Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes

by Sue Watson

  He’d been gone about half an hour when I heard his phone upstairs; he’d obviously forgotten it again. It kept making a reminder-noise so you knew there’d been a call or text and this was annoying me so I followed the sound upstairs into our bedroom. He’d left it on his bedside table and the screen was intermittently lighting up. As I picked up the phone I could see ‘1 new message’. I hesitated to press the select button because I didn’t want him to think I was checking his calls, but what if it was something important to do with work?

  Hi darling

  Where R U? Am waiting!

  Luv u, Rachel x

  Ten words that would change my life forever.

  My heart was pounding in my head and my stomach. I held onto the phone, rooted to the spot, just reading the words over and over like they might be different by the hundredth time. I tried desperately to reinterpret what was pretty obvious. I call people ‘darling’ I thought, trying desperately to drag myself from the pit of despair and sheer panic. Perhaps she’s supposed to be working with him today and wants to know where he is? However, the three little words I was having real problems reinterpreting were ‘Luv u, Rachel x’.

  Tom came home at about seven o’clock. I didn’t know exactly what was going on with him but I had a pretty good idea. I felt very devious but I deleted the text from his phone so he wouldn’t know I’d read it; he’d think it just hadn’t arrived. I couldn’t bear to be in the same room, let alone have any kind of eye contact or conversation with him. I took a bath and washed my hair (wondering what Rachel’s hair was like) I washed Grace’s hair (wondering if she had any kids) and stayed in her bedroom all evening to avoid Tom. We read stories about witches (they were all called Rachel) and by ten o’clock even Grace despite her baby Goth tendencies said; “Mummy, can I please go to sleep now?”

  “Love you,” I said as I kissed her goodnight, and thought, Luv u, Rachel x. I left Grace and crept into bed. Tom was already asleep with a huge tome outlining David Attenborough’s ‘Zoo Quest Expeditions’ open across his chest. How dare he sleep so peacefully? I thought to myself. How dare he concern himself with bloody zoos at a time like this? I had to staunch the anger rising from the pit of my stomach, resisting the urge to beat my fists on his chest, kick him awake and shout, ‘Fuck David Attenborough! Who’s bloody Rachel?’

  In all this I needed to be rational though. If he was having an affair – he didn’t know I knew – and I therefore, in a round-about way, had the upper hand. I lay all night with my fists clenched and my heart pounding, my mind covering every possible scene from the past, present and future. With ‘Bitch Rachel’ as leading lady.

  On Sunday morning I woke early and rose from my bed, having not slept a wink. During the long night I created a million scenarios in my head, all of which were fighting for pole position. The majority, it has to be said, were concerned with the death or imminent demise of Bitch Rachel. I didn’t know her and had never even seen her but at that moment she was ruining my sleep and pipping MJ at the post for winner of the ‘Most Painful Death Award’. As I sipped my coffee and checked the post, I settled on Bitch Rachel being a single, thirty-something size ten with long fair hair, an airbrushed complexion, a worktop full of limes and a celebrity, cellulite-free arse. I really wanted to talk to Mum, but she was still living the life of an Am-Dram thespian in New York. Instead I phoned Al.

  “She obviously has a warped, damaged, twisted personality and can’t get her own man so steals another woman’s”, was his immediate reaction on the other end of the phone, but he didn’t stop there. “I can’t believe the stupid tart would text him! I mean you could check his texts any time. Bloody stalker! She’s no better than Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction,” he continued, “a raging bunny-boiler who’ll turn up on your doorstep tomorrow trying to buy your real estate then wham! Before you know it, Gilbert and George are bubbling away in your Le Creuset.”

  I pointed out that firstly, Gilbert and George were goldfish, which kind of negated the bunny-boiling thing and we didn’t have real estate as such in Worcestershire. I wanted him to tell me I was overreacting and just being silly. I wanted him to tell me it wasn’t happening, that I was just imagining everything, but as usual, his imagination had got the better of him.

