Jemima J. (2 page)

For now I settle down in my chair and pick up the phone to call the local veterinary practice.

_p. 8
“Hello,” I say in my brightest telephone voice. “This is Jemima Jones from the
Kilburn Herald.
Would you have any idea how to remove the smell of cat spray from a pair of curtains?”

Jemima Jones pulls open the front door and immediately her heart sinks. Every day as she goes home on the bus she crosses her chubby fingers and prays her roommates will be out, prays for some peace and quiet, a chance to be on her own.

But as soon as the door opens she hears the music blasting from the living room, the giggles that punctuate their conversation, and with sinking heart she pushes her head round the door.

“Hi,” I say to the two girls, one lying on each sofa, swapping gossip. “Anyone fancy a cup of tea?”

“Ooh, Mimey, love one,” they both chorus, and I wince at the nickname they have taken it on themselves to bestow upon me. It’s a nickname I had at school, one I tried to forget because the very mention of it, even now, brings back memories of being the fat girl in the class, the one who was bullied, the one who was always left out.

But Sophie and Lisa, in their vaguely patronizing way, continue to call me Mimey. They may not have known me at school, but they do know I hate the name because I once summoned up enough courage to tell them, but the fact that it irritates only seems to amuse them more.

Do you want to know about Sophie and Lisa? Sophie and Lisa lived in this flat long before I came on the scene, and most of the time I think they were probably far happier, except that they didn’t have a permanent tea-maker in the evenings. Sophie is blond, a chic, snappy blonde with an inviting smile and come-to-bed eyes. Lisa is brunette, long, tousled locks and a full, pouting mouth.

Meeting them for the first time you’d probably think they were perhaps fashion buyers, or something similarly glamorous,
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because both have perfect figures, ready smiles, and wardrobes of designer clothes, but, and this is the only thing that makes me smile, the truth is far less interesting.

Sophie and Lisa are receptionists. They work together at an advertising agency, and spend their days trying to outscore one another with dates. They have both, in turn, worked through all the men in the agency, most of them eligible, some not so eligible, and now they sit behind their polished steel and beech desk, and hope for a dishy new client to walk through the door, someone to set their hearts alight, their eyelashes afluttering.

It’s not unusual for them to be at home now, but it is unusual for them to be at home all evening. They arrive home at 5:30
P.M.
on the dot then lounge around reading magazines, watching television, gossiping, before jumping into hot baths at 7
P.M.,
hair at 7:45
P.M.,
and makeup at 8:15
P.M.

Every night they’re out the front door, dressed to the nines, by 9
P.M.
Teetering on the highest heels, they totter out, giggling together, instructing me, and I’m usually either in my room or watching television, to behave myself. Every night they seem to think this is hugely funny, and every night I want to smack them. It’s not that I dislike them, they’re just completely inconsequential, a couple of chattering parakeets who constantly amaze me with their stupidity.

Off they go to Mortons, Tramp, Embargo. Anonymous places where they pick up anonymous men, who might, if they’re lucky, wine, dine, and drive them around in Ferraris before disappearing off into the night.

Don’t be ridiculous, of course I don’t go with them, but, as contemptuous as I am of their lifestyles, a part of me, just a tiny part, would love to have a taste of it too.

But it’s not worth even thinking about. They are thin and beautiful, and I am not. I would never dare suggest going along, and they would never dare ask me. Not that they are nasty, you understand, underneath the glitz and glamour they’re nice girls, but a girl has to keep up appearances, and fat friends, I’m afraid, do not come into the equation.

_p. 10
Their
diet, such as it is, seems to consist of bottles of champagne fueled by lines of cocaine provided by the men they meet. The fridge at home is always empty, unless I’ve been shopping, and in the eight months I’ve lived here I have never seen them eat a proper meal.

Occasionally I’ve seen one of them come in announcing “I’m starving!,” and then Sophie, or Lisa, will pull open the door of the fridge and walk into the living room munching on a tomato, or half a slice of pita bread with the thinnest spreading of hummus I’ve ever seen.

You doubtless think we make an odd trio. You’re probably right. The Italian man in the deli at the end of the road was flabbergasted to discover we lived together. The two beauties he flirts with at every opportunity, and the sad, overweight girl who probably reminds him of his fat mother always dressed in black.

But Mr. Galizzi has got it wrong, because for all my faults I’m not sad. Miserable a lot of the time, yes, but those who bother to get under the layers of fat know that not only does there beat a heart of gold, I’m also bloody good fun to be around, providing I’m in the right mood. But nobody really bothers to look for that, nobody really bothers to look beneath the surface appearance.

