Running in Heels (16 page)

I'm trapped in a pop psychology class with no doors. “Fat is
fat
, Barbara. There is nothing in the Western world—apart from pedophiles and murderers—quite so reviled as a fat woman. Except a fat woman talking with her mouth full. Fat is poor, Babs. Fat is stupid, greedy, indulgent, and disgusting.”

“I don't think fat is any of those things,” she replies coolly. “That's just your warped perception. I know lots of big women who are smart, powerful, ha—”

“If you say ‘Oprah Winfrey' I'm going to scream.”

“Natalie,” snaps Babs. “I'm not talking about celebrities, I'm talking about women I
know
. But when you say ‘fat,' Natalie,
you
don't mean women who are clinically obese. You mean women who weigh over nine stone. That's ninety percent of the female population. Has it occurred to you that what you think is ‘fat' is normal?”

“People feel sorry for you if you're fat, it's seen as failure.”

Babs replies primly, “So being Miss Skeleton Head shows your success and sophistication, does it?”

“Pretty much,” I snap. “Pretty being the operative word.”

A nasty thought occurs to me. Babs nabs it. “Oh Christ,” she says, “you think I'm jealous. Natalie. Please. I care about you. I want you to be well. And I know that thin doesn't work. The one time I went on a diet, years ago, the Cabbage Soup Diet—I smelled like a bog and farted like one. And I looked a right state! Like a thawing snowman, my top half melted away. I had a chest as flat as Holland. It took me a while, but I realized I like my body how it is. It works for me. I use it. I enjoy it. I want to smell a rose, run up a hill, pat a dog, watch a sunset, make love to Si—it sounds cheesy, but my body lets me do those things. It's perfect for what I need it to be. What does your body do for you, Nat? You treat it like a prison.”

I shake my head. As far as I can see, I'm in the dock for not clearing my plate and we're looking at a life sentence. All this fuss.

“I was
not
angry when you got married,” I squeak. “I was pleased for you. I'm sorry,” I add silkily, “if it came across that way.”

Babs grits her teeth. “Nat,” she says. “You play this game, this polite, meek, pardon-me-for-speaking game. But there's a lot about you that isn't meek. There's a lot about you that's powerful. You're a wolf disguised as a lamb. And sometimes I feel that you're taunting us with it.”

“Who's
us
?” I say coldly, displeased at the wolf analogy.

“Me. Your mother. Your dad. Even Tony, if he ever bloody opened his eyes to notice.”

How she has the nerve. “Please don't talk about Tony like that,” I say. I dig my nails into my skin until the pain is gaspingly sharp. “This is nothing to do with you or my family. You and they are fine. I am quite aware that you have less time for me now you're with Simon. Admittedly, my mother is hard work, but she
is kind and caring and I love her. And I love my dad and I adore Tony. He might not be touchy-feely, but so what?”

“They are fine,
you
are not fine. Starving yourself is not a good way of communicating that you're sad and angry, Nat. You've got a voice. Use it.”

I need to shut her up fast. “Babs,” I say, “don't worry about me. I'm just a vain foolish silly little girl who wants to look like a supermodel.”

NO ONE LIKES TO HAVE THEIR CHARITY THROWN
back in their face. They've gone to the great trouble of stuffing their old, stained fashion mistakes into a plastic rubbish bag so that those less fortunate can shuffle about Kosovo in Frankie Says Relax T-shirts, striped A-line skirts, and purple snoods, so to have their generosity rejected hurts. Babs jumps up and I watch her, heart hammering.

“Fine,” she says, her tone so chilly it would have a polar bear reaching for his down jacket. “If that's how you want it.”

She marches into the hall with long haughty strides, me scampering after her like a puppy. She reaches for the latch and adds crisply, “I tried.”

