The Flavours of Love (25 page)

Instead of moving, he stands, an impressive figure in his suit, switching his gaze between our black glossed wood door and me.

‘Is something wrong?’ I ask.

‘I, erm, was hoping to see Phoebe,’ he says.

A swift, chilling breeze of suspicion raises the hairs on the back of my neck, piquing the interest of the goosebumps on my arms and jangling my hackles. ‘Why?’ I ask.

‘It’s not obvious?’ he asks.

I shake my head, sizing him up as the man who did this to my daughter because I do not believe it is down to Curtis. He seems too respectful, honest. Lewis stares back at me, openly sizing me up as a serious contender for The Worst Mother In The World award – again.

‘She’s my pupil, she’s
pregnant
.’ He whispers the last word possibly to stop the neighbours hearing, possibly so as not to enrage The Worst Mother In The World – me – with such loaded words. ‘Since she hasn’t been to school in three days, I would like to check she’s OK.’

Of course he does,
of course
he does. What’s wrong with me? The old me wouldn’t even think such a thing was possible, the me before words like ‘murder’ and ‘sexual contact with a child’ became a part of my daily life wouldn’t have even thought it possible.

‘Remember how I said my daughter doesn’t speak to me?’ I say.

Lewis nods.

‘Well, she’s started speaking to me now. To tell me she hates that I’m going out with you even like this, as two people who’ve been invited to the same place at the same time by my bossy, pushy friend. You will not receive a positive welcome if you walk through that door.’
You might even get a taste of what it’s like to be me sometimes
.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Well … I can’t say I’m surprised. She must be going through so many conflicting emotions right now, her mother and her teacher going to the same place at the same time to not discuss her must be a huge thing.’

‘Everything feels huge to her right now,’ I say.

‘Yeah, I’d imagine so.’

‘I’ll drive,’ I offer.

‘Are you sure about that?’ he replies, following me down the concrete steps to the garden path and then to the front gate. ‘I mean, if you drive, I might be able to drink and if I drink I may start to have ridiculous delusions that you and I are dating or something equally horrific.’ With an ‘I got the message’ hitch of his eyebrow, he sidesteps me on the pavement and heads for his car.

‘
If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, what do you think it is, Babes?
’

‘
A duck-billed platypus
.’

*

Technically, Imogen’s house is within comfortable walking distance, but the plan had been to drive so Lewis and I didn’t have too much time together alone. We’d get to Imogen’s, we’d eat dinner, we’d go home. Not enough time for relaxing and chatting and ‘getting to know each other’ like you’d expect to on a date.

Bossy, pushy and big-hearted Imogen has obviously got other ideas into her head. She will have planned it all out: open the door looking
radiant in a blue satin dress, complete with perfect hair and makeup; invite us in, herd us into the living room where Ray – who’d have been warned that any off-key remark would result in him sleeping on the sofa – will be waiting, before she sweeps off to serve us aperitifs and start the banter. The banter will carry us through drinks and then seamlessly through dinner, where she will be conducting the conversation like a maestro to bring out the best in Lewis and highlight all my good bits. After our laughter-soaked dinner, there’ll be port on the sofas in the living room, then coffees before Lewis and I, laughing, exchanging longer and longer meaningful gazes, will share a taxi home. (One home, that is.)

The first spanner in the finely tuned mechanism of her plan is, of course, seeing the car keys in my hand, which means she can’t ply both of us with as much booze as she’d like. The second spanner is seeing my black work skirt and white long-sleeved T-shirt under one of Joel’s black and red hoodies. The third spanner is my lack of makeup.
Saffy is not playing
, she realises as she grins at us.
Saffy is not going to sleep with this man, no matter what I do next
.

‘Hello!’ She beams a little wider. ‘Welcome to our humble abode.’ Understanding her as I do, her previous thought has been followed up by:
Saffy doesn’t know what’s best for her. She needs a man. And here he is. I’m going to make this happen
.

‘You have a lovely house,’ Lewis says. ‘Thank you very much for inviting me.’

