The Year I Went Pear-Shaped (17 page)

Chapter 36: Trading

Letting the huge, sweaty, young man into her office, the woman took a quick look outside to check once again that everyone else had gone home then she closed and locked the door behind him. She put a smile on her face and turned to face him.

“Hi Harry, you ok?”

“Yup, good thanks Andy,” the young man wheezed nervously. His thick, pink neck was sweating and his forehead was slick with moisture.

“I’ve, ah, I’ve got the money,” he said quickly shoving his fat fist into his pocket and pulling out five $20 notes.”

“Harry, you put that money away. You don’t need to pay me for this one,” she paused for effect, “or the next one...or the one after that.”

The young man’s eyes widened in disbelief and hope. A small, hard lump grew beneath his trousers.

He swallowed. “Really Andy?”

Smiling assuringly at the big, dumb man-child, she lowered her voice and stepped towards him, running her finger down the length of his enormous arm.

“Mmm hmm, really Harry.”

She licked her lips without taking her eyes off his.

“Of course there might be something I need your help with but we can talk about that later. Now sit down,” she said, pushing him into the chair in front of her desk, “and I’ll take care of things from here.”

Nodding, the man sat down, sunk into the chair and closed his eyes. The woman reached down to pop open the button at the top of his trousers that was strained to bursting with the effort of holding back the man’s huge gut. With the button undone, an angry red welt encircled the man’s stomach where the trouser band had been.

Undoing his zip, she then pulled the cheap, green underwear down over the short but thick and hard penis that bounced up to point straight at her mouth.

The woman got on her knees and positioned herself between his thighs then she bent down to lick the angry red helmet of his hard-on with the tip of her tongue. The young man groaned.

She took it all in her mouth and started sucking gently, swirling her tongue up, down and around as her lips moved up and down the thick shaft, slowly getting faster and firmer.

He moaned.

She glanced at her watch. Another minute or two should do it.

Chapter 37: Up the Revolution

‘All is forgiven, my love,’ Gordon whispered into the whorl of my ear, his breath hot on my skin.  Gently he took the lobe between his lips and lightly sucked before moving down to kiss my neck. I could feel his yearning.

‘My darling, I never thought it odd that you had photos of me in your room because I’ve turned an entire room of my mansion into a shrine to your beauty,’ he said throatily, licking his way down my neck to the top of my breasts, which were two large and firm globes of pleasure that threatened to burst out over the top of the low cut lacy, cream corset that reined them in. Catching sight of myself in a mirror on the far wall, I looked magnificent in Victorian petticoats that were pushed up my legs to reveal stocking tops. My hair was a long mass of golden ringlets that tumbled to my waist and I appeared to have lost about 20 kilos. Gordon was wearing a large, curled white wig and a scarlet, high-collared waist jacket. On the finger he was using to trace the swell of my fabulous breasts, he wore an ornate gold ring set with a large ruby. His nails were polished and manicured. Just as he was pressing his throbbing manhood into my unbelievably small waist, the sound of a car engine turning over and over, pushing its way into my consciousness. From somewhere nearby, a female voice said, ‘come on you motherfucker! Don’t do this to me, pleeease!’ The engine turned over a couple more times but then finally decided to spark into life. The old Mercedes roared as Anita revved it up before taking off for Ashfield.

Cursing as Gordon vanished, I picked up the Mills & Boon from where it lay open on the pillow next to me and turned down the corner of the page I’d fallen asleep at. Then I chucked it under my bed because my bedside table was already heaving with precariously positioned, half finished novels.

But looking around my room, I felt good. There was nothing left of the shrine except a few sodden ashes in a tin bucket on the back lawn and all the bookshelves that had housed Love on the Wards tapes for so long now stood empty. I made a mental note to get all the books that were sitting under my bed, or boxed up in the attic gathering dust, and fill up the empty shelves again.

I’d even started putting away the clothes and shoes that had been lying over every surface for months and, though not exactly clean, my room was looking a helluva lot better. ‘Hell, you could almost believe an adult slept here,’ I thought.

Throwing the doona back and getting out of bed, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. I was wearing a t-shirt and knickers. My hair was a mess, my eyes were puffy and a few new pimples around my jaw line signalled that my period was a few days away. I studied my body. My breasts were slung lower than they used to be and regrowth from my bikini line was sprouting out the side of my underwear. Jumping up and down and lifting my t-shirt right up, I watched the fat on my thighs and stomach jiggle like a plate of jelly, while my breasts went round and round in opposite circles. The sight of it made me laugh.

‘You bloody idiot,’ I mumbled to myself pulling the t-shirt back down again. Walking into the bathroom, I pulled my knickers down to my knees and sat on the toilet to urinate. From the opposite corner the bathroom scales glinted at me.

