The Fat And The Thin Of It Page 13

was anything sweet and gooey to have with it. “Your Dad’s a knob.”

  It was the best I could do right then.

  Three days went by: three long, depressing, sugar-stuffed days, and not a word from Bob or Richard.

  I was half expecting Interpol to appear on my doorstep, but thankfully they kept away. I gathered that they hadn’t found Bob out for whatever he was supposed to have done, or maybe he hadn’t done anything that warranted their attention.

  I spent long hours while I ate myself to almost throwing up going over that night, trying to make sense of it all.

  I considered that the major factor for Bob leaving me was because I had a weight problem.

  But there again, the shenanigans of that night could have been a huge act. But, if Bob had wanted to leave me, why on earth hadn’t he simply said so?

  I could have told him then that I was on my very last diet and was going to succeed.

  No, he couldn’t have wanted to leave me. There hadn’t been any signs, any arguments or disgruntled complaints and pickiness.

  He hadn’t said anything about my weight; had he?

  But there again, if he had done something wrong, why couldn’t he have just told me? I would have understood. I’d understand anything Bob had done. I loved him, trusted him, and even though I struggled through four ‘O’ Levels and didn’t have a degree in anything intellectual, I wasn’t so dumb as to not understand things.

  I was overweight, but that didn’t mean I was stupid.

  No. It had all been a big show, I was sure of it. Bob had put Richard up to the whole ‘he’s going to prison if he doesn’t leave’ bit, just to get away from me.

  But why? What had I done that had been so terrible? I’d been a good wife, hadn’t I? I’d stayed in England, brought up our kids, was quite happy to let him work in Spain and was understanding about only seeing him twice a month. After all, he was doing it for us, for the good of our family. He would retire at sixty and then we’d make up for lost time and enjoy our later years together.

  The only thing I’d failed at was the dieting thing, but I was going to really lose these three stones this time.

  No, no; Bob loved me. I was convinced about how much he loved me. If it had been all an act, though, he deserved a bloody Oscar for twenty-four years of outstanding achievement in the deception business.

  He’d done an excellent job of hiding his disgust at my weight, for sure.

  There again, there could be some dangerous people out there hot on his heels for some reason. A complete misunderstanding, of course, but he had to get away to keep his family safe, not just himself. He’d find a way to clear his name and then he’d come back.

  I would have lost some significant weight by the time he came back; I’d make sure of that.

  What if he’d got himself mixed up in some kind of mafia business? What if he’d made some dodgy deals for them and they were now using him as a scapegoat? Maybe they’d threatened him with nailing his kneecaps to the floor? And his family’s kneecaps?

  But, what if the real reason was because I was fa…fighting with my weight?

  I rushed to the TV set and switched on the news channel to see if any bodies with holes in their knees had been washed ashore somewhere.

  It just might not be the weight thing, after all.

  I switched it off again, though: I didn’t want to know if any bodies had been washed ashore somewhere. But there again, maybe I should know, so I turned the TV back on again.

  No, I couldn’t look. I turned it back off again and ambled to the kitchen in search of something to eat.

  Damn, the larder was empty. So was the fridge, apart from butter, milk and a couple of low-fat yoghurts. I grabbed a yoghurt, found some sugar and mixed it into the yoghurt and went back to the living room, but instead of sitting I paced as I ate the yoghurt. I wanted to make good use of my knees while I still had them.

  God, I was depressed. My head was so full of possible explanations that I’d lost track of reality and couldn’t think without mustering up a script for a film noir. I grabbed my anorak and car keys and went to Sainsbury’s in search of more sugar and carbs.

  That was when I really got depressed. My credit card was rejected.

  I had to leave my trolley of biscuits, sponge cake and pizzas at the check-out counter and take the walk of shame to the car, and I drove straight to Richard’s office.

  The office was closed.

  I peered into the dark office between the photos of homes for sale or rent, but I couldn’t see any sign of life. I rapped on the window, expecting someone to emerge from the kitchen at the back. Perhaps Richard and Pete were taking a coffee break or something.

  Not a peep.

  Not sure what to do next, I walked the few blocks to my bank to check on things, and was told by a cashier that there were three pounds and seventy-two pence in my account.

  Oh good Lord, did I get panicky.

