Fat Girl Slim Read online

  by

  Marina Johnson

  Copyright © Marina Johnson 2018

  ****

  Tamarillas Press

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, businesses, organisations and situations in this publication are either a product of the author’s imagination or used factiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover artwork: © Marina Johnson

  Design: © A Mayes

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 1

  T he first time I saw Bella she was frowning and she looked to be in an almighty hurry. She was marching with rapid, clip-cloppity steps that echoed importantly on the supermarket floor. She had her head down, deep in thought so she didn’t notice me studying her, but no one ever notices me. At least, not in a good way.

  It was four o’clock on a murky January afternoon and I was on my usual circuit of the Foodco aisles thinking about the miserable Christmas Mother and I had just had. Bella was tugging along one of those new hand baskets on wheels, very chic looking but not nearly big enough for everything I wanted to buy, and I just happened to look up and there she was. I guessed she’d just finished work because she was wearing one of those lanyards with a security pass swinging from it, somehow managing to make even that look glamorous, all swingy and important. That’s how I knew her name, Bella Somerton, isn’t that a beautiful name? If she wanted to be an actress she wouldn’t even need to change her name, it’s just perfect as it is. Sales manager, Brotherton Estate Agents, it stated on the lanyard. I don’t think she noticed me staring at her and reading it. My body might be slow and cumbersome but I can read very quickly.

  I wish I had a lanyard but I’d need to get a job first, although on second thoughts perhaps not; no chance of a lanyard swinging anywhere on me, it’d be lost in the rolls of fat. And my name wouldn’t look half as good as hers; Alison Travis, it would say, unimportant fat person and dogsbody .

  Destiny, that’s what it was, although I didn’t realise that at the time. I’d seen a black cat that morning and I waited and waited to make sure it crossed my path so I knew it was going to be a lucky day. I just looked at her and wished that I could be like her and have a life like hers. Although I didn’t even know anything about her life then but I knew it would be far, far better than mine. And it was fate, or serendipity or whatever you want to call it because we did meet months later, so that just shows it was meant to be.

  But still, I’ll never forget seeing her that first time. Her long hair was billowing behind her in a lovely white blonde cloud and even though she was frowning she still looked flawless. Two faint horizontal lines of concentration between her eyes only served to make her seem thoughtful and more interesting. No, nothing could spoil that perfect face and figure.

  Seems strange to remember something like that, doesn’t it? There are lots of pretty girls around if you care to look, oodles of girls who’ve hit every pretty branch on their way down to earth. But looking back it was a sign, an omen, because we did meet properly eventually, even though, obviously, she didn’t remember me. I like to think of that moment when I first saw her as my rebirth, the start of the new me, my new life. Although I had no intention of making the changes immediately as I’d just bought myself a nice big packet of milk chocolate digestives and a six pack of cheese and onion crisps and there was no way I was going to waste them. Or so I thought at the time.

  So, I sort of followed her. Okay, I did follow her and I admired her from afar (the health food aisle actually, not that I was going to buy anything from it) and I had to speed up to keep pace with her as she walks very quickly. I was a bit out of breath to be honest; then I queued up and collected Mother’s weekly prescription from the chemist counter and then went to the checkout to pay for my shopping. The checkout was near to the self-scan checkouts and as I was waiting I could see Bella putting her shopping through the till and she even did that very prettily. Once I’d paid I bagged all of my shopping up and lumbered out to the car park. The cashier watched me stuff everything into bags and made no offer of help at all. I had a feeling the sheer size of me annoyed her and it might have been my imagination but every time she scanned something fattening she sniffed.

  When I got outside I looked for Bella in the car park but she must have gone and I remember I was disappointed; I wanted to know what kind of car she drove. If that cashier had helped me I might have got out there in time. And then I got in my car and went home to cook dinner just like any other day. Pork chops and mashed potatoes.

  Except.

  Something clicked in my brain that day and I made up my mind there and then; no more time wasting, no more being pathetic, I was going to become just like Bella. I’d made promises like that to myself so many times but this time I meant it. I was going to have a life before I was too old to enjoy it. Before it was too late.

  I wasn’t going to tell mother though because she’d only say I was being silly and to be satisfied with what I’d got. Be grateful for all of the sacrifices she’d made for me.

  No. It was going to be my little secret. It’d take a while before I could put my plan into action – I had to work on Mother for one thing. And my plan was a bit vague to be honest. I knew it would have to involve getting a job of some sort but I just had this feeling that things would work out, somehow. And I needed to let Mother think that everything was her idea otherwise I’d have no chance of it working. I’ve made that mistake too many times; got all excited about something that I wanted to do and Mother’s seemingly gone along with it, and then, bang, right at the last minute she’d change her mind and I’d be left devastated. It’s for my own good, Mother would say, it’s all very well having these silly ideas about jobs and things but who’s left to pick up the pieces when it all goes wrong? Well, Mother, of course.