‘Come oooon!’ they hissed. ‘Get oooon Darla. You need to find out what you’re worth today. Get ooonnnn, we’ll tell you how to feel about yourself.’

Dragging them out into the middle of the bathroom floor, I gave them the usual prod with my foot to see whether the black line was reading under or over.

Taking a deep breath, I prodded them again.

But what if I didn’t get on? What would happen?

‘You’d be lost!’ they said. ‘You’d get hideously fat. If you don’t keep a close eye on your weight you’ll swell up like a balloon. You’ll get fatter and fatter and fatter. You’d be out of control! Then no-one would ever love you.’

Really? Would that really happen? But what if I didn’t get fatter? What if I just stayed the same as I am right now but stopped caring about the numbers? Would it really be the end of the world, as I know it? Would I really disappear into a ball of lard?

It was worth a try. After all what was the alternative? Another 35 years of nervously facing the scales every single morning? Letting a minuscule shift in that black line decide how I felt about myself and whether I deserved to be happy?

No, the madness had to stop. They had to go. I picked up the scales and took them downstairs and out the back door. I placed them down again on the red bricks of our tiny courtyard area and went to the shed to find a hammer.

With the hammer in both hands, I stood in front of the scales with my legs apart, raising the hammer right up over my head, I brought it down as hard as I could on the little glass window, so hard that I grunted with the effort. It cracked. I lifted the hammer again, smashing it down with all my might. I did that over and over again until sweat was dripping down my arms, my face was red and my breathing ragged. I dented and bashed them. Then I threw the hammer down and picked the scales up, lifting them over my head. I hurled them to the ground. I did it again and again. Bits flew off as they started coming apart. Finally, I was finished. The scales were dead.

Picking up the larger pieces, I threw them into the rubbish bin. Then I swept up the smaller debris which followed suit.

Walking back into the house, I felt good. Hell, so much accomplished already and I hadn’t even got to work yet. Dammit, there was nothing I couldn’t do today!

“Come on!” I yelled, shaking a fist at the sky, “do your worst! Bring it on, Big Guy! I can take you!”

Yeah, well, that turned out to be a mistake.

Chapter 38:  Under the Knife

The Lush! office was already humming by the time I rushed through the automatic glass doors of  RTM Publishing just after 9.30am. Throwing a quick wave to Ben, the security guy at reception, I decided to give the elevators a miss, which meant walking up four flights of stairs then down a long corridor, past the offices of a food mag, a home interiors mag, and a music mag for teenagers before reaching the doors of the Lush! mag office. Still breathing heavily from the stairs, I walked in and made my way to my desk, passing Katerina on the way who was eating a bowl of wheat and gluten-free, organic cereal with low fat rice milk. Her usual meal following a ‘crack of dawn’ workout at the gym. She was wearing a tiny orange mini-skirt with vertigo-inducing stilettos and a tight, Lycra top that shouted ‘look at my breasts, aren’t they incredible!’

“Hi Darl,” she said too brightly, “you’re a bit late this morning, you been to the gym or something? I didn’t see you there, I was at the 5am Pump class.”

“Morning Kat, no, I wasn’t at the gym. I was in the backyard smashing my bathroom scales into tiny pieces with a hammer,” I replied, sitting down and turning my computer on. It made that comforting ‘bing’ sound and whirled into life.

Kat stopped chewing for a moment and blinked at me.

“Oh.”  She said and I watched from the corner of my eye as her facial expressions went from confusion to dismay to disinterest, presumably because she couldn’t figure out how to link my wilful destruction of household objects to herself or Hugo. So she changed the subject.

“Hey Darl, I hear you’re gonna be in the extreme make-over?”

That took me by surprise. I couldn’t see where she was going with that line of questioning so put all my defences on alert, poised for the inevitable attack via backhanded compliment or subtle putdown.

“Um, yeah, I was kinda thinking about it.”

“Well, I think you’ve run out of time to think about it,” she chuckled, “I just overheard Roxy tell Arabella you were going to be getting up close and personal with the gift-from-God, fat-hoovering machine tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? To-fucking-morrow?

“Oh.” I said, taking my turn to wrestle with confusion and dismay. “Well, yes, that’s right. Tomorrow. It’s slipped my mind, a couple of other things going on right now.”

“Well, I think you’re really lucky. I’d sooo love to have a bit of work done.”

I attempted to give her one of Anita’s withering ‘are you mad?’ looks.

“Kat! You’re 26 years old and you have a fabulous body. In fact, as much as it totally kills me to admit it, I can’t find one thing wrong with your appearance, why the hell do you want plastic surgery?”

