by Fiona Gibson
‘What kind of face system?’ Pauline wants to know.
‘It’s a way of classifying food to work out if you’re supposed to have it or not.’ I pause, flicking my gaze around the table. Some birthday this is.
‘And how do the faces work?’ Pauline enquires.
I glance at Jed and he pulls a wry smile. Just humour her, his look seems to say. Play along. ‘Well,’ I explain, ‘every food has a face rating, like this . . . or this, or . . .’ I find myself pulling the actual faces. Mum off the leash for the night, who no longer knows how to conduct herself in a restaurant. I picture Danny in St Mary’s Hall, listening to a lecture about the fat content of cheese, and almost wish I was there with him.
‘Gosh,’ exclaims Pauline. ‘Rather you than me. All those rules! I can eat anything I want, can’t I, Brian?’ He nods obediently. ‘Never gained an ounce, apart from when I was expecting of course . . .’ She throws Jed a fond look. ‘And even then, it all fell away in a matter of weeks.’
‘That’s what happened to my sister,’ I say. ‘In fact you’d hardly have known she was pregnant. I don’t share the same trait, unfortunately.’ I laugh self-deprecatingly, and Pauline makes a small grunting noise, probably in agreement. I turn my attention back to the menu, aware of a sense of disappointment creeping up from my toes and settling somewhere around the stomach region. I’d imagined that Rawlton House would serve light, modern food which tastes so amazingly zingy that you don’t need a whole pile of it to feel satisfied, and which might possibly be awarded a smiley face. But no. Everything appears to come slathered in creamy sauces, as if we’ve been catapulted back to the seventies. I spot the waitress transporting a vast rack of lamb to another table.
‘Waitress!’ Brian calls, waving a hand as if hailing a cab. An olive-skinned beauty strides towards us.
‘Yes?’ she asks pleasantly.
‘Which is the biggest?’ Although he’s prodding the menu’s steak section, he is staring pointedly at the girl’s breasts.
‘That one,’ she says, jabbing the menu. ‘The sixteen-ounce T-bone.’
‘What, like this big?’ He holds flattened hands apart, indicating something roughly the size of a disposable nappy.
‘Yes, something like that. It’s pretty thick.’ Like you, she adds silently. Brian nods, as if reassured, and the girl takes our orders. I catch him appraising her curvaceous rear as she heads for the kitchen.
‘Oh, I must give you your present,’ Pauline announces, snatching her bag from the floor and clicking open its outlandish gold clasp. This looks promising. It fits into her bag, so we’re not talking a non-stick frying pan, like last year, or the pedal bin which they bought me the year before that, which I facetiously labelled, ‘LAURA’S BIN’ as soon as they’d left. And it looks like the bread maker’s been forgotten.
‘Thank you,’ I say as she hands me a thin, squishy, pink tissue-wrapped parcel. I squeeze it tentatively.
‘Open it then,’ Pauline commands, dark eyes glittering. I peel off the tissue paper and place my gift on the table. We all stare at the oven glove, as if expecting it to perform a somersault. It’s printed all over with a wheatsheaf design. ‘Well, that’s handy,’ Jed blurts out.
‘It really is,’ I agree. ‘You know, I’m always burning myself in the kitchen. I’m getting so clumsy in my old age . . .’ I laugh through my nose.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Pauline enthuses. ‘I know you’re not much of a cook, Laura, but we thought you probably needed one.’
‘Yes, I did.’ I blink at it, at a loss as to what to do next and feel surprisingly, desperately sad. There it is, lying before me, surrounded by gleaming silver cutlery: the one item my parents-in-law thought would make my life complete. I wonder what to do with it now. Stuffing it straight into my bag would seem rude, and I’m determined to be gracious and not allow my in-laws, Vitesse or a sodding oven glove to spoil my special night out. Yet I can’t leave the thing sitting here like a bizarre table decoration. All I can think of is to pull it on and rest my gloved hand on the table.
‘You don’t have to wear it right now,’ Jed hisses.
‘It’s okay,’ I whisper back. ‘It’s very comfortable.’
‘Laura, please,’ he starts, trailing off as our waitress arrives.
‘Be careful, your plates are very hot,’ she warns us.
‘No worries,’ I say, waggling my glove. ‘I’ve got this.’