Then she yanks open the front door, and slams it roughly behind her. Which would be all very soap opera, were it not that her red scarf catches in the door and, judging from the surprised yelp, hauls her back by the neck as she tries to flounce off. I listen to Babs struggling with the scarf for about thirty seconds, and consider waiting for the rude shrill of the doorbell and the bitterly spat “thanks”—no compensation for the shriveling of dignity that follows making a sod-you exit, then being forced to crawl back again.

I open the door. I in my underpants, she scowling in fury, we stare at each other for a fragile moment and burst out laughing. We shriek and howl so much I have to squeeze my legs together and do a Mick Jagger walk to prevent an unseemly accident. “Stop it!” I gasp, “Stop it or I'll”—
squirm, wriggle, Jumping Jack Flash
—“oh, it's okay, it's gone back up!”

Babs teeters on the edge of hysteria, and blurts, “Bloody bastard scarf!”

I grin, shy suddenly, as our laughter drains to a trickle. “Don't go,” I mumble. “Stay for a bit, and we'll, we'll”—I squeeze out the words—“talk about things.”

Babs smiles at me, a luscious full-cream crinkly-eyed smile. “On one condition.”

“What?” I say.

“That you get dressed. You'll catch your death of cold,” she adds, aping my mother.

I realize that my teeth are chattering and my hands are blue and I'm in my underpants. “Okay,” I say, “but let me make you a cup of t—”

“
I'll
do it,” says Babs, “I know where the kettle is, be off with you.”

I grin, and trundle toward my bedroom. I don't want to wear the clothes I was in when Babs outed me. Oh god. I feel like a heavyweight boxer with a closet interest in needlepoint. Am I even a little of what she says I am? She thinks I'm angry with her for getting married. How selfish am I? I see myself as she must see me, a fat, selfish, red-faced girl, stamping her unfeasibly large foot at the world. Ought I to have spent more on her wedding present?

If this is the truth, it makes me feel small. At least something does. But I can't stand to have Babs think badly of me. I rummage through my wardrobe, and snatch the soft clingy pink top that Matt chose to hasten my first step to infidelity. I pull it on and it hangs off me, like a sheet off a scarecrow. More or less since Babs got engaged, I have avoided squaring up to the
wardrobe mirror. Now, I force myself to meet my own eyes. My hair is tufty—my
head
hair, my armpits are bald, thank you—where I've back-combed it, to make it seem thicker, and my complexion is the shade of natural yogurt. Hello, Edward Scissorhands.

I stare as if seeing myself for the first time. I am ugly. And knowing that Babs is right, that I didn't want Simon to take her away from me, makes me feel uglier. But she did abandon me. We were a unit. We were two peas in a pod, until Simon, a great big flashy string bean, swaggered greenly onto the scene and stole her from me. At this point I thank heaven that some thoughts are private. Did I think Babs should have refused all romantic proposals because they'd inconvenience
me
?!

I'm a monster! I'm one of those lunatics you read about in the tabloid supplements. I ought to be ashamed of myself. (I would add, “and go to bed without any supper”—if it weren't unnecessary.) I
am
ashamed of myself. Ashamed of myself in many ways. Ashamed of growing up in Hendon. Ashamed of not getting top grades at university. Ashamed of having size-nine feet. But this is a new blend of shame to add to my list. I fiddle with the zip of a pair of navy trousers and blush. Did I expect Babs to put her love life on hold until I sorted mine out? Have I blamed Babs? On the other hand, it is not her place to criticize my family. What am I? Sad? Dislocated. As for anger, I don't know what that is. But, if I reach into my soul and wiggle my hand about, slime clings to it. I am full of white-hot ugliness. I am not what little girls are made of. I'm slugs and snails. Even puppy dog tails are too cute a composite for my brand of nastiness. I prod my stomach, hard. This inner rot is surely more than confetti envy. But
what
? I'll make it up to Babs. I'll do something to prove that I still deserve her friendship. And I know what it is I'll do. It would be 60 percent kind, 30 percent selfish, and 10 percent curiosity. I'll suggest it to her.