“Oh my god Darla! Are you blind?” She said as though I’d insulted her. “I’ve got a list as long as my arm! First, I’d have some of this lard removed from my butt...” she twirled round to show me her perfect, pert arse.

“...See? It’s totally too big and all the spin classes in the world don’t seem to make a damn bit of difference. And I’d have this bump taken off my nose as well as a little chin implant because my side profile is awful.” Again, she turned so I could check out her face from the side.

“Oh yes, I see what you mean,” I said sarcastically, “my God, when you turned side on just then I thought you’d left the room and the Hunchback of Notre Dame had taken your place. God, how can you leave the house looking so hideous? Do mothers pick up their babies and run away screaming when you walk down the street?”

Shaking her head like I was the biggest moron ever to walk the earth, Kat said, “Darl, what the hell are you talking about? You’re the one actually going under the knife to have your entire face rearranged, not to mention your flesh sucked off and false tits shoved in, so I don’t think you can really point the finger of vanity and self-preoccupation at me.”

Curses! I had no comeback. And where did she learn such big words like ‘self-preoccupation’. Was that even a word? I’d have to ask the subbing desk. Before I could ponder it any longer, Roxy swayed over to my desk dripping with her usual effortless sensuality.

“Darl Honey,” she breathed sexily, “I’ve just heard that the surgery can take you tomorrow. I know it’s short notice but you can make it, can’t you? You need to be there by 8am. You’re op is at 10am.”

“Yeah, that’s cool Rox,” I said feigning disinterest in front of Kat, “but don’t I need to go and talk to the surgeon beforehand? Doesn’t he need to actually look at me to have an idea of where and why he’s going slice me open tomorrow?”

Curious. An edge of hysteria had entered my voice.

“Oh yeah, absolutely!” She purred. “That’s happening this afternoon, you need to be at his clinic by 2pm and you’ll probably be there all afternoon.”

“Bloody hell, it’s all rather quick Rox.” My mask was slipping.

“Hmmm, I know!” She said enthusiastically, as though the speed were a good thing. “It is much faster than normal Honey, that’s the beauty of doing it for the mag. They push everything through for us so we can get on top of the story.”

“Right. Of course. Super.”

“Fabulous! Thanks Darl,” Rox glowed, “I’ll email you all the details in a minute.” And off she floated, a vision of chiffon and silk leaving the scent of Irresistible by Estee Lauder lingering in her wake.

“Wow Darl, that’s so exciting!” Said Kat. “God, in just a couple of weeks, you’re going to look completely different. Your whole life will change.”

I smiled wanly at her. Unless that smarty pants surgeon could figure out a way to make that liposuction machine get into my head and suck out all the baggage, I was beginning to wonder how raising my tits a few centimetres or smoothing my forehead was going to change my life.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be great, I can’t wait.”

I’d still do it though of course because, you never know, maybe thinner thighs would change my life.

Chapter 39: The Wreckoning

There were four messages flashing on my work phone. Picking up the receiver, I dialled my access code and listened.

“Hi, this is a message for Deena Minners. Deena, this is Penny Swag from We’re Write Here Communications, I’m just ringing to touch base with you re a press kit I sent you last week on disposable incontinence panties. Now, I know that you’re probably thinking that bladder control issues are more an older women’s problem and not that relevant to the average Lush! reader but our research shows that a worryingly high proportion of 20-something women in Australia experience bladder control problems and our client is launching an amazing incontinence G-string. I’d love to talk to you more about this important subject so I’ll try you again this afternoon but if you want to phone me back on...”

Thanking the universe under my breath for being away from my desk for that call, I pressed delete and waited for the next message.

“Hi Sweetheart, it’s me, Mum. I just wanted to remind you that it’s your Aunty Yvette’s birthday next week. Don't forget to send her a card will you Darling? Kiss kiss!”

I pressed delete and wrote a note in my diary to send Aunty Yvette a card.

“Hello, Detective Warren Jenkins here from NSW police. Would you please call me back as soon as you get this message as I need to arrange a time to come and speak with you urgently.”

Shocked, I played the message again to hear the number he’d rattled off just before hanging up and quickly jotted it down. Bloody hell. I felt like someone had thrown me back to earth with an almighty bang. Somehow I’d managed to put the whole ghastly Gordon situation out of my head for the morning. Probably because the explaining the shrine to Gordon part was too awful to think, as for the psychotic cat killer, she didn’t bother me. I figured her threats were empty; she was just trying another way to get Gordon’s attention. All power to her, she’d certainly done that.

I decided to listen to my last message before calling the Detective and pressed play. A familiar but very hostile voice launched into me.