She chuckles, but there’s an undertone of horror as she surveys my gloved hand and the scraps of tissue paper on the table. My God, she’s thinking. This is what happens on birthdays when you’re old. Smiling brightly at Pauline, I remove the glove, tuck it into my bag and try to relish my steak in its oily sauce. But I can’t. All I can see are Tub Club faces, glowering at me.
My mobile bleeps extra-loudly in the hushed room. ‘Better check it’s not our babysitter,’ I say, unearthing it from beneath the oven glove. Text from Danny. Conscious of Pauline swivelling her eyes towards it, I ram it back into my bag.
‘Everything okay?’ Jed asks.
‘Yes, fine,’ I say lightly. ‘Just someone from Tub Club.’
Brian eyes me levelly and I notice a small fleck of some kind of vegetation nestling in his neatly-trimmed moustache. His fleshy face is pink and shiny, and his stiff checked shirt collar is tight at the neck. ‘Do they let you have that, love?’ He jabs a porky finger in the direction of my steak.
‘Well, yes,’ I say, ‘as long as I don’t eat anything tomorrow, or for the rest my life actually . . .’ I laugh feebly.
‘Maybe you should skip pudding,’ Pauline observes. ‘Or at least just have the forest fruits sorbet. That’s just ice, really, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ I glance at Jed, mentally signalling that we should hurry things along – that Joelle always has stacks of college work to do, and our children are probably sobbing for us at home (they won’t be, as they’d far rather hang around with an easy-going teenager who brings them comics than their craggy, ill-tempered mother – but still). I study the dessert menu as our plates are cleared away. ‘Baked lemon cheesecake sounds good,’ Jed enthuses.
‘And they’ve got chocolate pudding,’ Brian adds.
‘I might have the profiteroles,’ muses Pauline. ‘I love that chocolate sauce they pour over . . .’ I can’t stand this. It’s some kind of sick joke. Swooping up from the table, I grab my bag, make my excuses and scurry towards the loo. ‘What are you having, Laura?’ Pauline calls out after me.
‘I’ll be back in a minute. I’ll decide then, if you’ll wait for me.’
‘Laura!’ Jed hisses after me.
‘What?’
‘Your sucker-inner pants,’ he mouths. ‘You can see them.’
Oh lord. Stranded in the middle of the restaurant, I glance down at my legs. My new dress, which is meant to be knee-length, has ridden up and is clinging defiantly to my thighs. I try to pull it down, but some mysterious force – static electricity perhaps – makes it ride up again. Beneath it, clearly visible, are the legs of my Reducer. Brian snorts. Pauline looks away pointedly, as if trying to offer me a shred of dignity. I lurch for the ladies’, glimpsing Vitesse through the window, parked by the lake. May the ducks savage its tyres with their beaks.
The loos are so palatial, it’s almost a pity I don’t need to use them, especially as I’ve been looking forward to trying out my double gusset. Steadying my breath, I perch on an ornate gilt chair and survey my reflection in the huge, artfully tarnished mirror. If the leg area wasn’t humiliating enough, the top of the Reducer has now bunched up even more and is causing an unsightly bulge around my stomach. I don’t have it in me to undress in a cubicle and readjust it.
Instead I just sit on the gilt chair, revelling in the stillness of the ladies’ loos, wondering how long I can feasibly stay in here without Jed dispatching a search party. Will I go for the choc pudding or the cheesecake? I can try a bit of Jed’s cheesecake, so maybe . . . hang on, wasn’t there a rasp
berry tart as well? And crème brûlée? My mouth waters, causing my irritation over the oven glove to melt away. Awash with warm, dessert-induced feelings, I retrieve my phone and re-read Danny’s text.
MISSED U TONIGHT, it reads, & U MISSED EXCITING STIR FRY TALK. JEALOUS? CALL ME, DX. With a smile, I call sender. Perhaps the night is looking up after all.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘So,’ Danny says, ‘you missed a great talk tonight. Mushrooms and bean sprouts discussed at great length, and six different stir fries to look at. Did you decide you couldn’t stand the excitement?’
I laugh. ‘Wish I’d been there actually, but I’m out for dinner with Jed and his parents. Sorry, I should have let you know.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re having a far better time than I had tonight. So, is it fun?’
‘Um, I wouldn’t say that exactly. Actually, it’s a bit of a disaster.’
‘Really? Why’s that?’
‘Well, for a start,’ I snigger, ‘his parents have just given me an oven glove . . .’
