STOCKINGS AND CELLULITE

by Debbie Viggiano

  ‘What stopped you?’ Julia asked.

  ‘Because when I flicked through the pages the message was simply think yourself smaller. Well I don’t need to buy a book to tell myself that!’ Morag snorted derisively. She rooted inside a paper bag emblazoned with a local baker’s name and produced a vast flapjack.

  ‘Mm. Dee-lic-ious. And positively oozing with calories.’

  Julia and I glanced at each other.

  ‘So when are you starting this Think Yourself Smaller diet?’

  ‘Oh I already have,’ Morag replied airily. ‘Which reminds me.’ She paused and glared menacingly at the flapjack before launching into a sing-song mantra. ‘I-am-thin. I-am-skinny. I-am-sooo-thin-thin-thin. Skinny-skinny-skin-neee.’ She stopped and smiled. ‘There, all done.’ With that she began to greedily shove the flapjack into her mouth.

  I stared at her in disbelief. ‘Is that it?’

  Morag gave me a sideways look. ‘Not quite.’ Her hand burrowed into her vast organiser handbag and reappeared clutching a pot of Omega 3 tablets.

  ‘These little babas are excellent for cleaning one’s clogged up arteries.’ She rattled them in my face. ‘So it’s a case of chant your mantra, eat your sin, swallow a pill and get wonderfully thin.’

  ‘Was that rhyme in the book?’ asked Julia.

  ‘Nope. I made it up.’ Morag rammed the last of the flapjack into her mouth. ‘Mm yummy. I can almost feel the weight dropping off.’

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I stood up brushing crumbs off my lap.

  ‘But it’s only half past. No need to rush off surely?’ Morag asked.

  ‘It’s the twins’ birthday tomorrow. I’ve bought their cards but I must nip into Game and Next. Splash out on a wad of gift vouchers for them. They’re at that age where I haven’t a clue what to buy.’

  ‘How old will they be?’ asked Julia.

  ‘Ten.’

  It was only natural that Stevie should join in on the birthday celebration too. The following afternoon he left work early and arrived not long after I’d returned from the school run. It was very much a family affair with the annual iced cake and ritual lighting of candles. The children made wishes as they blew out their candles, filling the air spiralling smoke. Stevie and I immediately launched into an off-key rendition of Happy Birthday while Liv and Toby looked both proud and faintly embarrassed. The digital camera immortalised their smiles, this year for two separate photograph albums.

  ‘Now hold it right there,’ grinned Stevie, ‘and I’ll go and get your presents.’

  He disappeared out to the car, reappearing moments later with enormous boxes.

  ‘Goodness, whatever is all this?’ I asked.

  Toby caught sight of a brand name on the side of one carton.

  ‘It’s a media centre!’ he screeched excitedly.

  Livvy gasped. ‘Two media centres!’

  ‘Well,’ Stevie shrugged modestly, ‘it’s not your birthday every day is it?’

  He swiftly set about installing everything.

  ‘Where’s the hard drive?’ I peered all around the monitor, getting in the way.

  ‘There.’ Stevie tapped the back of the flat screen.

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘Won’t be a mo’,’ I said jogging across the landing and bouncing down the stairs like a kangaroo – exercise was still very much to the fore of my mind. I opened the door to a willowy blonde.

  ‘Hi!’ she squeaked in a little girl voice. ‘I’m Charlotte. Can I have a word with Stevie please?’

  I gaped at the vision on my doorstep – a sort of early Britney Spears with breasts almost big enough to rival Morag’s décolletage.

  ‘Um, yes, just a minute,’ I stammered before bounding back upstairs. Stevie was now in Livvy’s room.

  ‘Er, Charlotte’s here.’

  Stevie reversed out from under Livvy’s desk. ‘I’ll pop back tomorrow,’ he promised, ‘and help pack up the old equipment. If you like I’ll flog it on e-Bay for you.’

  ‘Okay. Great,’ I stared blankly after him as the front door banged shut.

  I felt strangely out of sorts. For a couple of hours there we’d slipped back to being a united family doing things together with our children. But within seconds the past had crashed away hurling me back to the present so that once again I was just another single parent.

  The feeling didn’t abate until lunchtime the following day when I once again sat with the girls on our park bench.