“You sick, twisted bitch! Well done Darla,” the voice snarled, “you had me completely fooled. Christ, to think I really liked you. You totally betrayed me. You are dangerous and insane. I hope you fucking rot in jail and I’m going to be doing everything I can to make sure that’s where you end up.” He hung up.

Gordon. Oh my God. Gordon thinks I’m the psychotic cat killer.

Suddenly I couldn’t breathe or move. The room was swaying and all the conversations going on around me seemed to get louder and louder until it was like everyone was shrieking into my ears. I knew that if I stood up I might faint. So, planting my sweating palms on my desk, I concentrated on breathing. This was a fucking nightmare. How the hell had this happened? And how the hell could Gordon really believe that I was the one who’d been stalking him all this time? Did he really think I was capable of slitting an animal’s throat? As it all slowly sunk in, I got less panicked and upset and started to get a little angry. Sure, I could see that there were a couple of things that looked suspicious for me but even so, for him to be able to believe that I do such vile and horrific things. Well, that just made me mad to be honest. Screw him.

My phone rang again. I listened for a few seconds debating whether or not to answer it before lifting the receiver just before voice mail kicked in.

“Yes?” I whispered.

“Darla Manners?”

“Yes.”

“Good morning, this is Detective Jenkins. I’m standing in the reception area of your building. I’ve just spoken to your editor and informed her that you’d be coming with me to answer some questions about a case I’m investigating. So, if you could just collect your belongings and meet me in reception I’ll save you the embarrassment of coming into your office to get you.”

“Yep, ok,” I croaked. “I’ll be right there.”

My hands shaking I carefully placed the receiver in its cradle. This could not be happening. Without looking at anyone or saying anything, I slowly picked up my bag and walked out of the office.

Trying to swallow, I realised there was no moisture in my mouth.

‘Calm down Darla, calm down. You’ve done nothing wrong. Just tell them everything and hide nothing. Breathe. Breathe.’

When I arrived in reception, Detective Jenkins was sitting on a sofa reading an article in a gardening magazine that promised to ‘finally reveal the secrets to growing amazing azaleas’. It had to be him because all the other people waiting for someone to come and greet them were young females, as thin as reeds and about six foot tall. One of the mags was obviously doing a model casting.

He looked up as I approached.

“Ms Manners,” he said, offering me his hand with a warm smile. I relaxed slightly.

An attractive man in his mid to late forties, Detective Jenkins wasn’t particularly tall but he had a solid build. Intelligent green eyes shone at me from beneath a head of thick, dark brown hair. His face and the back of his hands were covered in freckles and he was wearing well cut black trousers with a white shirt and an emerald green tie that emphasised his eyes. On the middle finger of his right hand was a large gold signet ring that looked slightly too tight. Unable to help myself, I glanced at his wedding ring finger. Nothing. ‘Excellent,’ I thought, then realised this was very possibly the least appropriate time of my entire life to be pondering the romantic potential of my situation.

“Hi, call me Darla, please.”

“Sure,” he smiled again, green eyes twinkling. “Darla it is, you can call me Warren. Now,” he said, putting his hand in the small of my back and gently ushering me out, “I’m going to take you home and ask you a few questions, is that ok?”

Like I had any choice.

“Sure.” I followed him outside and got into the police car, which a young officer had idling in the No Standing zone right outside the building. Warren got in the back with me.

“Darla, this is Officer Richmond.”

The young man in the driver’s seat turned his head and gave me a quick smile and nod before fixing his attention on the road again and pulling the car out into the traffic.

It took about twenty minutes to drive home and I noticed that I didn’t need to tell them where I lived. On the way over, Warren filled the awkward silence by asking me general questions about the magazine business. He even laughed a couple of times as I told him stories about rude or stupid celebrities I’d interviewed which helped me relax even more. But as we reached my street and Officer Richmond parked the police car outside my house, the panic recommenced its nibbling away at my intestines.

We got out of the car and the two men followed me to the front door, waiting patiently while I fumbled for the keys in the bottom of my bag. Warren was explaining something to Richmond about how the houses in this area were special because of some building feature that was used back then. Apparently it quickly went out of fashion and this was one of the only areas left in NSW where you could see this particular style.

Pushing the door open, I walked in and lead them through to the kitchen. Our big wooden table seemed the best place for a questioning session and for the first time it struck me that the lamp that hung over it was just like the one they used on The Bill someone was getting questioned. Filling the kettle with water, I asked if they’d like tea or coffee.

“Hmm, that would be lovely Darla,” said Warren. “Tea for us both I think,” he looked to Richmond for confirmation, which the young man gave in the form of a short nod and smile at me.