‘Oh yes – it’s your birthday, isn’t it?’
‘How did you know?’ I ask, amazed.
‘I’m sorry, it sounds really nosey, but I noticed your date of birth on your membership card . . .’ There’s a pause, and I’m overwhelmed by an urge to see him – just to be with someone who accepts me the way I am, and is interested enough to notice my date of birth and commit it to memory. ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he adds.
‘No, of course I don’t! I’m just amazed you remembered. So, what else did I miss at the meeting tonight?’
‘Oh, thrilling stuff. Twenty-five ways with beetroot, including making a jelly – a sweet one, I mean . . .’
‘Oh, here you are!’ Pauline exclaims, marching into the ladies’ and straight to the mirror where she tweaks her unyielding hair.
‘Better go,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ll call you and we’ll fix up a run, would you be up for that?’
‘Look forward to it,’ Danny says.
‘Everything all right, Laura?’ Pauline takes a pot and a brush from her make-up bag and dusts on more shimmery powder.
‘I’m fine,’ I enthuse.
She glances at my waistline which looks far from svelte in the soft, drapey fabric. ‘So, how long have you been going to that slimming place?’
‘Oh, I’ve only just started. Just been to one meeting.’
She nods, extracting a peach frosted lipstick and slicking on a thick coat. ‘Went to one myself once. Not that I really needed to. Friend asked me to go with her and I wanted to show some moral support . . .’
I nod, picturing Danny at home in his tumble-down farm, wondering how he’s spending the rest of the evening.
‘. . . It was all women of course,’ Pauline continues, ‘apart from one man, and we knew what he was there for.’ She cackles loudly.
I look at her. ‘What was he there for?’
‘Oh, Laura, you are naïve . . .’ She’s still chuckling away whilst prodding at her hair as if testing to see if it’s properly baked. ‘He was there to pick up women, of course. Why else would a man go to a slimming club?’
‘Really? You mean, he went to all the trouble of joining and paying and queuing up to be weighed . . .’
‘Yes, can you imagine? Mind you, the odds were pretty high. About fifty women to one man . . .’ As she pops into a cubicle, I wonder if this was Danny’s motive too. No, surely not. It would seem so . . . premeditated. Pauline emerges from the cubicle and washes her hands. ‘Come on, let’s get back,’ she says brusquely. ‘Dessert should be here. I ordered you the forest fruit sorbet if that’s okay.’
I follow her, wanting to say, ‘No, it’s not okay’, but am stunned into silence. My cheeks must be burning with irritation, because Brian looks up and frowns at me from the table. ‘You’re all flushed, love,’ he informs me as Pauline and I take our seats.
‘I’m just hot,’ I murmur, avoiding his beady gaze. ‘It’s awfully stuffy in here.’
‘Yes, I got that too,’ Pauline chips in.
‘Got what?’ I ask, frowning.
‘Those awful hot flushes when I was going through the change, especially if I’d been drinking . . .’
I blink at her. First she’s implying that I should have a gastric band fitted and now, on my thirty-ninth birthday, I’m menopausal. Our desserts arrive, and I glower down at my frankly insultingly tiny dish of purple ice. With an undisguised smirk, Pauline forks an entire profiterole into her mouth. ‘This is amazing,’ Jed enthuses, savouring his cheesecake. ‘Er, want to try a bit, Laura?’ He offers me a fragment on his fork.
‘Better not,’ I say tersely, jabbing my spoon into my dish. Everyone else’s desserts ooze cream, sugar and naughtiness. I push the dish aside and take a huge gulp of wine.
‘Don’t you like it, Laura?’ Pauline enquires.
‘It’s lovely,’ I say, ‘but honestly, I’m so full from my steak, I couldn’t eat another mouthful.’ I smile brightly and drain my glass.
By the time we leave I’m quite tiddly. ‘You know your dad and I would be happy in the caravan, love,’ Pauline reminds Jed as we drive home. ‘We don’t want to put you and Laura to any trouble.’
‘Don’t be silly, Mum,’ he says. ‘You’re having our room – Laura’s got it all ready for you. We’ll be fine on the sofa bed in the living room.’
