The Flavours of Love (26 page)

‘Baby, I’m really scared. I’m terrified about whether I can do this. I want you so much and I’m scared what I might do. But then, I know I couldn’t ever hurt you. So I’m going to eat every meal I have to, I’m going to keep every
calorie I need in because I know I need to nourish you. I’m going to do this. For you, for me. I’m still scared, but I’m going to do it anyway. And you, you concentrate on getting bigger and getting born. I’m going to do this. We’re going to do this. OK? We’re a team.’

After
that day
, I’ve needed that release a bit more. I’ve needed that control over who I am and the world that is my body. I had it for a while with Fynn, but that was becoming too complicated, so I stopped. And I went back to what I knew. But that doesn’t mean anything. And it doesn’t make me what Fynn said.

*

‘You’re very quiet this evening, Saffy,’ Ray, Imogen’s second husband, says. I glance up from my glass of wine and our gazes collide.

He’s right, I’ve barely said a word since we were led into the large, pristine living room for drinks. I’m worried now. It’s not so bad in a restaurant, where you can pick at different things, where you can find the food poor and inedible, where no one really notices if you don’t ‘fill your boots’ as Joel used to say when I first met him. And, if it’s one of those restaurants where the food is great, where they cook things just right, and the cutlery and crockery are clean, and you’ve been good for days so you can visit, they also have toilets. You can go and take care of yourself without anyone you’re with ever having to know.

In someone’s house, it’s rude not to eat, it’s noticed if you disappear to the toilet for long periods of time. It’s not easy to control yourself, to purge yourself of the unknown fats, and carbohydrates, and additives and calories that have gone into that meal. In someone’s house you are completely, frighteningly, out of control.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ve got a few things on my mind.’

Lewis bristles beside me, not much, only enough for me to notice. He thinks it’s him, that I’m still hung up on the fact I’m out with him.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Ray says. ‘Anything we can help with?’ His arm is casually slung over the back of the sofa he sits on and every now
and again he reaches down to affectionately caress Imogen’s bare shoulder.

A lump surfaces in my throat, a little kick is delivered to the centre of my chest. I remember what it felt like to be like that with someone. To touch each other, just because. I glance away from them, seek my fortune in my glass of rosé. ‘No, you can’t help, not unless you know anyone who’ll take in a sixty-something-old woman who’ll be trying to escape at every turn and who is a menace to any men over the age of … I was going to say fifty-five, but to be honest, anyone over forty-five is fair game as far as she’s concerned.’

‘Jo– I mean, your aunt is living with you now?’ Imogen says, a note of disapproval in her tone. She’s always advising me to not make rash decisions; to remember that I am bereaved and that will colour, shape and influence any choices I make. I haven’t run this past her, haven’t talked it through and looked at it from every angle with her, and she is not impressed.

‘Yes, Aunty Betty has moved in. It’s not as bad as I’m making out, she’s actually quite fun and the chil—’ It seems wrong to call Phoebe that. She’ll always be my child, but when she is sitting a couple of miles away trying to make adult decisions with a child’s brain, it seems wrong to call her a child. ‘Phoebe and Zane love having her around. She dotes on them. She dotes on me in her own way, I just worry.’

‘That’s a big decision,’ Imogen says gently, sounding more patronising than concerned – for the first time I can remember, since
that day
, it’s a sharp nail down my blackboard of irritation.

‘What are we having for dinner?’ Lewis cuts in, helpfully. As a widower he’s probably had this, he’ll have experienced people telling him how he should be careful, what he should be feeling, when he should be moving on because he is bereaved. He’s probably been patronised within an inch of his life. ‘It smells divine.’

‘Oh yes! I almost forgot about that!’ Imogen is on her feet. ‘Go on through to the dining room, dinner will be served shortly.’

*

She’s used butter, I can smell it, I can see the way it’s beginning to congeal, a slightly solidified second skin, on top of the whole baby carrots and roasted new potatoes. Even olive oil wouldn’t have been as bad. It’s bad in terms of fat content and calories, but it’s not high in saturated fat. She’s used all-butter shortcrust pastry for the top of the chicken pie, but it’s shop-bought pastry, so I can’t know what’s in it. Some brands have more fat than others, some brands add preservatives if it’s not been frozen. She’s probably used cream in her white sauce, too. Probably non-organic chicken because she’s only fanatical about organic produce when it comes to her children.

