged and Debbie jumped, realising Stevie was home from work. Panic-stricken, she lunged for her jogging bottoms and frantically pulled them on, as Scamp leapt off the bed and bolted downstairs, barking in welcome.
‘Hello, Scamp. Hello, boy! Debs, you around?’
‘Upstairs,’ she called back, trying to keep the panic out of her voice, as she yanked open the chest of drawers and grabbed a clean sweater. She knew it was ridiculous, but she suddenly hated the thought of Stevie looking at her body, despite the fact he’d seen it hundreds of times before.
Wrestling frantically with the jumper, she heard Stevie bound up the stairs, and seconds later he was pushing open the bedroom door, the dog following at his heels.
‘Aha, what do we have here?’ he grinned, his eyes lighting up as he took in the sight of his semi-naked fiancée. Stevie was twenty-seven, the same age as Debbie, and worked as a trainee surveyor. He had a shock of red hair that had made him the target of endless teasing in his school days, but which he now embraced, and he was far from skinny himself, with a cute little paunch that Debbie loved to squeeze.
Right now, Debbie looked horrified, her face flaming as she tried to cover herself with the jumper she hadn’t had time to put on. Even though she was exactly the same size as she had been when Stevie left for work that morning, she suddenly felt hugely self-conscious, all too aware of every lump and bump.
‘That’s exactly the sight I want to see when I get home from a long, hard day,’ Stevie continued, reaching out for her.
Debbie flinched and backed away, almost tripping over the corner of the bed in her haste to get away from him.
Stevie frowned. ‘What’s the matter? Where’s my welcome kiss?’
Debbie looked back at him, her dark eyes anxious. Reluctantly, she stepped towards him, holding the jumper tightly against her as she stretched up to peck him on the lips.
‘That’s better.’ Stevie wrapped his arms around her, but as Debbie felt his hands settle on the hated back fat pushing out from underneath her bra, she squirmed away uncomfortably.
‘What?’ Stevie demanded. ‘What’s the matter?’ He looked hurt, and Debbie winced guiltily.
‘It’s nothing.’
‘It must be something! Have I done something wrong?’
‘No, of course not.’
How could Debbie explain what the problem really was? She didn’t want Stevie thinking it was his fault but, equally, she really didn’t want a conversation about how much she loathed her body shape right now. ‘It’s… Oh, it doesn’t matter. It’s fine.’
‘Really?’ Stevie looked doubtful, but Debbie nodded insistently. ‘Good. Come here then.’ He opened up his arms, and Debbie looked at them uncertainly.
‘I’ll just put this on,’ she stalled, holding up the jumper.
‘No, don’t do that,’ Stevie protested. ‘I like you all naked.’
‘Well I don’t.’ The words slipped out before Debbie had a chance to censor them.
Stevie sighed, suddenly understanding why she was being so cold towards him. ‘Is that what this is about, Debs? You know that doesn’t matter to me. I love you, no matter what you look li-… no matter what,’ he finished awkwardly.
Debbie didn’t reply. The two of them stood in silence, the jumper still held protectively over her chest, like a defensive shield.
‘Debs, you know I think you’re gorgeous,’ Stevie tried again, his voice soft. ‘Always have, always will. I just wish you could see that.’ Gently, he took hold of her hands, attempting to prise the sweater from her, but Debbie clung on determinedly.
‘Do you know what I’d really like?’ Stevie murmured, changing tack. Debbie looked back at him questioningly, as he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his phone. ‘I’d love to take a photo of you, just like you are now. All sexy in your bra, with your hair curling around your face, and that amazing cleavage…’
Debbie recoiled in shock. ‘Is that a joke?’
‘No! Why wouldn’t I want a photo of my gorgeous fiancée?’ Stevie said honestly, unable to understand Debbie’s outrage. ‘It’d stay private obviously – just for you and me. Something for me to look at when I’m at work, to cheer me up when I think about the wonderful woman who’s waiting at home for me. Who’s going to be my wife next year.’