‘Well, if you’re sure, love,’ Pauline wheedles as we pull up at our house, and I rake through my purse to find money for Joelle. As I pay her, I catch her glancing down at my legs; my dress has ridden up again, exposing my bizarre under-garment. Past caring, I hand her three tenners. It’s only when she’s gone, and Pauline and Brian have headed upstairs, that I remember that the Reducer instructions are lying on our bed. Oh well. It’ll confirm Pauline’s suspicion that Tub Club really isn’t working for me.
Jed pulls out the sofa bed and retrieves bedding from the linen cupboard under the stairs. ‘Well, thanks a lot,’ he mutters, shaking out the sheet.
‘Thanks for what?’ I peel off my dress slightly squiffily, hoping to give him a laugh with my support garment.
‘For drinking so much. For being so grumpy and refusing to eat that sorbet, just to make some kind of point . . .’
‘But she ordered my dessert for me!’ I protest. ‘It’s so rude, Jed. What made her think she could do that?’
He exhales fiercely. ‘Look, I know Mum can be difficult, but it was hardly the time, in the middle of a restaurant—’
‘I am capable of choosing my own food, Jed. How would your mother have felt if I’d ordered hers?’
‘She probably just thought you’d like . . .’
‘That’s what I’m sick of,’ I snap back. ‘I’m fed up with everyone thinking they know what I want, when I did not want a bloody dish of ice!’
Jed opens his mouth and glances fretfully towards the ceiling. I glare at him, no longer caring that I’m standing here in nothing but a girdle, and that his parents might have heard our tense exchange. He’s repulsed by me anyway. It’s obvious. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he thunders, throwing the sheet haphazardly over the mattress and flinging the duvet over it.
‘Nothing’s wrong with me! I’m perfectly fine.’
‘Well, you’re drunk for a start.’
‘No I’m not! I only had . . .’
‘I know how much you had. You were knocking it back as if you were terrified it might run out . . .’
‘So what?’ I cry. ‘It’s my birthday, isn’t it? For God’s sake, Jed – I had about three glasses.’
‘And the rest . . .’
‘Were you counting or something? And weren’t you pissed out of your head at Celeste’s party?’
He freezes, still gripping a corner of the duvet. From upstairs come his father’s low snores. ‘What the hell does Celeste have to do with this?’ he demands.
‘Nothing,’ I growl. ‘Nothing at all.’
Dropping the duvet, he stomps towards the front door. ‘I’ve
had enough,’ he mutters. ‘Can’t take any more of you being so damn ridiculous . . .’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going out.’
‘Out where?’ I cry. Oh God. He’s leaving me. I’m going to be a single mother of three, and all because I wasn’t delighted with my oven glove or the forest fruits sorbet. He’s right: I’ve drunk too much wine. It would have been fine if I’d been allowed a nice stodgy dessert to soak up the alcohol, but I wasn’t and now my head’s swimming, and I’ve lost any sense of who’s right and wrong and it’s all such a horrible, tangled mess . . . ‘Jed!’ I yell after him.
‘I’m sleeping in the caravan.’ He whirls round angrily.
‘But you can’t. It stinks of chemical toilet. Please stay here. Let’s talk about it . . .’
‘Why should I?’ he shoots back.
‘Because it’ll freak out the kids if they come down in the morning and you’re not here, and we’ll have to explain to your parents . . .’ I tail off, not wanting to admit the truth: that I want him here, with me. I want, more than anything, to fall asleep all wrapped up together, like we used to, before his crush on Celeste when we were happy and in love and I never suspected him of doing anything wrong. ‘Please, Jed,’ I add, my eyes filling with tears, ‘at least sit down and talk to me.’
‘What about?’ he snaps.
‘Uh . . .’ I pause a beat too long. He snatches his mother’s quilted handbag from the coffee table, pulls out a keyring with jingling charms attached to it and storms outside, banging the front door behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I wait for him to come back in and say he didn’t really mean it. But he doesn’t. The house is horribly still and quiet. A pale yellow glow spills into our living room as he turns on the caravan’s light.
I grab the duvet from the sofa bed and shroud myself in it. It smells stuffy – of sleepovers and illicit midnight feasts. A few crisp crumbs are stuck to it. Shuffling to the window, I peer out at Vitesse. In our early days, Jed would amuse me with stories of bleak caravan holidays with his parents in Southend and Bournemouth. ‘You were lucky, having Kate to hang out with,’ he said, and I realised I was, despite our eight-year age gap. It couldn’t have been much fun being an only child, trapped in Vitesse with his mum and dad.
