40 Something - Safety

40 Something

Shannon Peel
Copyright 2016

Available as a Digital only

ISBN
978-0-9917694-7-6

March 2016
Smashwords

40 Something
is the sole property of its author and cannot in
any way be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including recording, photocopied, or any
information storage and retrieval system. It may not be used
without the express permission of the author. Requests can be sent
to [email protected]

40 Something is
a novel being written as a series of novellas of approximately 14
000-20 000 words. Think of it as TV show episodes.

Follow the
author on social media to find out when the next instalment of the
series is published. If you wish to share your stories about being
a 40 something woman in today’s world please contact the author at
[email protected]

Come by the
author’s website
www.shannonpeel.com
for
extras and information on the series, the author, other works by
the author, and her social media.

If you liked
this novella, please feel free to share it with friends &
family. Any reviews posted on Goodreads, Amazon, or any bookselling
site are very appreciated.

The author
hopes you enjoy the story as it unfolds and will share your
experiences with her.

Safety

Is the second
novella in the 40 Something series.

Summary of Sunday Dinner

Sunday Dinner,
ISBN:
978-0-9917694-6-9,
is the first novella in the series.

To read the
second novella in the Series, Safety, all you really need to know
about the first novella is that women are enjoying a girl’s night
out at the local pub when Sophie’s ex-husband, Craig, shows up and
yanks her out forcibly.

The police
arrest Craig and the women decide that Sophie needs to leave her
basement suite. Lindsay offers her a place to stay.

Charlie is a
divorce attorney and her sister Rose has asked her to help her
friend Sophie with her recent separation.

Now you are up
to date enough to read Safety. The second instalment in the novella
series 40 Something.

I look like a
pig.

Not a cute
little piglet.

I mean a fat
sow just before the slaughter. I’m wearing a shift dress that is
too tight. I’m popping out of the top of it, which is par for the
course for most clothes, and I’d rip the seams if I sat down.

I hate
shopping.

Clothes just
don’t fit me right. If a dress or shirt fits my bust line it is too
big everywhere else on me. If I buy something that fits the rest of
me, it pulls tight across the bust. In this case, I swear the
sizing is wrong. I hate finding clothes.

That’s not even
the worst part of shopping for clothes.

I’m a Plus
size. There I said it. I am a size 18, 4 sizes larger than what
retail considers desirable.

Retail stores
hate plus sized women.

Don’t believe
me? Walk into any store that sells both regular sizes and plus
sizes.

Where do they
put the plus sizes? In the far back corner usually reserved for the
clearance items no one wants except at cut-rate prices. If that’s
not enough to convince you that us plus size girls are despised by
the fashion industry, take a look at the clothes offered to us.

I can walk into
a store and see a cute dress displayed on a perfect, perky, plastic
mannequin in the front. It would suit my hourglass figure as it
comes in at the waist, however, the largest size it comes in is 14.
I head to the corner of shame in the back to see if I can find it
in my size. I can’t.

Nothing cute
comes in my size. OK, so it has gotten better over the years and
now one can find clothes that were actually designed for larger,
curvier, women. They aren’t cute though and the selection at any
given time is a quarter of what there is at the front of the store.
In fact, most fashion stores don’t even carry a plus size section,
cutting a plus sized woman’s options down even further.

So, here I am
standing in the changing room, looking at myself in the mirror and
wondering why the fashion industry hates me so much. Why are cute
clothes only designed for women with no curves? It’s like if a
woman has breasts and hips she is not sexually desirable, she’s
ugly. Who designs this stuff anyway?

I start
laughing. The answer is so simple I can’t believe I didn’t think of
it before. Whether or not I am worthy enough of beautiful clothes,
that suit my body, is determined by a very outspoken, judgemental,
image crazed group of gay men and super thin skeletal women.

And whom do
they find attractive? Young boys.

OK. So this
theory might be complete bollocks, but it makes me feel better as I
stand in front of a three way mirror in an ill fitting dress
designed for a mannequin and not a real women.

“What’s so
funny?”

I turn and see
this gorgeous woman who is probably ten years younger than me.
She’s leggy, with the right sized boobs for the outfit she’s
wearing. At that moment my theory about gay men designing clothes
for women who look like boys flies out of my head and I feel like a
fat, ugly, sow again.

“Uhm nothing
really.”

“You know that
dress is all wrong for you.”

“Ya. I kind of
got that.” I look down at myself and want to gag.

“You need
something that comes in tighter here at the waist, is looser along
the bust and then you’d be hot stuff.” Oh, I like her.

“Hi. I’m
Charlie.”

“I’m Lindsay.
You know there has to be something come on let’s take a look shall
we?”

“Lead the
way.”

She grabs a
handful of dresses and has me try them on and model them for her.
Each dress more ill fitting than the last and I’m getting more and
more frustrated. Beside this woman I am ugly, fat, and worthless. I
look in the mirror and wonder what man would even look at me, let
alone want to get to know me, looking like this? Only the
desperate, depraved, and discarded. It’s feels so unfair. I am a
smart, successful, amazing woman and I repulse every decent quality
man I walk by.

“I mean really
who designs this crap?” She asks.

“Gay men who
hate curvy women.”