‘No way. Absolutely no way.’ Debbie was appalled at the suggestion. ‘What if one of your mates saw it? I’d never hear the end of it. Besides, they’d probably wonder why you had a picture of a beached whale on your phone…’
She choked back a sob as she fled from the room. Stevie tried to stop her as she ran past, but she pushed him off.
‘Leave me alone!’
Debbie raced down the stairs and into the living room, finally able to pull on the oversized black sweater she’d been clutching all this time. It felt warm and soft, cosy like a blanket, and she was instantly more relaxed. Throwing herself down on the L-shaped sofa, Debbie listened for a moment, her heart beating fast as she wondered whether Stevie would follow her. She heard the creak of the floorboards as he moved around the bedroom then crossed the landing to the bathroom, and Debbie realised he’d decided not to come after her. She could hardly blame him, she thought, furious at herself. She’d been feeling insecure and taken her mood out on him when it really wasn’t his fault. Even Scamp had stayed upstairs, clearly taking Stevie’s side in the argument.
Almost without thinking, Debbie got up off the sofa and drifted through to the kitchen, automatically opening the cupboard and reaching for the biscuit tin. Suddenly she realised what she was doing and stopped short, dropping the custard cream she’d picked out and slamming the lid back on with a satisfying crash.
For a moment she simply stood there, her breath coming fast, her eyes glazed, as she hung onto the tin like a drowning man to a life raft.
‘You okay, Debs?’
She hadn’t heard Stevie come into the room and she jumped as he spoke, whirling round to face him. Taking in the worried look on his face, she forced a smile then put the biscuit tin back in the cupboard.
‘Fine,’ she assured him, busying herself with taking ingredients out of the fridge for the lasagne she planned to cook tonight. ‘Totally fine. Look, I’m really sorry about earlier. I don’t know what came over me.’
‘Come here, silly,’ Stevie sighed, as Debbie put down a family-sized block of cheese and crossed the kitchen, falling into his arms without hesitation. Stevie stroked the top of her head, smoothing down the silky hair that smelt of fruity conditioner, before planting a kiss on her forehead.
‘I love you, Debbie. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ she nodded, as she nestled against his chest, the size and smell of him reassuringly familiar. At five feet eleven, he was a few inches taller than she was, and his body felt solid and protective. ‘I love you too. Sorry for being a numpty – I was just having a moment.’
Stevie’s chest vibrated as he laughed, her head bouncing against the soft cotton of his T-shirt. ‘Listen, I’ve got an idea.’
‘Oh no, not another one,’ Debbie groaned. ‘Does it involve a camera-phone and me taking my clothes off?’
Stevie chuckled. ‘Not this time. Although I’m still up for it if you are?’
Debbie glared at him, narrowing her eyes.
‘That’ll be a no, then. Seriously though, I was thinking, why don’t we grab a takeaway tonight, save you cooking? My shout. Indian, maybe? I’ve been craving tandoori chicken all afternoon, with a peshwari naan and some onion bhajis. Mmmm,’ Stevie was practically dribbling. Even Scamp was licking his ch
ops, as he stared up at the two of them, a low whine escaping from him. ‘What do you reckon?’
Debbie hesitated. Her mouth was watering at the thought of a creamy korma, accompanied by poppadoms dipped liberally in sweet mango chutney.
‘Yeah, go on th—’ she began, but something stopped her. Suddenly the vision of a takeaway feast was replaced with the daydream she’d had earlier; the perfect size ten wedding dress, and how incredible she’d looked in it.
She wanted it to be more than just a daydream.
She wanted it to be reality.
‘You know what?’ Debbie began slowly. ‘I don’t know if I do feel like ordering out. How about I whip us up a stir-fry instead? I’ve got everything I need in the fridge, and it won’t take long.’
‘Sure,’ Stevie shrugged, a little gutted to be giving up his Indian, but ready to agree to anything if it got his fiancée back in a good mood. ‘Do you need a hand with anything?’