He sounds like someone who has been brought up properly, who would teach his child manners. That’s part of the reason I don’t believe it’s Curtis: there’s something about Lewis that makes me believe he
has
drummed into his son the importance of contraception and respect for girls.

‘Great to see you,’ I say, receiving her hug and planting a kiss on each cheek in return.

The smell of food coming from the kitchen reminds me that I’ve been so tense and resentful of being forced to spend time with someone I don’t want to be attracted to, I’ve been so worried about
what Phoebe will do, I’ve been so distracted by the increasing menace in the letters, that I’ve forgotten I have to eat in front of other people.

I am 10

‘
Finish what’s on your plate, Saffron
.’

‘
I’m full
.’

‘
How can you be full? You haven’t eaten everything
.’

‘
I have
.’

‘
Don’t answer me back. Finish what’s on your plate
.’

‘
But
 …’

‘
You’re too skinny because you don’t eat. Finish what’s on your plate
.’

‘
But I’m full
.’

‘
You children. You have no idea what it takes to put food on the table. If you did, you wouldn’t sit there and tell me you’re full and let good food go to waste. Throwing away food is a sin
.’

It’s not how Fynn said. I’m not bulimic. I’m not anorexic. I’m not a mixture of both. I know I don’t have the healthiest relationship with food, but that’s hardly unique.

Yes, if I have to go to a big event I immediately think that I have to lose a little weight to make sure I look acceptable. OK, if I’ll be expected to eat with other people I’ll try to avoid eating for a few days beforehand so I’ve got a buffer zone to stop me being heavier after the event, I’ll just get back to where I was before. Admittedly, when I weigh myself in the morning, if the number is the same as the day before, I’m disappointed, if it’s less, I’m relieved – not pleased, relieved. If it’s more … If it’s more, then it confirms what I know about myself, what I’ve always known by myself.

I am 12

‘
While I’m away, try to eat more fruit and less bread
.’

‘
OK
.’

‘
You need to lose weight
.’

‘
OK
.’

‘
Your hair is a mess, too. You look like a tramp
.’

‘
Oh
.’

‘
You’re not like your sister, you aren’t pretty. You are clever, but that doesn’t mean you should look like tramp. You need to lose weight and look after your hair. It’s not hard
.’

‘
OK
.’

‘
If you eat more fruit your skin will look better as well. All those spots will go away
.’

‘
OK
.’

‘You won’t always be studying. One day, when you have become a doctor, you can take the time off to get married and have children. But that doesn’t mean you have to look like you do until then. How you look is important if you want to go to a good university. No one will take you in if you look like a tramp.’

‘
Oh. OK
.’

‘
Remember, Saffron, when I come back in three weeks, I want to see you have lost weight. Less bread and more fruit
.’

‘
OK
.’

‘
Good girl
.’

I know that weighing myself every morning is setting myself up for a day of disappointment, uncertainty or failure; that my life is dictated by the scales. But I can’t stop. Well, I can, I really can. And I do. I can go for days without getting on them, without needing to know, but then I’ll get curious, I’ll need to confirm that I’m all right. That I haven’t become out of control, that my weight isn’t rocketing or sneakily creeping upwards.

I am 14

‘
Look at her, who’d want to go near that?
’

‘
She’s my friend. You have to be nice to her
.’

‘
What, like she’s nice to all those pies?
’

‘She can’t help that. It’s only puppy fat. Last year she was really skinny for a few months but it came back. My mum says it’s puppy fat. She’ll be really thin and gorgeous again one day, you’ll see.’

‘
That ain’t puppy fat, that’s a whole kennel of the stuff
.’

‘
That’s really nasty
.’

‘
It’s only nasty if it ain’t true. My older brother said with a name like Saffron you expect her to be all shapely and exotic, not like that
.’

‘
There’s nothing wrong with her
.’

‘It ain’t fair. Why haven’t you got any other good-looking, normal friends? None of my mates would touch her with a barge pole so we can’t hang around with them.’