We both break
out laughing. Her laugh fills the store. I really like her.

I’m
nervous.

I’m Fucking
shaking.

The butterflies
flying around my guts are more like popcorn being made in a hot air
popper striking my insides at full speed. I pace around the room
glancing at the door waiting. The waiting is killing me. Doubt
floods my mind. Will she be angry with me? Will she even remember
me? Will she talk to me or just sit in that corner and cry?

I glance down
at my dress, and smooth it out. It’s matronly. Probably the only
matronly thing I own. My lawyer insisted I dress modestly. I hope
this is modest enough. I start pacing again, from the window to the
door to the window. Waiting. I glance at the clock on the wall.
She’s late. Fear grips me by the throat and I can’t breathe. She’s
not coming. The fucking asshole changed his mind, court order or
not.

The door
opens.

I close my eyes
too scared to see.

“Hello
Momma.”

I open my eyes
and there is my baby. My sweet baby girl. So beautiful. I don’t
move. I’m frozen to the spot. Fear is gripping harder will she turn
and run?

“Baby.” I can
feel the smile on my face its huge.

She walks in
timid and unsure looking behind her at the social worker who nods
and with that, she turns around and runs to me.

“Mommy.”

I fall to my
knees and take her in my arms, tears stream down my face. I don’t
care. I don’t want to let her go. I hold her tighter to me. Trying
to make her a part of me. I can feel her body shaking as she sobs
along with me. Three months is a long time to not see your
daughter. Three fucking months and all I get is an hour with her. I
can feel the anger at the injustice of it, but now isn’t the time
for anger.

I inhale the
scent of my daughter’s hair, trying to commit it to my long term
memory, again. I feel her body so close to mine. I hold her, mould
her to me, I wish I could put her back. Put her back inside my
womb, where she was with me all the time. I wish I would of
treasured those moments instead of hating every second of being
pregnant. I was so dumb.

“Mommy too
tight.”

“Oh sorry baby.
Sorry. Mommy missed you so much.”

I ease off but
I don’t let her go. I can’t look her in the face yet. I am so
ashamed. I tried to be a good mom with Evelyn. I did things with
her. I even read to her. We had tea parties and shopping trips. We
had spa days. All the things I’d never done with Destiny.

“Mommy. I
brought you a present.”

“You did? I
brought you a present too.”

She bought me a
beautiful silver necklace with an intricate pendant of a mother and
child in a heart. She put it on my neck.

“I’ll never
take it off.” I promise her.

“And I’ll never
take off mine.” She pulls an identical necklace from her pocket and
I put it on her. “Now we will always be together mommy. No matter
where I go.” I smile. She looks sad. “I’m sorry mommy.”

“Sorry? What
for baby?”

“I’m sorry that
I go away on trips with father and leave you behind. I don’t want
to, but father says you can’t come. You can’t leave here, so you
have to stay. I want to stay, I do. I don’t want to go away all the
time.”

“Oh sweetie you
have nothing to feel sorry about. You get to see the world. You get
to see so much that I never get to see. I want you to take lots of
pictures and send them to me. I want to see what you are doing.
That way I’ll be there with you. I want you to have fun and see the
world OK? That’s why your daddy takes you with him on his
trips.”

“You don’t want
me here with you?”

“Oh baby.” The
tears are falling again and my heart is breaking. “I want you here
with me so bad it hurts me here inside.”

“Then why can’t
I stay with you?”

“Who would take
care of daddy?”

“He has
people.”

“He needs his
little girl. He needs his little girl to help him be happy and
young, so he’ll live a long time.”

“Don’t you need
me?”

“I am young and
strong. Stronger than your daddy. I love you so much. I wish you
could be with me all the time. I love you. I love you. I love you
to the Moon.”

“I love you to
the Moon and back.”

“I love you to
Mars.”

We laugh and
laugh, trying to out do each other with who loves whom more.

Then I give her
my gift. It’s a book made up of photos of us together from the day
she was born until the last time I saw her. I’ve written little
messages in the pages about how wonderful she is. My memories of
her. How much I love her. How I miss her. We share those memories
together, her on my lap and me holding her as she turns each page
of our lives together.

“Time’s
up.”

I hadn’t even
noticed the social worker come in. I was so engrossed in my time
with Evelyn.

“An hour
already? She just got here a minute ago.”

“It’s been an
hour. Come on Evelyn.” The social worker says.

“I don’t want
to go.” She grips my neck and I grip her in a hug. “I want to stay
with mommy.”

“Evelyn.” A
male voice.

We both look up
at the man standing in the doorway, like he owns this whole place
and everyone in it, expecting to be obeyed without question.

“Father.”

“Time to go.
Your Mother has seen you.”

Evelyn doesn’t
move. I can feel her body stiffen. Tears start falling down her
face, big ones. Her bottom lip is huge and trembling.

“Evelyn.
Please. Sweetheart. I have to be somewhere.”

“Another hour
Father, please. Please. I just want to see Mother for a little
while longer.”

I’ve never seen
my ex-husband falter in negotiations with anyone. Not his business
rivals, not his associates, not his friends, not his children, not
his grandchildren. It’s his way or no way. You take what he gives
you and you are to be grateful that he even noticed you. The man
does not have a heart.