Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes

by Sue Watson

  We smiled wretchedly through our tiredness; “What’s he saying?” Tom hissed.

  “How should I know? I’m not fucking Greek,” I spat under my breath while continuing to nod and smile at Yannis.

  “I’m aware you’re not Greek,” Tom spat back, over the noise of all the chickens and children, “but you’ve got the bloody phrasebook!”

  I grappled with my shoulder bag and gestured for Yannis to speak slowly, which I think he got. “Krevatokamares,” he repeated, pointing to an open door, off which I presumed was the chicken-shed living room (Cath Kidston would have had a heart-attack). I lifted my hand in a ‘wait’ gesture and balanced the guidebook on my knee, rifling through Greek words beginning with K. “K…K…K…” I said uncertainly, feeling just like I had earlier when ‘navigating’.

  “What’s he saying?” Tom was such a stresser and it was infectious.

  “I’m, er…here it is,” I said, relief sweeping over me.

  “Come on, the holiday’ll be over by the time you…”

  “Thanks as always for your patience and support Tom,” I said, sarcastic and slightly cocky now because I had found the word.

  “Krevatokamares,” I announced, “means bedroom!”

  “Oh, of course!” Tom gestured for Yannis to show us the ‘master’ bedroom, which – when we all poked our heads round the door – looked like a Greek vent of hell.

  Completely deflated, we all trooped back and as Tom and I prepared for a confused ‘goodnight’ conversation with Yannis and his brood he pulled out a bottle of urine-coloured local wine, some glasses and plonked himself at the table. My heart sank. Tom and I were obliged to sit down with him, quickly followed by a smiling and nodding Anna.

  “Stella, look in the book. How do you say, ‘We’re tired and need to go to bed now?” Tom said quietly.

  I opened the book desperately, scouring the English words and trying to find something. “Ooh, I remember – bedroom is ‘krevatokamares’,” I said in a low voice as Yannis poured me a huge glass. I took another peek inside the guidebook. “Yannis,” I said, waving my hand in what I felt was a Greek way to get his attention; “Thelo….na….koymitho mazi sou er….stin krevatokamara tora,” I said slowly and carefully, smiling and nodding throughout as is apparently customary when abroad. Yannis gazed at me with what I can only describe as a whimsical look and Tom gulped the last of his wine in an effort to bring proceedings to a close.

  “Well done,” said Tom under his breath. “You see, you can do it when you put your mind to it. I think he’s got the message.” There were a few moments of silence, when no-one knew quite what to do and to our deep joy, Yannis rose from his chair. Within seconds however, our elation at the thought of sleep turned to horror as Yannis reached into a cupboard behind him and brought out another bottle.

  “Christ nooo,” breathed Tom. “But I thought you just told him we wanted to go to bed?”

  “I did,” I hissed, “Perhaps it’s my pronunciation.”

  I was now dreaming of a bed, any bed. We were all so tired from the flight then the hellish car journey, the last thing we needed was more animated signing with foreign strangers in a hut up a hill. Looking around the dingy room and smiling inanely at our new friends I could see that they were here for the evening so I let Yannis refill my glass. “You like?” he asked, with a wink.

  “Lovely,” I winked back. This went on for some time with Yannis and I winking and raising our glasses as Tom sank deeper onto the table, his head now resting on his arms. Grace (being a child vampire) was wide awake and playing happily with Yannis’s kids despite a complete lack of common language. The kids didn’t need words but I was struggling with the winking and the benign gestures as Tom snored on the table.

  After a couple of hours of mimed-conversations, forced laughter and smiles that made my ears ache, we finally bid goodnight to our new Greek best friends and fell, exhausted, into a rickety double-bed.

  “I’m not sure we did the right thing… coming here,” Tom said, sleepily.

  “You mean this villa?”

  “I mean coming away on holiday when neither of us really want to.”

  My heart lurched; neither of us? But I wanted to! “Give it a chance Tom, it’s only the first night,” I said, painting over the cracks with my usual whitewash of hope.

  “I can’t believe Yannis kept pouring drinks. He knew we were tired,” his voice was fading as he dropped off.

  “I thought they’d never go. And we went to the trouble of speaking in his language to tell him we were tired and wanted our beds,” I said, indignantly picking up the guidebook and turning to ‘translation’ for a quick swot.