  Hadn’t Richard told me that they’d sorted out finances and I would be taken care of? Where the bloody hell was the care? Where was the finance sorting? Where was Bob’s salary?

  What the hell was happening to me?

  I all but ran back to my car to drive to Richard’s house. At first I was panicky, then frustrated, but by the time I got to the car I was angry. I felt like kicking someone’s head in, but it wouldn’t be Richard’s; he was the only one who could help me.

  By the time I got to Richard’s house I had a pool of bubbling acid in my stomach and felt sick, and wished I hadn’t eaten the yoghurt. I rang the doorbell and prayed Richard would answer it, but there was only a little relief when Kathy greeted me with a smile.

  “Jackie! Long time no see, sweetie. Come on in.” She stood aside and beckoned me to enter with a sweep of her hand.

  Well, whatever was going on, Kathy didn’t look as if she knew anything. I smiled as best I could and gave her a hug. “Is Richard at home, love?”

  Perhaps I should have asked after the kids or the dog or something before asking where Richard was, but there was no time. Three pounds and seventy-two pence wouldn’t see me till the end of the day, and I needed to speak to him.

  “Have you tried the office?” she asked, a little puzzled, and I shook my head. “No sign of Pete, either?” I shook my head again.

  “Well, let’s see…” she stood thinking for far too long. “I think he said he had a couple of houses to show some clients. He could be doing that.” She walked towards the kitchen and I followed. I could hear the dog yapping out in the garden, craving attention. “Tea? Coffee?” I shook my head for the third time, resisting the urge to say ‘Richard please; with lots of sugar.’

  Kathy picked up her mobile. “I’ll just give him a call, okay?” and she speed-dialled Richard and walked away from me into the utility room.

  ‘She doesn’t want me to hear what she says,’ I thought. ‘She knows more than she’s letting on.’ I felt everyone was conspiring against me and my three sodding pounds, conspiring to make sure I never ate another piece of sponge cake ever again.

  She came back smiling. “He wants to talk to you.” She stage-whispered, and handed me her phone.

  He didn’t let me speak. “Jackie, I am so, so sorry.” He said in hushed tones. “I’ve been up to my neck since we last saw each other, as you can imagine.”

  No, I couldn’t imagine. I also presumed he couldn’t imagine how I’d felt since we last saw each other.

  “Richard, you remember the sorting out you told me you’d done?” I didn’t care if Kathy heard or not. “It’s not sorted, and I need it sorted, as you can imagine.”

  “What do you mean, love?” was his response.

  “I mean there’s little over three quid in the bank, and that isn’t sorting anything out.”

  Silence, but I could literally hear his mind ticking.

  “Right, uh… go home and I’ll be there in a couple of hours, okay?” and he hung up.

  I handed Kathy her phone back, gave her a hug and left. While d
riving home, it occurred to me that she hadn’t looked at all puzzled about the strange conversation I’d had with Richard. She simply smiled and waved me off: could she really be in cahoots with this whole thing? If she wasn’t in the know, why had she gone into the utility room to talk to Richard? Crikey, was their house bugged or something? Was mine?

  Did she know Bob had left me because of my weight?

  Oh, pull yourself together, woman; you’re getting paranoid.

  When I pulled into my drive, something didn’t feel right.

  Oh, of course; Mark wasn’t playing his music. He’d been as quiet as a field mouse since Bob left, and he hadn’t even eaten any of the pizzas I’d bought, which was a nuisance as then I wouldn’t have eaten them all myself. I wondered if he was home, even.

  I headed for the kitchen to put the kettle on and spied a discarded biscuit under the bread box. It was a stale Digestive that must have been there for a while, but it was something.

  As I munched on the soft, musty-tasting biscuit, I realised what I was doing and stopped chewing. It tasted foul, was nowhere near satisfying, but there I was putting something that was barely edible into my mouth. My throat filled with self loathing and I almost gagged.

  Dear God Almighty; why did I do this?

  I fell into a chair and put my head in my hands and cried silently as I tried to drag myself out of the desperation I felt, but it was so hard. I had mixed feelings about Bob, but there was one, solid and absolute sentiment I was sure of: I hated myself.

  I was fat.

  Disgustingly obese.