‘
If you want to keep hanging around with me, you’d better start being nicer to her
.’

‘
Yeah, all right, calm down. I suppose she has got big knockers. Shame about the rest of her
.’

‘
What have I just said?
’

‘
All right, all right, all right. I’ll be nice to her
.’

‘
Good, cos she’s really nice
.’

‘
Yeah, all right
.’

‘I do wish she hadn’t put on the weight again, though. It’s really embarrassing sometimes when she’s trying on a size fourteen and the button won’t close. She gets really upset about it and I want to say to her it’s not my fault you’re so fat again, is it … Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.’

‘
Oi, shhhh, I think I just saw her over there
.’

‘
What? Where? No. It can’t be her. She’d never come out on her own. Where?
’

‘
There. Oh … The person’s gone. I could have sworn it was her
.’

‘God, I hope it wasn’t her. The film’s about to start anyway. But don’t ever tell her I said all that. She’s a really nice person. She can’t help it if she’s a bit on the big side.’

It’s not like I have a huge problem. Or even a problem. I’ll be good for days and days. I’ll be on the salads, I’ll be on the juice, I’ll be drinking lots of water. I’ll even be able to cook and bake for the children but then, I’ll find myself alone. I will look around and see all I have is what is inside me. All I can feel is what lives at my very centre. And it will start to unravel itself, it will start to reveal itself to me and the pain will be too much. Too much for me to handle, it will grow and expand as it uncurls itself and I know that soon, it will overwhelm me. I won’t be able to function because what is inside – all the voices, all the reminders of the ways in which I am not good enough – will drown me.

I am 16

‘My goodness, you’re a big girl, aren’t you? I’m not sure I’ve got any uniforms that big. I might have to order some in. What size are your normal clothes?’

‘
Fourteen-to-sixteen on top, twelve-to-fourteen on the bottom
.’

‘
I don’t know where you’ve been shopping, but I’d say you’re more like eighteen-to-twenty, love. I’ll have to see what I’ve got in
.’

‘
This one fits
.’

‘I can’t believe it! You know, it’s your boobs, love. They make you look huge. I never thought in a million years you’d fit into a sixteen. Goes to show you can’t tell, doesn’t it? ’

At the same time as I am being submerged by the voices of not being good enough, that packet of crisps will start to seem like the answer to my problems. It’ll be the only way to deal with what hurts inside, my only chance to silence the agony at the centre of my being, where all the bad things live, where all the distant voices talk the loudest.
And then I can’t stop. When it’s stuffed away, when it doesn’t touch the sides going down, when a little bit of the edge of how I feel inside is shaved away because one of the voices is silenced, I’ll want more. I’ll want more of the peace; to have the agony blunted. I’ll need more. I’ll take whatever I can, eat whatever I can lay my hands on. In front of the fridge with the door open, in front of the pantry with the door swung wide as I search for anything delectable, palatable, even vaguely edible. I will stuff it down until the noise, the torment, the words are silenced.

I am 19

‘
I want to be good enough. I don’t understand why I’m not good enough
.’

‘
You are good enough
.’

‘I tried really hard, I did really well in all my subjects and I got into this university that so many other people didn’t. And I’m still not good enough. I’m just not enough. I’m not pretty enough. I don’t fit in.’

‘
You do. People really like you
.’

‘But they don’t, not really. Everyone in halls has paired off into mates and they often don’t remember I’m around to ask if I want to go to the bar or to a nightclub. No one in my classes seems to want to hang out with me away from the lectures. I’m just a nobody that no one ever notices. It’s cos I’m not pretty, I’m not beautiful, I’m not special. No one wants to hang out with the fat one with bad skin and bad hair, and nothing to talk about. I’m always going to be the fat, clever one, aren’t I?’

‘None of this is true, you know, Saffron. You are nice, you are special, there are loads of people out there who think you’re beautiful. Look at yourself in this mirror, really look, and you’ll see that you are so pretty, and all the nice things about you shine through.’