  When he called back two minutes later, I’d rather hoped it was someone else, or at least that he’d calmed down. “Stella!” he shouted as I picked up the receiver. “I’ve just remembered what happens next. Glenn Close in your bathroom, slashing herself and staining your fluffy, white towels with her adulterous blood. Don’t go in there, I’m coming over!”

  He arrived with Lizzie a whole hour later, which would have left plenty of time for Glenn Close to rise up from the bath bubbles and slash me with the kitchen knife. After he’d checked the bathroom for ‘adulterous tarts’, we all settled down to discuss the ‘Bitch Rachel Situation’. Tom had left early to ‘go to work’ again (on a Sunday? Ha!) and Grace was playing upstairs.

  I prepared several butter-slapped, freshly-baked scones and sat at the kitchen table, eating them quickly to soak up the pain, while pouring my heart out while Al and Lizzie listened.

  “Half of me wants to call him now to make him confess and demand to know everything about her, down to the type of tampons she uses. The other half of me is so scared and irrationally hopes that if I ignore it, she’ll go away,” I said, stuffing a scone in my mouth to stem the tears.

  Lizzie was every bit the supportive friend; “Look, it will all be fine with Tom. Trust me, he’ll come to his senses,” she said, wiping warm butter from her chin.

  “It’s not about him coming to his senses, I won’t have it – I was trodden on by MJ for years and I’m damned if I’ll let my own husband take over where she left off,” I wailed into a big, floury scone. “But I can’t bear thinking about life without him and I keep thinking maybe it will be OK. He’s my husband. He’s Grace’s dad!” I sobbed.

  “I remember having a relationship with a guy called Frank, or was it Frankie,” said Al “he was gorgeous anyway…” and he went on to describe in detail several of his own ‘tragic’ experiences of infidelity, before announcing he had to meet another friend for coffee.

  “Come on Lizzie my love, I’ll drop you home on my way to David’s,” he said, throwing on his new leather jacket. “Now my darling Stel I don’t want you to worry about anything. And you know where I am if you need me,” he said sincerely, giving me a big hug.

  Lizzie smiled at him. “I’ll call you later, Stel,” she said gently, winking and blowing me a kiss.

  Tom took Grace to school the following morning before he headed off to work. It all seemed so normal, so mundane as I kissed Grace goodbye and wrapped her scarf around her neck to ward off the late-autumn chill. I’d tossed and turned all night and I still didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t sure how long I could keep up the pretence. Tom may have been sensing my anger. I didn’t explain why but I refused to make anything for him to eat. It was irrational, but I just felt that whatever I cooked for him would taste bitter. If Tom wanted a hate sandwich with vitriol chutney then that was fine, but I couldn’t trust myself not to put rat poison in his food or antifreeze in his coffee, so not making meals for him was a selfless act, essentially for his own good.

  Wiping the kitchen worktops I wasn’t concentrating on what I was doing, rather allowing images of him with her to swirl through my brain. Was Tom the love of her life? Did they already have a shared history? In-jokes and secret smiles? Or was he simply a shag? Was he a diversion from work, an ego-boost and someone to fill a void until another one came along? What a shame if that were the case, because a family would have been ripped apart for nothing. I sat at the kitchen table with my head in my hands. I hoped she loved him, I really did, because the price we’d pay as a family would be too high for anything less. Whoever she was and whatever she wanted, her actions were going to cause collateral damage.

  I sat at the table for some time, wondering what to do. I was filled with hurt
and anger yet afraid to lift the lid on my feelings in case I couldn’t force it back down. If he was having an affair, what was he intending to do? If I told him I knew, would he finish it with her? Could I ever truly love him again, even if he dumped her and declared undying love for me? Could it ever be the same? One thing I was sure of – I had to confront him and get this whole thing out in the open, but I felt like I had nothing left – no energy, no self-confidence and no courage. And through it all I kept wracking my brain for an innocent explanation to ‘luv u, Rachel x’.