Then again, have I been that dreadful? A little cool, a little
ungracious. But Babs has to remember that she's the winner, I am the loser. She's the bride, I'm the one left behind. She brushed me off like a crumb from the table, and I find the best way to cope with rejection is to jump in there first.

I smooth down what remains of my hair, and decide that I will demote Babs in the friendship league. She drops to second division. She is ousted as Best Friend, and the position remains vacant until further notice. Inwardly I'm getting even, but outwardly I'm humble. And while this might not adhere to religious notions of contrition, it's a start. Repentance is an acquired taste, like dieting. What concessions will I—

“Are you okay in there, Nat?” booms a voice outside the door.

I jump. “Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, hang on, I'll be with you in one sec.”

I pull on the brown snakeskin boots Matt made me buy—they're high enough to make even my feet look small, but the payoff is backache the next day. I can't help feeling sorry for myself. With me, there's always a price. Babs's favorite shoes would induce vertigo in mountaineers, yet she never suffers. I'm sure I'm the odd one out. Example: I'm always seeing other women in pretty coats—red mohair, or brown suede with a sheepskin ruff—and I think, where do they find coats like that? The only coats I ever see in shops are coarse and navy and look like they've been issued by the government. And coats aren't it. I've always been unlucky. I was the only child in my school denied the once-in-a-lifetime experience of unwrapping a Kit Kat that was solid chocolate. (Not that I care now, of course.)

Wait a minute, I'm supposed to be repenting. I take a deep breath and burst into the hallway, tingling with good intentions. Babs hands me a cup of coffee. “Black, no sugar,” she says.

I feel a throb of gratitude. I hate black coffee. It's so bitter it's like biting into an apple pip. Babs knows I prefer it white but won't drink it that way because milk is fattening and if I add so much as a splash of it, the remaining buttons on my slinky pink
top will pop off me as I morph into the Incredible Hulk, and that when I next lumber through Primrose Hill, the entire size-eight community will run away screaming.

“Actually,” I say quickly, “I'll have it white.”

The coffee cup wobbles in Babs's hand.

“Just a splash. I'll do it.”

Babs bears the coffee cup back to the kitchen like a knight bearing an infidel's head back to the king. I don't have to drink it. Forty-nine calories per hundred milliliters of semi-skimmed, nearly six times that in a pint. I can always do a double run tomorrow. Or after she's gone.

“You've got a frog in your mouth!” shouts Babs as I dribble milk into the mug. I glance up, guiltily. I know she's using our private shorthand (meaning: “spit it out”) to make me feel better.

“Nat,” she adds softly, “it's very brave of you to do this.”

I feel ridiculous. “Yes,” I say. “Five-year-olds are fighting cancer, but it is very brave of me to add a drop of milk to my coffee.”

Babs pouts. “Feel the pain, Nat,” she declares in a bogus Californian accent to disguise the mortifying fact that she's in earnest. “It's relative, but it still hurts.”

I smile, remembering a phase Tony went through, of cracking down on people who used silly voices to say things they were embarrassed about. (“Are you leaving work early or is Peter Rabbit leaving work early?”) Babs tilts her head, to beckon me into the living room. I feel a flutter of fear as I trot in behind her. I want to please her, to avert a telling-off.

“Babs,” I say. “How's Andy?”

If Babs is surprised, she doesn't show it. “He's okay. He's fine.”

“Has he”—I resolve to ask the question tactfully but, as ever, my tact receptacles tangle with my tactless receptacles—“found anywhere to live yet or is he still living with your parents?”

“He's still looking,” replies Babs. “I've said he could stay with
me, but the truth is, I don't think Si's that keen. Newlyweds and all that,” she adds, her voice laced with sarcasm.

I exclaim, “Oh that's brilliant! I mean, it's perfect because, well, I've got a spare room. If he likes he can come and live here for a bit!”

I hope the edge isn't taken off my charitable gesture by the glaring fact that, as of today, I do actually
need
a lodger if my home isn't to be repossessed in the near future. Maybe Babs won't twig.