  Leafing idly through ‘English to Greek in a jif’ I came across the section I’d used to tell Yannis we were ‘tired and wanted to go to bed now’ and felt the heat rise from my toes to my face. According to the, ‘Jiffy Quick’ section where you could apparently attain ‘fluency in a jif’, what I had actually said to Yannis in Greek was; “I want to sleep with you in the bedroom, now!”

  I didn’t wake Tom to tell him.

  14 - Noisy Cocks and Strappy Nighties

  Barely four hours later, the dawn broke over our Greek retreat and we were rudely awakened by the sound of a cockerel crowing in the back garden. Even Tom, who sleeps through most things, was disturbed by the constant noise. I decided there was no point in lying there trying to sleep so I staggered into the kitchen. Grace was sitting at the table, Nintendo in hand.

  “Mum, I can’t find the pool,” she said, without taking her eyes from Nintendogs.

  “Erm, there isn’t actually a pool. What would you like for breakfast, Grace?”

  “No pool? But you can’t go on holiday and not have a bloody pool!”

  “You can, and that will do young lady. You do not say that word.”

  “You do.”

  “What would you like for breakfast?”

  “A pool!” With that she opened a window and leaned out, looking hard in disbelief. At this point, Tom staggered in scratching his head and his groin (yes, at the same time – quite a talent).

  “What’s for breakfast?” he asked, like he was a six-year old and I was his mummy.

  “Well, did you buy any food? I didn’t, and my magical powers are limited abroad. I can’t conjure it from nowhere and the bloody ‘breakfast fairy’ hasn’t appeared, so I would guess – erm, give me a minute – there isn’t anything!”

  “No need to be like that.”

  “Like what?” I asked, wanting to be all mature but pushing him for a reaction.

  “Mum, Mum, the bloody breakfast fairy has appeared.”

  “Grace, I will not tell you again.”

  “No Mum. Look, look!”

  Grace was pointing frantically at something beneath the window and with some trepidation (Grace’s idea of a fairy was likely to be a creeping lizard) I opened the door and stepped out. There, in the shade of the house, lying on the ground was a basket covered in a cloth. I handed it to Grace who was still hanging out of the window, who lifted the cover and began whooping with delight.

  “Ooh Mum, it’s yoghurt and honey, yay!”

  Yannis or Anna had kindly left us this little ‘Red Cross’ parcel, placed in the coolest part of the garden.

  “That’s kind of them,” Tom said, almost smiling as he poked his finger into the thick, white sheep’s yoghurt. I spooned it into some cracked bowls plucked quickly from the cupboards and Tom poured the golden, syrupy honey into each snowy puddle. Grace found a handful of almonds in the basket and made it her job to sprinkle them on top of the bittersweet breakfasts. We took our bowls outside like the three bears and sat in the warm breeze at a rickety table looking out upon hills and olive trees.

  The yoghurt was cool and rich, the tangy sharpness relieved by the sweetness of honey and crunchy with nuts. “It’s not that bad here,” I said, lifting my face to the sun.

  “Yeah,” Tom nodded, looking out onto the golden landscape. But I could tell that
he wasn’t convinced. We both looked and felt like hell, but at least I was trying. This was the island where we’d spent our honeymoon and I couldn’t help but keep making stark comparisons between then and now. Could this couple who barely make eye contact be the same two people who once slept all night in each other’s arms, afraid to be apart?

  Later, as we washed the breakfast things there was a knock on the door. It was our friend Yannis. “You OK? You sleep?” he asked, putting his palm to his face, his head on one side in a sleeping gesture.

  I was concerned we’d be woken by the cockerel every morning so I thought it would be a good opportunity to ask if Yannis could perhaps put him in another field. However, after my faux pas the night before, I wasn’t prepared to risk a hurried translation of ‘noisy cock’ in Greek (it could have gone so wrong) so I smiled and made a ‘cock-a-doodle-doo’ sound several times, rubbing my eyes in a charades fashion to try and let him know we’d been woken and were now very tired.

  “Ah,” he said, nodding his head. “No problem.” I looked helplessly at Tom who just shrugged.

  “You can remove the noisy cockerel from our garden?” I asked, nodding madly – and unnecessarily.