‘This is lovely,’ Lewis says. Even though I don’t know him that well, I know he’s lying. It might look nice, it might smell nice but I can guarantee it does not taste nice – because Imogen, for all her attributes, has no love or respect for food. She throws things together and arranges them nicely on beautiful plates and hopes for the best. She told me that herself. Usually, she buys it all ready-made, heats it up and serves it. Tonight, she must really be trying to matchmake between Lewis and me if she’s tried to cook.

Imogen beams at him. ‘Thank you.’

‘Lewis, I’m impressed with anyone who can teach teenagers in this day and age,’ Ray says. They’re a good-looking couple, Imogen and Ray. He’s only slightly taller than her, slender because he likes to take care of himself with three visits to the gym a week. He has flawless skin, strong features, perfect teeth (of course, being a dentist). Unfortunately, which is why I avoid lingering in their house as much as possible, he’s more than partial to the odd diatribe. In the same way most people ask if you’ve watched anything good on telly recently to fill a gap, he’ll start a rant about undesirables in society and won’t stop until his audience walk away or agree with him.

Lewis doesn’t know this. He thinks Ray’s comment about teenagers is innocuous and so replies: ‘A lot of people say and think that, but they’re not so bad. In fact, one of the most rewarding things about doing my job is when you connect with a student and you know they’re on their way to doing something with their lives. It doesn’t
happen with every student and, granted, some of them can be trying, but it’s like any job – you take the rough with the smooth.’

‘You sound so passionate,’ Imogen swoons. ‘I would have given anything to have had a teacher like you when I was at school.’

‘You probably did have one,’ he says, ‘but it’s an unfortunate fact that if you weren’t trouble, those teachers probably didn’t need to focus on you. We tend to notice and try to correct the squeaky wheel.’

I cut into my chicken pie and the white filling oozes out onto my plate, stretching itself as it heads towards the potatoes, turning my stomach as it moves. She didn’t follow the recipe, there are no herbs, no black pepper, but there’ll be a tonne of salt. Slowly, precisely, I swirl the tip of my fork through the sauce, moving it towards a cube of chicken. The fork goes into the chicken after I press hard on the handle and I know it’s over-cooked and tough – she cut the pieces too small and cooked it for too long. I have to eat this. It’ll upset her if I don’t.

She’s watching me. Maybe she’s spoken to Fynn – she’s been known to call him if she’s worried about me. Maybe he’s told her what he thinks. I’m not sure he’d do that, though. He’s too good a friend. Smothering my gag reflex with my respect and love for Imogen, I raise the fork and slip the chicken, swimming in white sauce, into my mouth. The cloying globules of fat coat my tongue, the sharp excess of salt claws at my tastebuds. Too much salt, not enough herbs, the wrong type of cream. I hate myself for knowing this stuff. I hate myself for not being able to enjoy food at times like this; that I immediately seek out a problem so I don’t have to eat it, so I don’t have to be seen to stuff myself in front of other people.

‘
Please don’t do that again. Promise me you won’t do that again
,’ Joel says in my head. ‘
Look, we’ll get you whatever type of help you need. Whatever it costs … But please, don’t do that to yourself again
.’

A
good friend – a true friend – would have confronted you by now about your eating disorder
,’ Fynn says.

Nonchalantly to the outside world, but determined to prove to myself, to Joel and to Fynn that I have no real, discernible problem,
just a bit of a quirk, I force more chicken pie into my mouth, taking in the crumbly, fat-based crust this time. I slice the butter-coated carrots in half and then put them in my mouth. Chew, chew. I force myself to chew, ignoring the saline flooding my mouth, the bile that stirs itself in my stomach, and swallow. The new potatoes go the same way. Chewed, chewed, swallowed, stuffed down. I can do this. I can do this. I don’t have a problem with food, I don’t need confronting, I don’t require help. I do not have an eating disorder.