  ‘You’re in shock,’ advised Morag.

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ I spluttered. ‘I don’t even want to stay married to Stevie. Why do I feel so rattled?’

  ‘Because,’ Julia proffered, ‘in your heart of hearts you are wondering if the divorce is now a wise thing.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ snorted Morag. ‘Of course Cass is doing the right thing. Stevie is a serial womaniser. Can’t keep his todger under wraps for more than five minutes without brandishing it about at parties, office do’s, high days and holidays.’

  ‘Steady,’ I gulped. ‘That’s my husband you’re talking about.’

  ‘Ex husband. This is nothing more than shock. You’re jolted. You’ve been delivered a nasty kick in the teeth. By your own admission you have stated a girl stood on your doorstep, a mere stripling of a teenager no less, moreover looking like a certain pop star-’

  ‘Oh Morag drop the court room drama speak,’ I interrupted irritably. She’d be saying wherein, heretofore and aforementioned next.

  ‘I’m just stating the obvious Cass. This girl is eighteen. You are nearly forty. It was a blow to meet your husband’s girlfriend and realise he’s pressing such youthful flesh. And that you aren’t.’

  That last remark hung heavily in the air. Let’s face it, I wasn’t even pressing old flesh. I set about savaging a lettuce leaf from my Tupperware crammed with rabbit food.

  ‘How’s Matt and Giles?’ I growled, keen to change the subject.

  ‘Miles,’ corrected Julia instantly looking gooey.

  I glanced at Morag who also appeared to have gone dewy eyed, sausage sandwich suspended halfway to her mouth.

  ‘Matt is quite simply divine,’ she purred.

  Jolly good. So it was just me not having any fun then.

  Stevie returned early evening to complete the installation of Livvy’s media centre.

  ‘How long will you be?’ I asked.

  ‘About an hour or so.’

  ‘Would you mind terribly if I popped out for a bit? I won’t be long.’

  ‘Not at all, go ahead.’

  I scampered off to my bedroom and quickly changed into the new running gear. Cracking the door open, I peeked furtively up and down the landing. The coast was clear. I ran down the stairs and out the front door.

  Sprinting along, I felt faintly smug. I might not be eighteen or have a taut body, but by golly I could still run. Okay I was running downhill, but so what? Look at me go! I was like a greyhound!

  I streaked on, round the corner, down to the village Post Office where the ground levelled out, around another corner and belted on towards the Common. This bit wasn’t quite as effortless as the Common tended to go up hill and down dale. Struggling now to maintain the impetus, I laboured past a bench where a gaggle of jeering teenagers mocked me. I shambled breathlessly out of their line of vision and collapsed behind an ancient oak. Stupidly I’d left home without a bottle of water.

  I bent forward, hands to knees. Panting hard, I contemplated a smooth brown pebble lying next to one trainer. Why was I rushing? Life was too short to charge about. Walking was just as good as jogging.

  I set off again, this time adopting a strolling rhythm. Bowling along, I decided to enjoy the leafy scenery around me. Under a clump of tall rustling elms frolicked a family of squirrels, tails rising and falling in squiggly arches as they made sudden darting movements. Branches hung low, worshipping the sun’s rays, freckling green leaves with lemon light. The grass was strewn with tiny daisies, their saffron centres fringed by petals e
dged in pink stain, as if a child had lightly daubed them with a felt pen. I was instantly transported back to my school days, sitting on the playing field making fairy crowns with daisy chains.

  When I eventually got home, I found Stevie in Toby’s room enthralled with the new machinery. As the TV burst into life on the flat screen Livvy posted a CD into an invisible slot, instantly cancelling the newsreader’s monotony with an explosion of rap.

  ‘These machines are something else Cass,’ Stevie shouted over the din.

  I nodded my head in agreement and kicked off my ripe trainers. Leaving everybody to it, I padded back downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of cold cranberry juice. Tipping my head back I glugged straight from the carton just as the doorbell rang. And there on my doorstep, for the second consecutive evening, stood the beautiful Charlotte.