  “Yes, yes,” he said, turning to leave. “No problem, noisy. I do now,” he said, making strange shapes with his hands as he started to leave. As I turned away and picked up the tea-towel, my eyes and brain decided to communicate and I suddenly understood his sign language. He was twisting his hands and nodding, clearly on his way to end the cockerel’s life by strangling it with his bare hands at my request. “Noisy. I do it now,” he repeated over his shoulder, already starting up the dirt track that led to the cockerel’s lair.

  “Wait, wait, don’t kill the cock!” I screamed running after him uphill, starting to sweat and pant in the early morning heat. Yannis turned round, looking confused.

  “Kokoraki? Kokoraki?”

  I guessed this meant cockerel but there was no time to check. An innocent bird was about to be strangled just so I could have a lie-in and something needed to be done. I grabbed Yannis by both arms, shouting, “No! No! Don’t kill cock. I like noisy cock.” He was surprised but clearly not averse to this and for a moment, I suspect he thought I was continuing my previous night’s pursuit of his no-doubt hairy body. I saw Tom’s shoulders shaking out of the corner of my eye.

  “You could actually help me out here, Tom,” I yelled.

  “You’re doing fine on your own,” he shouted back, clearly enjoying the show.

  Still clutching Yannis I saw that strange, whimsical look on his face again and followed his eyes to note with horror that I was still sporting my strappy summer nightie. I almost died. Not only was it way too short for a woman with my knees but it barely contained my wayward breasts that since the age of 40 had lived a life of their own. One false move and Yannis would be forced to call the police about the crazy English lady who demands to sleep with him and accosts him on dirt tracks screaming about how much she likes cock. Appalled at myself I decided to leave, thinking, I am half naked and these people are decent. They have religion and ‘the evil eye’.

  So while I still had a modicum of dignity left, I walked slowly back down the hill, still insisting in a less animated way (i.e. keeping my arms firmly by my sides and therefore my wild forty-something breasts in check) that the cock be saved. Yannis smiled, shrugged and walked away.

  I lumbered back down the hill towards Tom, who was clapping my performance. As I smiled and took a bow, he walked back inside the villa. I watched him disappear and stood alone in the heat and dust feeling stupid.

  Well, we may not have had a pool, but we did manage to find the sea and actually ended up having a pretty good day. Tom and Grace played together in the water whilst I topped up my tan and texted Lizzie to find out what the weather was like in the UK. After all, there’s nothing more satisfying than being somewhere hot when the weather at home is bad, is there? I soon got a text back.

  TXT: Bloody freezing here darling. Grey skies and rain. Are things hotting up in the bedroom?

  I read her text thoughtfully and glanced over to the water where Tom was swirling our daughter round, dipping her in and out of the sea and laughing as she shrieked. I quickly texted Lizzie back.

  TXT: Not yet. Maybe tonight.

  Very soon my mobile pinged through a response.

  TXT: You go girl. Don’t put it off or it’ll be too late.

  I put my phone away and picked up my book – but I couldn’t help thinking about what she said for the rest of the day. So that night, with Lizzie’s warning ringing in my ears and as Tom lay in bed reading The Private Life of the Chinese Panda, I slipped into midnight lace and slinked around the bedroom.

  Feeling sort of hot in midnight blue, I tried to swish a bit, thinking tummy in, bust out and refused to be put off when I caught a fleeting glimpse of an overweight, middle-aged blonde in the cracked bathroom mirror. I immediately banished her from my head and whispered, ‘J Lo’ over and over in my head like a mantra. I was in full view, pretending to be unaware but aiming to catch Tom’s eye and create spontaneous fireworks. I didn’t look directly at him because I wanted it all to be very natural and not seem like a planned seduction. If Tom thought I was trying to inflame him with my M&S polyester it would be a turn-off and the Chinese Panda would have the upper hand. I wanted a love scene in the vein of From Here to Eternity. I wanted lashing, thrashing waves and tidal passion.

  However, what you want isn’t always what you get and while I wanted Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster, it was beginning to look more like George and Mildred. I pondered this and nearly put myself off the whole idea but with an alarming stab of false confidence I slipped between the sheets and seductively slid my fingers under the coverlet. I felt surprisingly shy after all this time, but reached out with the tips of my fingers for Tom’s lower abdomen. On reaching my destination, I allowed my fingers to run gently yet seductively along the border of pubic hair between day and night. At first he didn’t respond and I started to feel a bit silly.