  And anyway, she’d say, why do you want to get a job or to meet new people when everything you need is right here in this house, don’t you have everything a person could possibly want?

  No. This time I’m going to be a bit clever and let Mother think it was her idea, and then maybe it’ll work.

  ✽✽✽

  ‘You’ve put too much salt in these potatoes. And the chops are overcooked.’ Mother’s thin lips turn down at the corners and she frowns. Her tightly permed curls move slightly with the effect; she wouldn’t do that if she knew how unflattering it looks. Sort of like a grey woolly hat being tightened. I think I might have to use bigger rollers next time I perm it.

  ‘Sorry.’

  Mother puts her knife and fork down and pushes the tray away with a slight sneer of disgust.

  ‘I’ll just have some pudding.’

  This isn’t a good sign. Maybe I wasn’t concentrating when I was cooking because I was too busy thinking about how I’m going to change my life. Or she could just be looking for an excuse. I have to tread carefully otherwise the overcooke
d chops could blow up into a huge row which lasts the whole night. Which means I’ll miss my programmes.

  ‘I can make you something else, Mother.’ I pick the tray up from the bed.

  ‘No. I’ll just have pudding.’

  ‘Okay.’ I turn to come out of her room and down the stairs.

  ‘Can’t wait to get away, can you?’

  And that’s when I know that it’s pointless, she’s going to start and there’s no stopping it.

  ‘I’m not made of money you know,’ she says,’ I can’t afford for you to be wasting food like that.’

  I stop and turn around but I know it’s too late. I know now that there’ll be no programmes for me tonight, she’s going to have one of her episodes . That black cat wasn’t so lucky after all.

  ‘I’m really sorry Mother.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Mother pulls the quilt tighter around her. ‘It’s okay for you, living here for nothing, everything provided for you. You don’t even have to work. I worked for years, you’d don’t know how lucky you are. I don’t think you appreciate everything I do for you.’ Her voice is increasing in volume and I’m grateful that we have no neighbours to hear.

  When she’s like this it makes no difference what I say, she won’t be placated however hard I try. I did make the mistake once of thinking I might as well vent how I feel if she’s just to going to carry on anyway. Big, big mistake, it was months before she forgave me, months of nit-picking and checking every penny that I spent, every minute I was out of the house. It was absolutely unbearable and I learned from that mistake and never did it again.

  ‘Most people your age would be out earning a living.’ She almost shouts at me. It’s true, but I’m not most people, am I? I’ve never even had a job. After my A levels I intended to go to university to study English; I’d applied and been offered a place but then Mother had her stroke so I had to put it off. I was so disappointed. Especially when I saw all of my old school friends leaving for their new lives. The university let me defer it to the following year but Mother was still too ill for me to go and eventually I gave up the place and that was that. I’ve looked after her ever since. Ten years.

  ‘Selfish, like your father. He didn’t care either.’

  ‘Of course I care, Mother, you know I do.’

  ‘He left me. I expect you want to leave too, don’t you? Well, go on, I’m not stopping you. I can pay someone to look after me, probably cost less than keeping you .’

  She can’t help it, that’s what I tell myself. Most of the time she’s alright. Okay, she’s not alright she’s just about bearable. But every few weeks we have a blow up like this. Tonight, it was the potatoes and the chops but it could be anything. Last time I didn’t iron her nightie properly. It’s just an excuse; a reason to explode at me. In my kinder moments I excuse her behaviour by reasoning that it’s frustration. But in my unkind moments I think she does it because she enjoys it.

  I stand mutely in the doorway, it’s completely pointless to try and argue with her. It just has to run its course; first we’ll have the insults, the shouting, then I’ll have to apologise, then the tears.

  ‘You can leave anytime you like, I’m not stopping you – you go right ahead, see if you can find someone else to give you a home.’

  I’m used to it now and her words have no power to hurt me. She knows that I’ve nowhere else to go, no friends that I could stay with.

  ‘You,’ she points her finger at me, ‘are a fat lump and you need to do something about your eating because it’s not healthy, the amount you eat.’

  I am a fat lump and she doesn’t even know the half of what I eat. On a normal evening I’ll go downstairs after I’ve seen to Mother and watch my soaps and quiz programmes and I can eat and eat as much as I like without her knowing. Comfort eating, it’s called, although I don’t know why it’s called that because I get no comfort from it at all. It’s more of a compulsion. Something that I have to do.

  And because Mother can’t get down the stairs I know that I’m safe. I take her cocoa and her biscuits up to her at nine thirty and then I have peace until seven o’clock the next morning. She usually falls asleep around ten and very rarely bothers me. Occasionally I’ll be summoned to help her to the toilet but usually she’ll go to sleep. She can just about get to her en-suite on her own using her walking frame but she insists I help her. She calls me upstairs and I have to wait outside the door like a servant until she’s finished. I’m sure she does it because she knows I hate it

  ‘And I’m only saying that for your own good, because I care about you.’ She’s still going on. I don’t reply; I have an expression that I fix on my face which I hope conveys that I’m listening and she’s right. I don’t need to listen to what she’s saying because it’s always the same. I’ll wait for her to wear herself out and then I’ll make my escape downstairs.