“Oh!” she says, medium to joyous. “What made you change your mind? Oh, sorry, yes of course, money.”

“No!” I bleat. “It's not that! I mean, yes I do need the money now, more than I did, but honestly, it's not that. It's just that…Well.”

I stop. That you're prepared to eat humble pie isn't enough for some people. They want to feed it to you.

“Iknowivebeenabitsulkyrecentlyandifeelbadaboutitandiknowandyslookingforaplacetoliveandyouthoughthecouldlivehereandi ignoredthehintandiwanttomakeituptoyou.”

“Run that by me again,” says Babs, crossing her long legs.

Did I say feed it to you? I meant, force-feed it to you with a shovel.

“I know,” I sigh—reluctantly granting each word its full complement of syllables and consonants—“that I've been a bit sulky recently, and I feel bad about it. I really do. And I know Andy's had trouble finding a short-term let that's under a million pounds a month, and I've been, er, thoughtless in not asking if he'd like to live here. So I wanted to make it up to you.”

I don't mention that since the birthday party encounter, my interest in her brother has been growing. (I never did have the nerve to mention him to Robbie.) I wouldn't mind observing Andy at slightly closer range. For purely scientific reasons.

Babs clunks her mug down on my glass-topped coffee table and I try not to shout “Careful!”

“That's so nice of you, Nat,” she cries. “So bloody nice. I'll ask him tonight, shall I?”

“Yeah,” I say, pink with pleasure and praying he's less of an almighty slob than his sister.

Babs keeps grinning at me until I don't know where to look. Then she twists her Ayers Rock of a ruby ring (she wanted understated but Si wanted overstated) and blurts, “And I'm sorry if I haven't been that friendly toward Chris. I know you like him, it's just that I…I suppose I felt sorry for Saul, and Chris is so…he strikes me as so phony, but Si says he used to be different, but as long as you like him and he's good to you, that's what matters.”

I can tell we're heading for a girly backtracking contest (“Oh no,
you're
wonderful,
I
am useless, why ever did I give the impression that I thought
you
were useless when you're so
wonderful
,” etc.) and decide not to fight it.

“Thanks,” I say. I defeat the urge to give her a verbal rap on the knuckles.

“Frog!” yells Babs.

I clap a hand over my mouth. “It's awful that you can tell,” I gasp, “it's like you've got a built-in lie detector.”

“Out with it,” orders Babs.

“Well, okay,” I say, gripping my mug. I feel hot and cold at the same time.

“All I was going to say was”—I try not to insult her—“you keep going on about me lightening up and yet, when I ditch Saul for Chris, you have a go at me and try to matchmake me with Robbie!”

I cringe. The glass vase of tact lies shattered in a million pieces. Again. “I mean—” I start.

“No,” exclaims Babs, “that's good, that's good, you must
say
.” She elongates “say” into a great stretchy sausage of a word.

“You're right,” she adds, frowning. “You're right. Shit, I was out of order with Robbie. I'm sorry. I just want to see you with a nice guy. I suppose, what I mean is, there's losing control in a reasonable way, and then there's losing it in a destructive way.
And I think that Chris is the destructive way. With him, it's about reaching oblivion.”

“So what you're saying is that I must lose control in a controlled way?”

“Yes!” says Babs, then she snorts, “Oh piss off!

“Though,” she adds, “that
is
more or less it. I'll be honest, I don't know much about eating disorders”—she mumbles this as if tasting the awkwardness on her tongue—“but I can see how hard it is for you to, to let yourself eat a proper amount. And I do know that it's more than just wanting to be thin, this feeling ugly business and all, but, Nat, would you try to manage a little more food, get a tiny bit more energy, just for me?”

She has the wheedling tone of a mother bribing her five-year-old daughter with sweets. Or rather, she has the wheedling tone of
my
mother bribing her five-year-old daughter with sweets. I want to please her. I don't want to disappoint her.