‘See, that’s where my problem is,’ Ray is saying while I am eating, ingesting food like a normal person. ‘I pay my taxes, I send my child to school like the law tells me I should and I don’t get first class service. But some little scrote who lives on a council estate, whose mum got knocked up as a teen to get a free flat, hasn’t got a dad on the scene and wouldn’t know the meaning of the word work if it bit him, gets loads of attention. How is that fair?’

‘Let’s change the subject,’ I say, lowering my cutlery. I stare at my plate, the horror of what I have done slinking outwards through me from my stomach.
I need to have not done this thing
. I move my line of sight up to Ray as he sits on his indignant, know-it-all perch. ‘I don’t like you describing other human beings in such a way, Ray, I’m sorry, it’s not on. You have no idea about other people’s lives, you might think you do, but until you’ve lived it and lived it for years under different conditions, you have no real idea. There are some people like that and there are lots of people who aren’t. I don’t like you describing people so nastily. So please, let’s change the subject and not fall out over this.’

‘Yes, I agree,’ Lewis says, obviously relieved that I’ve said something before he’s had to. ‘Let’s change the subject.’

‘Yes,
Ray
, let’s change the subject,’ Imogen adds through gritted teeth. He is going to be in so much trouble later tonight.

I glance down at my plate. I am in so much trouble right now. I stand, placing my napkin over my half-eaten meal. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ I say. ‘I just need to nip to the bathroom.’

‘
I thought you’d stopped doing this, Ffrony. You said you didn’t need any help and you promised me you would stop
.’

‘
I didn’t promise. I said I’d try
.’

‘
Why can’t you just eat and stop this?
’

‘
I don’t know
.’

‘This is killing me, Ffrony. It’s killing me that I can’t help you, that I can’t get you to stop this. Don’t I make you happy enough? Is it me preventing you from being happy enough to stop this? It’ll destroy me to split up, but we can do that if it means you’ll be able to stop this.’

‘
No, no, no. That’s not what I want. I don’t want to split up. Never. I am so happy with you and Phoebe, I don’t know why I can’t stop, I just can’t
.’

‘If it’s because you want to become thin, believe me, you’re thin enough. You’re perfect. I don’t love you for what size you are. I don’t care what size you are or what you weigh.’

‘
I know. But everyone out there does
.’

‘
No they don’t. And if they do, so what? Why does it matter what people out there think?
’

‘It doesn’t. But, if I lose a little bit more weight I know that no one will ever be able to say anything about the way I look. They won’t be able to think I’m a fat cow. They won’t be able to see there’s anything wrong with me. I only need to lose a little bit more.’

‘
You don’t need to lose any more weight. You’ve never needed to lose weight
.’

‘
You didn’t know me when I was younger. That’s why I’ve kept all the photos away from you. I was huge
.’

‘
Even if you were huge, so what? What’s wrong with being large?
’

‘What’s wrong with being large? Are you mad? There’s everything wrong with it. People look down on you, they think you’re lazy and greedy and unattractive. You can’t fit into clothes and everyone’s always got some statistic about how you’re going to die young because you’re so greedy and lazy.’

‘Thin people die, too. Everyone dies, no matter what their size. And I’ve read just a small amount about what you do and the permanent damage it causes: crumbling teeth, swollen salivary ducts, osteoporosis, irregular heartbe—’

‘
Everything is so much easier and better if you’re thin. Life is easier and people treat you better. If you’re large you’re worthless
.’

‘
And do you feel any less worthless now you’ve lost all that weight?
’

‘
No
.’

I manage to keep my pace normal, I do not tear up the stairs like I want to. I climb each one as though I do not have a volcano desperate to erupt inside me. I walk along the corridor towards the bathroom.

Exiting the toilet, the sound of a cistern refilling itself behind him, is Damien, Imogen’s eldest son from her first marriage. He is tall, athletic without being too broad, and wears his hair long and floppy, so – I’d imagine – he can spend a lot of time sweeping it back off his face or hiding behind it.

He freezes, then falters in his step when he sees me coming towards him. The colour quickly drains away from his face as he tries to decide what to do with his expression: smile, grimace or do what he is currently doing – look terrified. A lot of people look like that – scared of me because they don’t know what to say. They aren’t sure what will make me cry or will make me scream at them, so they tap dance their way through conversations, the discomfiture of not understanding a bereaved person rolling off them in waves.