  She was dressed in a tiny cropped T-shirt and bleached jeans embroidered with a rainbow of thread. The denims were artfully ripped, frayed and distressed to within an inch of fashionable life. The non-existent waistband was slung so low it was almost indecent. I was hideously aware of my own dishevelled appearance and damp T-shirt which – I discreetly sniffed the air – even now was emitting the whiff of sweaty armpits. I squirmed with embarrassment as Charlotte daintily wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Is Stevie still here?’ she squeaked.

  ‘Um, yes. I don’t suppose he’ll be much longer,’ I mumbled wondering why this young girl felt the need to collect Stevie for the second night running.

  ‘Shall I wait?’ she asked pointedly.

  ‘I’ll call him for you,’ I quickly replied. ‘STEVIE!’

  My estranged husband instantly appeared on the landing.

  ‘Been drinking blackcurrent Cass?’ he grinned coming down the stairs.

  ‘Cranberry actually. Why?’

  ‘You’re sporting a colourful moustache. And you’ve spilt some down that awful T-shirt.’

  At work Martin Henniker seemed to have become a permanent thorn in my side, Susannah Harrington having had no success in finding a permanent secretary.

  ‘The man’s a psycho,’ declared Morag. ‘I’ve got a horrible feeling you could be stuck with him for some time Cass.’

  We had shifted our lunch time rendez-vous to a pavement café, basking in warm summer sunshine as the traffic rumbled by.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ said Morag changing the subject, ‘last night was the best ever with Matt.’

  ‘Why, what did you do?’ asked Julia.

  ‘I rode Matt around the bedroom.’

  ‘Rode? I quizzed, chasing a cherry tomato around my paper plate with a plastic fork.

  ‘As in horse riding. Matt was a wild stallion and I had to tame him.’

  ‘Good grief,’ Julia muttered.

  ‘How did you do that?’ I asked with a perfectly straight face.

  ‘Well, after I’d successfully lassooed him, I hurled myself on his back and grimly hung on while he plunged about attempting to throw me off.’

  ‘Is this Matt we’re talking about?’ Julia frowned.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Not a horse?’

  ‘No, Matt was the horse.’

  ‘But not really?’

  ‘No of course not,’ Morag cried in exasperation. ‘We were pretending.’

  ‘Okay. Carry on.’

  ‘Where was I?’

  ‘He was trying to chuck you off,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Oh yes. So I wrestled and fought with him, smacked and whacked his rump with a riding crop and finally he quietened down enough for me to pat him gently and murmur that he was a good boy, a very good boy, and good boys are always rewarded.’

  ‘What was his reward?’ Julia croaked.

  ‘I became a mare of course.’

  I concentrated tremendously hard on a squiggly piece of pasta. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘He covered me.’

  ‘Covered?’ Julia’s eyebrows shot off her forehead.

  ‘In other words Matt gave her one,’ I explained.

  ‘He most certainly did,’ breathed Morag. ‘And then we both plunged about doing masses of whinnying and snorting and it was incredibly raucous and mind blowingly awesome.’

  I boggled into my skinny latte, feeling utterly worn out just listening to her sexual epic, never mind taking part in it. Was this where I’d gone wrong with Stevie? Would I have held onto my erring husband if I’d been blessed with Morag’s sexually rampant imagination? All those years of lying in the missionary position when clearly I should have pranced around the bedroom on all fours and neighed upon climax.

  That evening there was a tentative knock on the door. It was Nell.

  ‘Would you like to see my puppy?’ she beamed proudly, the way only new mothers do.

  ‘Oh Lord. You’ve gone and done it then?’ I stuffed my feet back into previously discarded work shoes. The twins fell in behind me as we followed Nell across the narrow grass strip that separated the two houses.

  ‘Don’t crowd around it,’ I warned the children as Nell reached into her pocket for the door key. ‘The puppy may be scared if it’s only just left its mother. And don’t grab or fight over who is having first cuddle. And don’t shout, we don’t want to frighten – oh!’

  I broke off as an enormous and thoroughly overexcited Red Setter bounded over to Nell before swerving off in my direction. The dog goosed me hard in the groin before careering over to Nell’s fluffy slippers which it proceeded to rip to shreds.

  ‘Naughty!’ Nell chided in a baby voice. The dog broke into a round of deep baritone barking.

  ‘Nell that is not a puppy,’ I yelled over the din.