I stand in the kitchen, dropping three teabags into three oversized mugs. I pour in the water, add skim milk from the fridge, and out of habit drop in two heaped teaspoons of powdered sweetener for myself. Good girl, I tell myself, good girl for resisting the sugar, nestling quietly yet ominously in the cupboard above the kettle.

I bring the tea into the living room, and Sophie and Lisa cry their thanks, but the lazy cows don’t move from the sofas, don’t clear a space for me to sit down, so what else can I do but hover in the doorway, clasping my burning hot mug and wondering how soon I can go up to my room.

“How was today?” I eventually venture, as the girls stare at
_p. 11
the television set, watching some sitcom featuring perfect-looking people with perfect white teeth and perfect figures.

“Hmm?” says Sophie, eyes never leaving the screen, even while I sip my tea.

“We’re in love,” offers Lisa, looking at me for the first time this evening. “We’ve got the most amazing new client.”

Now Sophie looks interested, and I lower myself to the floor, sitting cross-legged and awkwardly in my role as agony aunt.

“Honestly, Mimey, this guy
was
gorgeous, but we don’t know which one of us he fancies.”

Sophie shoots a fake filthy look at Lisa, who smiles broadly.

“He definitely fancied one of you then?” I don’t really need to ask the question, because who, after all, would not fancy one of these beautiful girls at first sight?

“Oh yes,” said Lisa. “After his meeting he stood at the reception desk for ages chatting.”

“I think he was chatting up Lisa,” says Sophie.

“No,” says Lisa. “Don’t be ridiculous, sweetie. He was interested in you.” But it’s completely bloody obvious she doesn’t mean it, and even I can see that he was mesmerized by Lisa’s pouting lips and tumbling, just-out-of-bed locks.

“So did he ask you out?” I ask, wishing for a fleeting second that some handsome stranger would stop at my desk and chat me up. Just once. Just to see what it feels like.

“No,” Lisa says ruefully. “But he did ask if we’d both be there next week when he comes in for a meeting.”

“We were sitting here before, planning what to wear,” says Sophie, turning to Lisa. “So, what about the red suit?”

“I’m just going upstairs,” I say, feeling well and truly left out as I heave myself to my feet and edge out the door. I’m no longer needed, the courtesies of greeting have been dealt with, and I would never be asked an opinion on clothes, because as far as Sophie and Lisa are aware I haven’t got a clue.

I climb slowly upstairs, stopping at the top to catch my
_p. 12
breath, walk into my bedroom and lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling, until my breathing becomes slower, more regular.

I lie there and spin out an elaborate fantasy about what I would wear if I were thin. I would have my hair cut into a super-trendy shaggy style, and perhaps, if I dared, would have a few blond highlights, just at the front.

I would wear sunglasses a lot of the time. Occasionally they would be big Hollywood film-star tortoiseshell ones, but the rest of the time they would be cool, smart little round glasses, glasses that spelled sophistication, glamour.

I would wear tight cream trousers, lycra crop tops, and the bits of flesh exposed would be taut and tanned. I would, I decide, even look fantastic in a bathrobe. I look at my old white bathrobe hanging on the back of the door, huge, voluminous. I love wrapping it around myself for comfort, trying desperately to ignore the fact that I resemble a balloon with legs.

But when I’m slim I’ll keep that bathrobe. It will, being a man’s bathrobe, gather in folds of fabric around my athletic new body. The sleeves will hang down, obscuring my hands, and I will look cute and vulnerable.

Even first thing in the morning I will look gorgeous. With no makeup and tousled hair, I imagine meeting Mr. Perfect, and curling up in an armchair with the bathrobe wrapped around me, exposing just my long, glowing legs, my bony knees, and naturally he will be head over heels in love with me.

I think about this for a while, and then I remember my magazine. I draw it out of my bag and once again study the pictures, reaching into my bedside drawer to pull out the scissors and add the latest models to my collection.

And as I put the scissors back I notice, at the very back of the drawer, a box of cookies. My God! I actually forgot about them, I actually forgot about food in the house.

No. I won’t. I’m being good now. But then surely it’s better to eat them, make them disappear, so there’s no more bad food in the house. Surely it’s better to finish them in one go than to
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eat them slowly and steadily over the course of a week. That way there won’t be any left after tonight, and then I can really start my diet. The one that’s going to work. The one that’s going to fulfill my fantasies.

Yes, I’ll eat them now and start again tomorrow.