  A five foot four mass of wobbling cellulite.

  A human blubber whale.

  I ran my hands over the multiple rolls of fat lying across my stomach and felt the urge to get a knife and slice them off. I was aware of my backside cascading over the sides of the chair I was sitting on and I could see the shape of my thighs through the material of my skirt. Each thigh was bigger than Jill’s waist, I calculated. No, no, each thigh was twice Jill’s waist! I tried to encompass one of my tits with my hands and realised that I’d need four pairs of hands to actually do the job.

  I was a slob; a big, fat sorry slob and I was disgusting!

  So; why did I still stuff my sorry face? I let go of my tit and tried to work it out, but it made me feel too edgy, so I tried yet again to work out why Bob had done a bunk, what I’d done and…

  But how was all this my fault? It wasn’t my fault that Bob had walked out on me; it had to be because I was fat. There was no other logical explanation, but if there was I couldn’t see it and…

  Oh, Lord.

  “Stop it, woman.” I told myself. I was going too far down the well and I couldn’t do that right now. I had a son upstairs who needed me and I had to make some attempt at sorting this God-awful mess out.

  I grabbed the remains of the biscuit and took another bite, and I munched as I went up to his room and rapped softly on Mark’s door.

  “Are you in there, love?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer, but I heard the rustle of bedclothes on the other side. I popped the last bite into my mouth and gently opened the door in case he was asleep. I did feel sorry for him, actually. He must be going through his own turmoil of emotions after what had…

  I nearly choked on the Digestive.

  I tried not to cough crumbs all over the floor as Mark tried frantically to cover a head with the bedclothes. But, I had spotted a tangle of bright pink hair, and if it hadn’t been for one very large gold hoop earring, I could have thought he was doing something to a stuffed toy.

  “Mark,” I spluttered through the crumbs. “What’s going on?”

  God, what a stupid question: it was as plain as the fat on my hips what was going on.

  He was still burying the pink tangle under his duvet and I was worried that he’d suffocate the poor thing. “Mark, let her up for air.”

  The head emerged, followed by a pair of huge, black and very scared eyes. A tiny nose poked over the duvet, which was held by one small hand with bright pink nails.

  I waved, and the nails waved back. “Hello, I’m Jackie.” I offered awkwardly.

  “Hi, I’m like Teesha.” Came a response muffled by the duvet.

  There were a few tense seconds of silence, then I sighed and clapped my hands together. “Okay! I’ll leave you two for now.” I backed out the door. “Nice to meet you, Teesha.” I raced down the stairs to my sanctuary of the kitchen.

  Oh, for goodness’ sake, why was I such a dork? Of course Mark would have a girlfriend; of course he’d be having sex! Kids all over the place were having sex before they’d done their SATS!

  Oh, crikey, had Mark had sex before his SATS?

  I realised that I didn’t have a clue. I realised that there was a lot I didn’t have a clue about concerning Mark. Chloe and I had talked, even though she’d get uncomfortable and tut and squirm if I pried too much, especially when I’d talked about safe sex, but I’d known enough of what she’d got up to. She’d talked to me about boyfriends, exams, friends and where she was going in the evenings, and although the information was pretty basic, it had been sufficient to keep my mind easy.

  Mark was a different kettle of fish. He should have had a father to talk to, to confide in, and bloody Bob had been in Spain doing things that had landed us in a position of three pounds seventy-two piddling pence and a bright pink ‘like Teesha’ in Mark’s bed!

  Oh, I realised then that I really needed to kick Bob’s swindling sandy head in at that moment.

  The kettle finished boiling, and I’d eaten the stale Digestive and didn’t have anything to eat with it, dammit. I fished deeper into the larder to see if I could find something else, and found the rice cakes shoved behind the out-of-date cans of Weight Watchers soup. Well, beggars with less than four quid couldn’t be choosers; I released one from its cellophane with my fingernails and pulled the butter out of the fridge, spread a good layer of it on the rice cake and took my tea into the living room.

  Where the heck was Richard?