  16 - Low Flying Turkey and Twisted Tarts

  The following weeks flashed by in a blur and before I knew it, the festive season was upon us. Everything was about Christmas and razzle-dazzle. Lizzie and I went shopping for Grace’s presents and for a little while, among the glitter and the Christmas music, I almost forgot about Tom and her. We chose some Christmas cards together and as Lizzie pondered over different Christmas scenes I spotted a glittery, red card with the picture of a cosy log fire on the front and ‘To My Loving Husband at Christmas’ written in red glitter. I looked at Lizzie, “Tom’s loving,” I said, waving the card in the air, “he’s loving someone else!” Then my eyes filled with tears and the card became a blur.

  She smiled and gave me a hug; “He’s a stupid idiot. You really need to decide what you want to do babe,” she said handing me a tissue.

  I was living on a knife-edge as he still didn’t know I knew. I felt helpless but in a strange way, I was ultimately the one with the power to light the touch-paper that would urge us all forward into an unknown future. Things had happened that I hadn’t wanted or planned but knowing still gave me that modicum of control. It was pretty scary to know that it was down to me and that, at any time, I could press the nuclear button.

  So many times I’d almost done it. One evening, we were having a Christmas dinner party with friends and as we ‘worried’ about A Qaeda and enthused about the chocolate mousse, I thought, I could say it now. I could suddenly announce over the coffee and homemade star-topped mince pies that my husband is shagging another woman. I thought about it as we drove home and looking over at Tom it was on the tip of my tongue to say ‘who’s Rachel?’ but I shuddered with fear and looked away, seeking sanctuary through the curtain of rain at the car window. I just couldn’t bring myself to set in motion a whole cataclysmic process of events that would change our lives forever.

  And then it was Christmas Eve. Mum came to visit early in the morning. She was dropping off our presents on her way to the airport; she’d decided to spend Christmas in Norway with Beryl.

  “We’re going to watch the Northern Lights from a roof-top Jacuzzi,” she announced, over a large slice of Christmas cake.

  “Well I don’t blame you Mum – it sounds more fun than sleeping in our spare room and spending Christmas Day watching satellite reruns of Only Fools and Horses.” We both smiled. It wouldn’t be the same without Mum and I wondered what the hell Tom and I would find to talk about, locked in the house with Del Boy and a giant tin of Quality Street for two whole days. I was aching to tell her about Tom’s text and ask what she thought I should do – but Grace had joined us for cake so I kept it light. We talked about the past and giggled about family Christmases and how every Boxing Day Gran would get tipsy on Snowballs, insisting they weren’t alcoholic whilst sliding slowly off her chair. Mum and I told Grace about the handmade Blue Peter decorations we’d made one Christmas when I was little; “They looked like alien spaceships but your mother insisted on putting them all over the house,” Mum told her; “she was about your age Grace. It seems like yesterday.”

  When Mum left, Grace and I waved goodbye on the step and I thought about how hard Mum and Dad had worked for all those years to make Christmas special for me. Mum shopped and cooked and baked and Dad worked overtime, yet it all appeared like magic in the morning and I ripped sparkly paper and squealed with delight at a new doll or selection box crammed with chocolate bars. I thought about Grace’s first Christmas and her bemusement at all the presents and food and attention. We’d bought her a big plastic car to ride in – she was far too young but Tom and I couldn’t wait. We’d laid her in it and while I held on to her he had pushed her carefully round the living room, beaming all the while.

  Closing the door, I suddenly felt all the Christmases I’d ever known, rushing in and drowning me with tinsel and love and laughter. What was going to happen next? Would Tom and I still be together next Christmas? Did I want to be with him a year from now, knowing what I knew? Telling Grace I needed the bathroom, I ran into the downstairs toilet and locking myself in I quietly sobbed and sobbed for the past, until there were no tears left.

  After a short while, I decided to pull myself together and finish wrapping the last of the presents. I climbed into the messy spare room and began pulling out boxes and wrapping paper. Just touching the smooth pattern on my matching metallic paper and glittery silver bows cheered me up a little. For Grace’s presents, I’d bought pink and blue paper with angels and scattered snowflakes and I gathered the rolls together with the gifts and sticky tape and started to wrap. Folding the corners and ripping at tape with my teeth I thought that although my marriage may have been in deep trouble, Christmas was coming and I needed to rally for Grace. I spotted my dusty old stereo in the corner and joy of joys, an old Johnny Mathis CD was nestling inside. I continued wrapping to the sound of The Little Drummer Boy.