  ‘It’s not healthy being that size, maybe you should go back to the doctor to give you a diet sheet.’

  I nod. That’s what I do, I agree with everything she says. Last year she went on about my weight so much I made an appointment to see the doctor and he encouraged me to join a slimming club. He also said he thought I was depressed although I didn’t tell Mother that because I’d never hear the end of it. It was strange, when I made the appointment I felt sure I’d be made to feel like a fat, lazy pig by the doctor but it wasn’t like that at all; quite the opposite in fact which is why I started crying and he thought I was depressed. It was the unexpected kindness you see, I’m not used to it.

  Anyway, I came home and told Mother about the slimming club and she could see straight away that I didn’t want to do it so of course she absolutely insisted that I went to the meeting at the community centre. I didn’t want to go and I couldn’t even lie and pretend I’d been because I knew she’d want to see the pamphlets and diet plan the minute I got home. I was so nervous that I couldn’t eat my tea before I went; the food just wouldn’t go down which is unheard of for me.

  I remember walking into the hall and being shocked at the amount of people in there, people as fat, and fatter, than me. For once I didn’t feel out of place and embarrassed about my size. A bubbly dark-haired lady saw me standing by the door and came over and introduced herself as Fiona, the group leader. She took my hand and led me over to the table at the front. I had a moment of panic then, I thought maybe I’d have to be weighed in front of everyone, but no, it was all very discreet, no one ever knows what you weigh, and she even asked me how much weight I wanted to lose! No lectures, no telling me what to do, Fiona said it didn’t work like that, that’s not what they’re there for.

  No one sniggered as I followed Fiona to the front, no wide-eyed looks like I get from people as I waddle into Foodco with my trolley, no pursed lips like I get when I put my chocolate and crisps through the check-out (I use the self-service when possible now, much better).

  No, my fellow weight watchers smiled and said hello, they welcomed me.

  The hour and a half just flew by and I was sorry when the meeting finished; it was so nice to talk to other people without feeling judged. Actually, it was nice to talk to other people, full stop. Most days the only person I talk to is Mother or a shop assistant if they’re not looking down their nose at me. People were even laughing about secret eating and binging on chocolate, instead of feeling guilty and disgusting for stuffing their faces. I even thought, maybe I can make some friends.

  Of course when I came home I made the mistake of telling Mother all about it when I should have just kept my mouth shut. I should have known what would happen but I was so excited and pleased about the meeting that I couldn’t help it. I was on a high and I forgot myself; I forgot to be careful. I was so looking forward to the next meeting, I couldn’t wait for the week to go by and Mother never said anything and I thought, maybe, just maybe, I’ve got away with it.

  So, I went to the next meeting and it was so lovely when I walked in and people remembered me and smiled and said hello. Miraculously, when I got on
to the scales I’d actually lost five pounds. I was elated and I just couldn’t wipe the smile off of my face. Anne, the lady sitting next to me said I should enjoy the feeling because that would keep me motivated to keep doing it. She’d lost three stone. Three stone! I started to think that maybe I could do it too. Anne said it was really important to stay for the ‘fat talk’ as she called it. Although a lot of people just came to get weighed, she said she always stayed. She promised to save me the seat next to her if I was going to stay every week, because she always sat in the front row. I felt a bit choked that someone would save a seat for me; not much to most people but it meant a lot to me .

  But it didn’t last. Fiona, the group leader, was just starting the fat talk when my phone started vibrating. It was Mother of course, ringing from the extension in her bedroom. I ignored it the first time but she rang again so I had to slip outside to take the call. I knew I couldn’t ignore her again or it would result in one of her episodes. She sounded frail and pathetic and said she wasn’t feeling very well at all so I had to go home immediately. I never even went back inside to say goodbye; I knew there was no point, I wouldn’t be going there again.

  Mother looked fine when I got home, quite recovered. I knew there was nothing wrong with her. Mother said perhaps it wasn’t a good idea for me to go anymore as she didn’t like being left on her own in the evenings; she felt vulnerable, was afraid she’d have a bad turn and I wouldn’t get home in time. She said that since I had all the information I didn’t need to go to the meetings to know how to do the diet. No point in wasting five pounds every week just to get weighed.

  So, I had to agree with her, didn’t I? I had no choice. And, of course, I put that five pounds back on by the next week and I’ve piled on even more since then.

  So that was that. And I know Mother can’t help it, but sometimes, you know, I think I’d like to kill her.

  Chapter 2

  M other finally stopped her histrionics at nine o’clock and graciously allowed me to make her a cup of cocoa. I took it up to her with two rich tea biscuits and kissed her goodnight. We’ve agreed that I’ll try harder to contain my nastiness and be more grateful for all that she does for me.