  I was just considering a return to the my decadent airport purchase of the Good Food Magazine and Jamie’s ‘pukka prosciutto pasta’ when I heard a slight moan coming from Tom’s direction. Oh yes, apparently I’d still got the touch. I sizzled silently and turned my gaze to him. He was biting his upper lip, eyes closed in ecstasy. Yes! He still wants me, I thought as I moved slowly down the bed, making small rodent-like nibbles at his neck causing another moan, deeper this time. He began to move his arms upwards, hands reaching for his face as the sexual joy began to build, and he cried: “Oh! Yess!” It did occur to me that this was a bit much at this stage in the proceedings but I was prepared to go with it. Yet as I looked up to meet his eyes I discovered to my horror the real reason for his unbridled emotion.

  A glint of silver in each of Tom’s ears told me that he was oblivious to my advances and was in joyful receipt of audio sporting action. Yes, Tom’s orgasmic groaning had been evoked by a game of cricket on the other side of the world. Someone had just done a googly. And it wasn’t me.

  For the rest of the holiday we spent our days arguing and sweating and our nights drinking to forget the days. Meanwhile, nothing stirred in the bedroom which was silent save the piercing shriek of Yannis’s cock, which continued to wake me every morning without fail. Despite my best efforts and planning, it looked like the marriage repair-job was not going to be as quick a fix as I’d hoped and as the holiday drew to a close my veneer of hope cracked. I didn’t understand why this was so difficult, or why I felt more distant from Tom on our family holiday than I had at home.

  On Friday, our last day, Grace and I sat in the airport with our hand luggage on uncomfortable plastic chairs whilst Tom was in the bookshop, flicking through a sports biography.

  Grace suddenly turned to me and said “Mum, do you know Dad’s friend Rachel?”

  “What sweetie? Do you mean the Rachel that works with Daddy?” I said, smiling vaguely.

  “Yes. Dadd
y was talking to her on his mobile phone yesterday. He was laughing a lot.” I tried to force myself not to jump to any conclusions and quickly swallowed the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat. So Tom had a female colleague at work who shared the same sense of humour. And who rang him on holiday. What was wrong with that? It was nice to know someone could make him laugh these days.

  15 - Bowling a Maiden Over

  The morning after our return home I got up early and made a huge breakfast in an attempt to console myself for our disastrous holiday. I made light, fluffy pancakes and dug out some of my homemade blueberry jam – not as sweet, and fruitier than the nasty, bought stuff. While Tom, Grace and the batter rested I made a batch of vanilla cupcakes. They came out of the oven before everyone was up and the warm, sweet smell filled the kitchen – and my heart – with ‘home’. I had to taste a couple and the hot, buttery sponge scorched my tongue but it was worth it for the explosion of soft, melting vanilla – which for a very brief moment made me indescribably happy.

  Tom and Grace eventually got up and wolfed the pancakes in silence, Grace on her Nintendo (which seemed to be surgically attached to her these days) and Tom flicking through the paper and grunting every now and then. I could tell he wasn’t really concentrating though and I had the feeling something was wrong. “Are you OK, Tom?” I ventured. He looked up at me, almost guiltily.

  “Mmm. Did I tell you I have to go to work today?” I shook my head.

  “But it’s Saturday, Tom. We’ve only just got back from holiday, and…”

  “Sorry Stel.” He cut me off. Tom had planned to take Grace to the cinema and I could see from her face she was really disappointed.

  “Aagh, Dad!” she said, looking from him to me.

  “Tom, you know how much Grace wanted to see this film. You can’t let her down at such short notice!” I huffed. “I suppose now I’ll have to take her and cancel my hair appointment.”

  He looked at me in disbelief. “I have to work – don’t be so unreasonable. I need to go, or I’ll be late. Sorry Grace, we’ll sort another time, yeah?” and without even waiting for her response or mine, he threw down the rest of his juice, grabbed his coat and headed for the door. I was disappointed about my cancelled hair appointment but I didn’t mind taking Grace to the cinema and in truth, after recent events, I was glad to see the back of Tom. He stormed off in a big huff and slammed the door behind him.