  The music was soothing and reminded me that this really could be a wonderful time of year. I started to wonder if things were really as bad as I thought they were. Perhaps there was an innocent explanation after all and I had got things horribly wrong in my own head? I was running out of paper and as I stumbled over near to the window to get more I heard Tom’s voice coming from the garden. I was surprised to hear him; he must have come back from work early. At first I thought he was chatting to the next-door neighbour but then I stopped dead in my tracks with a handful of gold ribbon and reindeer wrapping when I heard the softness in his voice.

  It was the voice he used for Grace, the one he used to use for me. Grace wasn’t there, so I clambered over tinsel and presents and very, very carefully opened the window. I gasped as the icy air blasted into the room and almost whipped the window from my grasp. I grappled with it then slowly, and as quietly as possible, placed it on the latch. I was sure he must have heard and I held my breath. For a while he seemed to go quiet. I crouched down by the window so if he looked up he wouldn’t see me. A piece of holly was digging into my thigh but the sharp, prickling pain was weirdly reassuring.

  After what seemed like ages, but was probably only a few seconds, he started talking again. My face was hot and itchy despite the chilly blast coming through the open window. “I miss you too,” I heard, “I know, I know but we have to wait… after Christmas… Can’t do it to Gracie…”

  My heart was in my mouth and my stomach had turned upside down. I was about to explode with hurt and tears and anger, but in a flash the fog of the last few weeks cleared and the truth stared me in the face in the fading December light: it was true – everything I had imagined and probably more. I couldn’t move, rooted to the spot under the window, with the cold air blasting through my hair. It wasn’t just what he was saying, it was the way he was saying it. The tone of his voice took me back through the years to when we first met, filled with kindness, softness and sex. Suddenly I knew that there was no way back from this. And there, under the window, crouching like a wounded animal in the reindeer wrapping and tinsel, my heart split in two.

  There was nothing to hide behind now. What I had heard had removed all doubt, all other possibilities and had left me with only one option: I would have to face Tom. But I couldn’t say anything on Christmas Eve, surely? I couldn’t do that to Grace. So instead that afternoon, I found myself making festive mince tarts. I grabbed the flour from the cupboard and desperately creamed it into lard and butter, my knuckles white and my head spinning. Suddenly, white-hot anger seared through my brain.
That Bastard. How can he do this to me? Throwing the doughy wedge onto the flour-topped table I reached for my rolling pin; surely, this would help? Rolling it out with gusto I imagined it was her, Rachel, flattened to the table with my huge wooden rolling pin, again and again – smoothing it over and rubbing her out. But somehow it didn’t help in the way it used to with MJ.

  Twisting open the jar of brandy-scented mincemeat sent a whiff of pure Christmas to my nostrils and reminded me of home and Mum. I began to cry as I carefully spooned the sweet, jammy lumps into pastry circles before plunging them into the hot oven. But even the slow drift of warm, cinnamon air that rose from the cooking pastries didn’t make me feel better, so I made another batch. And then another. By 3pm, the tart count was 60 and rising. I knew if I didn’t deal with this Tom problem soon, there was likely to be a European mince-tart mountain emanating from a small town in the Midlands. Added to this, the more anxious and heated I became the more the pastry was suffering at my hot hands. The tarts took on the kind of floppy, warped appearance that would have had Salvador Dali reaching for his easel. I knew I would have to speak with Tom, and soon.

  Tom went to collect the turkey from the butcher’s down the road. He did this every Christmas and Grace always made a big fuss like he’d fed, bred and killed the bloody bird himself. It was the perfect Christmas scene, me rolling out pastry for yet more surreal tarts and Grace carefully placing pentangles on the Christmas tree (I told you, there was something of the night about her). We had on our usual Christmas CD and with a huge carrier bag of bird, Tom sauntered in to the tune of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, shouting “Ho, ho, ho!”