  I flicked the TV on and found Loose Women, and munched on the buttery rice cake while waiting anxiously for the doorbell to ring. It was foul, but it was a comfort of sorts. Apart from punishing my body when I got depressed, anxiety gave me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that could only be placated with food. It was a double-edged sword, I knew that, but the nausea made me feel quite weak, so I ate, lamented that I ate, got depressed and ate some more, then got anxious and felt sick… and so on and so on. To boot, the food had to be stodgy or sweet; fruit made me feel even worse. And yoghurt. When I thought about the yoghurt I’d eaten before going out, I felt sick again. I forced the rice cake and butter down to lay the putrid bubbling to rest.

  I heard creeping on the stairs and twittery whispering, then the front door opened and Mark called out. “Mum! Going out! Bye!” and the door shut quite quietly, considering Mark’s usual heavy slam.

  Loose Women ran their usual competition; ten thousand pounds if you could guess who was the Spanish dictator who died in 1975. Was it:

  a) Robert de Nero

  b) Al Pacino

  c) Francisco Franco

  Oh, I was so tempted, but I couldn’t afford the bloody telephone rate. I had to hang on to those three pounds and seventy-two pence in case I needed an emergency pack of biscuits and a pizza. No, I’d have to choose between biscuits or pizza, as it wouldn’t cover both.

  Oh, please-please-please, Richard!

  I heard the crunch of car wheels over the gravel on the drive, and I raced to the window, tea in hand.

  Finally! Richard had arrived.

  I yanked open the front door and waited for him to get out of his car. He gave me a short wave and flicked open the back of his four-by-four, and dragged out a huge cardboard box, which looked like it had housed an oven at one time, and into the hall.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer before returning to the boot to pull out another box. And finally, anot
her before he shut the boot top down and scurried into the house. He pressed an index finger to his lips and ushered me out to the garden.

  “I’ll be quick.” He whispered.

  I almost responded with ‘I’ll listen very carefully while you say this only once’ in a heavy French accent.

  Christ, I was getting paranoid.

  “You’ll find everything you need for quite a while in the boxes. Now,” he grabbed my elbow. “Do not go to the bank to make any deposits. The only thing you must do is cancel all direct debits and organise things so that you pay the bills personally. I know it’s time-consuming, but you have to do it. You do understand?”

  I studied him for a second or two: who the hell did he think he was talking to? He was treating me like a bloody pawn in some kind of ‘mission im-bloody-possible’ episode, he was expecting me to run around like a frigging errand boy because Bob had done… oh, the hell with it! I’d had enough.

  “No, Richard; I don’t understand anything, and we will stand out here in sub-zero temperatures until you answer all the questions I need answers to. Do you understand?”

  He tutted and shook his cuff up to look at his watch.

  “I said, Richard,” in a much harsher tone than I’d intended, but I was really good and fed up. “Do you fucking understand!”

  I hadn’t used strong language since Chloe began to show signs of understanding what was said to her, and I could see it had shaken Richard. He didn’t answer, so I carried on.

  “Now, I don’t know if all this standing out in the cold means you think our house is bugged, but you could suspect that my little fishing gnome over there has a bug up his backside as well. So, shall we play twenty questions, or will you give me direct answers? I apologise for not having learnt sign language, but this has all happened so fast.” I pulled him to the bench under the acacia and stared intently into his eyes, daring him to blink. “Is Bob still in the country?”

  He shook his head.

  “Is he in Europe?”

  A slower shake, to which I frowned. “No, Jackie.”

  “Has he killed anyone?”

  A definite shake.

  “Does someone want to kill him?”

  “Not yet.”

  Oh, that made my tummy jump.

  “Are you directly involved in whatever he’s done?”

  “No. He kept this to himself, although he did tell me some of what he was up to, I never knew the ins and outs.”

  My jaw dropped. “And you let your brother get himself knee-deep in this shit all by himself?”

  “If he went solo, he told me, there was less chance of being caught out.” He replied quickly. “He knows the terrain so well out there and I don’t, Jackie. He was the one who’d built up the contacts.”

  Oh, now I saw the light. “This has something to do with real estate, Spanish style.”

  Richard glanced sheepishly at the grass.

  “Christ, Richard! I thought the shit had hit the fan on that one years ago, and it was all getting sorted. Anyway, I had no idea that Bob had anything to do with it.”

  Bob had told me stories of common ground being illegally exploited for construction, and other stuff that didn’t have the proper authority, apart from back-handers under the mayors’