  My neighbour smiled indulgently. She reminded me of one of those awful parents who make out their wayward child is ‘just playing’ while little Freddie bashes thump out of everybody.

  ‘She’s only five months old Cass and an absolute poppet. Come here Rocket,’ she cooed.

  ‘Rocket?’

  ‘Mm. But I might change it.’ Nell considered. ‘I like Lucy.’

  ‘Won’t a name change confuse her?’

  ‘Let’s see. Lucy, Lucy, L-ooo-cy.’ There was no response. ‘Oh well. Rocket, Rocket, Roh-oh-oh-ket.’

  ‘She doesn’t seem to recognise her official name either.’

  ‘All in good time Cass. I particularly want you and Rocket to get acquainted because I know you’re well and truly into your keep fit lark – and toning up very nicely too,’ Nell nodded at my flabby arms and legs, ‘and what better exercise than a brisk walk or refreshing run with a doggy? So you can borrow Rocket anytime you like Cass.’

  Oh fabulous. Clearly going for a run without Rocket was not an option.

  ‘So let’s make an arrangement right now, hm? How about tomorrow after work?’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ I smiled through gritted teeth.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next several days saw me lacing up my trainers and pounding the local pavements, sometimes with the twins in tow on their bicycles, other times leaving them with Nell while I went out and jogged steadily on my own. Rocket had a tendency to pull like a steam train on the lead which was surely doing wonders for toning my upper arms. I’d also come to the conclusion that my neighbour’s dog was definitely a few Bonios short of a full box.

  One Saturday morning I decided to jog to the local park. Taking a short cut through the cemetery, I puffed along beside Rocket as we passed rows of lichen stained headstones. I gave an involuntary shiver, anxious to leave an area where grief and tears seemed to permanently hang in the air.

  We shot through a gap in the hedge and out on to adjacent parkland where the mood instantly lifted. Swings and climbing frames in bright primary colours nestled next to an emerald green cricket pitch. An overlooking pavilion was spray-canned in a riotous rainbow of graffiti.

  Bending down I released the catch on the leash. Rocket, just like her name, shot off like a pre-programmed missile. Breaking into a gentle jog I paced after her. Clearly she thought it was a
game of chase. She happily frolicked ahead before sharply turning round to face me, barking rowdily a few times and then careering off. This pattern continued until my mobile phone trilled the arrival of a text message. It was from Morag.

  Don’t panic but I’m in hospital. Mistook a daffodil bulb for an onion. The doc has told me I’ll be okay but not to expect to come out until Spring.

  I hit the call button.

  ‘Very droll,’ I deadpanned into the handset.

  ‘Thought you’d appreciate it,’ she chortled. ‘Fancy coming to a party tonight?’

  ‘I’d love to, but aren’t you out with Matt?’

  ‘Oh definitely, but it’s a fancy dress party and the host says the more the merrier. You don’t have to go to any elaborate measures or anything.’

  ‘I knew all those years of watching Blue Peter were worthwhile. I shall concoct something amazing out of sticky back plastic and cardboard,’ I laughed. ‘Are you sure I won’t cramp your style? I don’t want to play gooseberry to you and Matt.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Morag replied. ‘Anyway Mac will be there. You know – Jamie.’

  At the mention of his name, I froze. Even though I was on my own, merely thinking about him had me blushing bright red. I swallowed.

  ‘Are you still there Cass? I think you’re breaking up on me.’

  ‘Still here,’ I croaked.

  ‘Good. Come to ours around sevenish.’

  Lost in thought, I nearly walked into a tree.

  Right Cass. Let’s have a little think about this. You’ve privately admitted to having a massive crush on Jamie. So here’s your chance to pull out all the glamour stops.

  Spirits lifting, I whistled Rocket to heel and snapped the leash back on. She trotted along beside me looking hot and bothered, tongue hanging out and panting heavily. A bit like me when I thought of Jamie.

  Back home, as soon as the twins had gone to Stevie’s, I whirred into action cutting up black sacks and tin foil, stapling here, nipping and tucking there. Somewhere in the back of my wardrobe were some silver stilettos and a sparkly belt. There they were! Perfect. Next came the truly challenging part. Attempting to transform the face. If only one could nip and tuck the slackening jaw line.