‘No, it’s fine. You go put your feet up,’ Debbie insisted, putting the cheddar and beef back in the fridge and bringing out carrots, peppers, onions and courgettes.
‘If you say so,’ Stevie grinned, stealing another kiss before heading through to the living room and turning on the TV.
Debbie quickly got to work, a growing pile of colourful veggies soon appearing on the chopping board in front of her. As she sliced and diced, she felt a growing sense of excitement, a certainty that she’d never experienced before. She could do this! She could lose weight! Other people did it all the time, so why shouldn't she?
Oh, she’d tried to diet in the past, but never got very far. Debbie’s regimes usually consisted of living on soups and juices for a day or two, becoming increasingly hungry and bad-tempered, before finally cracking in dramatic style. Craving fat and carbs, she would binge on macaroni cheese and chips, litres of fizzy drink and whole tubs of ice cream with chocolate sauce.
Food was used as a reward when she’d done something good; as a treat when she was miserable; as a pick-me-up when she was tired. But now it was time for her to take control, Debbie vowed, thinking once again of her ideal wedding dress. All she needed was a little motivation and a lot of willpower.
Debbie drizzled a miniscule amount of oil into a wok, throwing in two sliced chicken breasts, then adding garlic, chilli and ginger.
‘Smells delicious,’ Stevie called through appreciatively.
Debbie smiled to herself, thinking of his reaction when he saw his new, slimline fiancée in just a few months’ time. She would definitely buy herself some sexy underwear to show off her hot body; maybe she’d even let Stevie take that picture he’d been asking for!
Yeah, thought Debbie, feeling another surge of excitement. This time she was going to do it. She was going to lose weight, shape up, and nothing – not even red velvet cupcakes or deep-pan four-cheese pizza – was going to stand in her way.
3
‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of good fortune, must be in want of a wife’ – Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
‘Wow,’ Julia murmured under her breath, as the iron gates in front of her slowly swung open. She drove through them onto the sweeping gravel driveway, feeling a little self-conscious in her ageing Renault Clio as she pulled up beside a veritable fleet of enormous 4x4s and sleek Jaguars, the massive vehicles dwarfing her own tiny one.
The house itself was just as impressive. The address on Eaton Road was one of the most prestigious in Norwich, and Julia had been prepared for something big, but this was practically a mansion. An Arts and Crafts-style house, built in faded red-brick with mullioned windows, it boasted lush green lawns and even a small, stone water fountain, bubbling away.
Julia stepped out of the car, breathing deeply and telling herself that she’d be fine. This was her first potential job since having a baby, and to say she wasn’t feeling on top of her game right now would be an understatement. Her emotions were all over the place, on account of having to leave Jack for a couple of hours, and she couldn’t help but remember the uncertain look on Nick’s face as he’d waved her off. Jack had been wriggling and fidgeting in Nick’s arms, his face reddening and on the verge of a tantrum.
‘Maybe I should reschedule?’ Julia had wondered unhappily.
‘We’ll be fine,’ Nick had told her, sounding less than convinced. ‘Good luck!’
‘You too,’ Julia had replied, her stomach churning uncomfortably.
Right now, standing outside the huge house with its imposing facade, Julia felt a million miles away from the calm, competent professional she was hoping to portray.
She quickly glanced down at her sensible black trousers and navy-blue blouse, checking that they weren’t covered in apple puree or porridge or… something worse. She was convinced that the outfit was frumpy and unflattering. It didn’t help that her boobs were straining against the buttons of the blouse, occasionally offering a peek at the sturdy white nursing bra below; she was still breastfeeding, and hadn’t yet gone back down to her pre-pregnancy cup size.
‘Ah, you must be Julia. I’m Valerie. Do come in.’
The front door had opened to reveal a woman who was even more intimidating than the house she lived in. She appeared to be in her late fifties, and was immaculately groomed, with her light grey hair swept back in an elegant chignon. Her make-up was neat yet subtle, and she wore a cream pussy-bow blouse with a tweed pencil skirt and low-heeled brown court shoes.
As someone who’d spent the last six months in flannelette pyjamas and fluffy slippers, Julia could only admire her dedication to looking good.
‘Yes, I’m Julia Crawford,’ she smiled, recovering herself as she extended a hand. ‘It’s very nice to meet you.’
But Valerie was already marching off down the corridor, and Julia hurried to keep up with her, her eyes darting round at the beautiful wooden staircase and the oil paintings on the walls. Her feet sank into the pristine cream carpet as they walked, and they passed endless corridors leading off to who-knew-where in this enormous house.
‘You have a beautiful home,’ Julia said, as she finally caught up.
‘Thank you,’ Valerie replied graciously, turning left into what Julia assumed must be the sitting room. It looked like a reception room at Buckingham Palace, with its elegant furniture and antique grandfather clock. There were heavy draped curtains hung at the long windows, and as Julia glanced outside she could see through to the large back garden, with its well-maintained flower beds and leafy shrubs. Even the trees hadn’t dared to spoil the perfection of the scene by dropping their leaves. Valerie probably had a gardener who rushed out to pick them up as soon as they fell, thought Julia, stifling a mildly hysterical giggle.
‘Aimee, don’t just stand there like a spare part, go and get us all some tea,’ Valerie snapped at a young woman Julia hadn’t noticed. She was in her early twenties, with dark blonde hair cut in a flattering bob, and she flashed a brief, nervous smile at Julia before hurrying out of the room.
‘Now,’ Valerie turned to Julia with a flourish. ‘This is my son, Jonathan. Isn’t he handsome?’ she purred, beaming at him.
Jonathan rolled his eyes indulgently, but seemed to revel in his mother’s attention.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, standing up from the damask couch to shake Julia’s hand. He was very good looking, Julia noted; tall, with dark hair, bright blue eyes, and flashing white teeth. There was an air of confidence about him too, as though he was used to getting his own way.
‘So you’re the groom-to-be,’ Julia grinned. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you. I’m a very lucky man.’
‘And will your fiancée be joining us?’
‘Yes, she’ll be along shortly,’ Valerie cut in, taking a seat on the sofa beside her son, and indicating that Julia should take one of the armchairs alongside. ‘Now, I’ve already impressed upon you – I hope – the importance of this wedding,’ Valerie began seriously, as Julia nodded. ‘Jonathan is my only so
n – my only child, in fact – and he’s incredibly special to me, so this has to be a memorable and, indeed, magnificent occasion. Nothing vulgar, of course.’
‘No, of course not,’ Julia agreed, as she opened her pad and began to make notes. She wrote the words ‘ONLY SON’ in capitals, then added ‘NOT VULGAR’ and underlined it.
‘This wedding is going to be the highlight of the summer social calendar, and I need to ensure that everything goes without a hitch. I’ve heard very good things from Mary Moorhouse about the work you did for the Chamber of Commerce gala, and I hope you live up to your reputation.’
‘Thank you, I’m flattered,’ Julia replied, unsure how to take Valerie’s comments and deciding to give her the benefit of the doubt. ‘Do you have any dates in mind?’
‘We’re looking at the first Saturday in July.’
‘And have you approached any venues? I should warn you that places can get booked up years in advance, and ten months is an extremely tight timeframe for an event on this scale.’
‘I have a few possibilities in mind,’ Valerie explained, and Julia noticed how neatly she was sitting, with her knees and ankles together, her posture rigidly upright. ‘I’m sure that with the right incentive, we’ll be able to have the venue – and indeed caterers, orchestra, florist, and anything else this wedding might require – of our choice. Money is not an object,’ she finished, with a slight hint of a smile.
Julia was about to reply when Aimee came back into the room. She was carrying a tray on which she’d balanced a teapot, teacups and saucers, a milk jug and a sugar bowl, all in the same floral-patterned china. She set it down nervously in the centre of the Louis IV-style coffee table, and began pouring out the tea.
‘Would you like milk and sugar?’ she asked Julia, in a soft voice.
