Thin Girls Don't Eat Cake (2 page)

Right, in fact, between having the side of my lovely little Fiat defaced by a woman who turned out to be Richard’s disgruntled wife and a dose of something nasty. Of the things I got from Richard, that last one was the one I least expected.

Richard had neglected to tell me about the wife who spent her winters in the north of Western Australia. She appeared on a plane from Broome one Wednesday afternoon and popped by his office to announce her arrival for Telethon — she came every year — which in hindsight must have made me look like a bit of a simpleton. How had I not known this? Richard was the most well known journalist in Western Australia. Everyone — well, except me — knew he was married.

The worst part, though, was when she discovered Richard and I enjoying an afternoon delight on the couch under the window in his office. Richard had a thing about sex in public places, and being young and foolish, I was keen to try anything as long as the door was locked. This time it hadn’t been.

All hell had broken loose and because Richard held far more professional clout than me, I found myself shoved unceremoniously out the double glass doors of the station the next afternoon. My name in the journalism world was mud. I didn’t even get a leaving present. I arrived back in Merrifield unemployed, single and feeling like a failure. Yes, I had my family and friends but my life hadn’t exactly been fun city over the past couple of years.

Dragged away from my thoughts by the sound of the bell out in the shop, I left the back room to find a cute little West Highland Terrier with a pink diamante studded collar walking towards me, tugging a girl I’d never seen before along behind. The girl was slim and pretty. Her hair — long, straight and chestnut — was held back by a pair of expensive looking sunglasses and her clothes hung just so. The dog, though in need of a good clip, suited her to a tee. She was cute and cuddly and very intelligent looking. They looked as if they belong on a TV commercial for up-market dog food.

“Hi.” The girl picked up the dog, cuddling it to her. “I was wondering if you’d be able to groom Lulu today? I’ve been so busy, I haven’t had time to scratch myself, let alone see to her. She’s been swimming in the dam and looks an utter nightmare.”

I reached over, tickling Lulu under the chin. “Sure. Do you want a traditional West Highland cut and a bath and blow dry?”

“Trim her head to toe and take about a couple of centimetres off her feathers. I don’t think they were designed for foot long grass out in the paddock. Do you put bows in dogs’ hair?”

“Sure do.” I pointed to a selection of ribbons behind the counter. “I also have a doggie massage built into the service. The dogs love it. And if you’d like any of the add-ons, I’d have time for those too.”

The girl looked up at the menu style board above offering fur dying, nail painting, bowls of gourmet doggie treats to consume while pampered pooches waited for their owners as well as custom-made doggie coats.

“Could you paint her nails pink?” The girl asked, picking out a pink spotted ribbon that matched Lulu’s collar.

“Of course.” I took the spool of ribbon and placed it on the counter to remind myself. Then I opened a new file on the computer and took down Lulu’s particulars. “That ribbon will look adorable with her collar.”

The girl nodded in agreement. “Oh, I’m Adelaide, by the way. Adelaide Anderson.”

I reached over and shook her hand. “Olivia Merrifield. It’s nice to meet you, Adelaide. Hopefully, we’ll see each other around town.”

“Merrifield? Wow. You’ve got a whole town named after you.”

I guessed that was one way of looking at it.

“My family were founders of the town. It has its good points and bad points.”

“I can imagine. Listen, I can’t thank you enough for doing this at short notice. I want her looking nice for the photo shoot tomorrow and you have to wait for, like, six weeks for an appointment in Perth.”

“Is Lulu a doggy model?”

“No. It’s family photos. And she’s a part of the family. You know how it is.”

Walking around the counter, I took the lead from Adelaide and stepped back as Lulu leapt into my arms. Friendly as well as cute.

“Come back around five. We should be done by then.”

It was amazing how fast I could run when I tried. Rounding the corner into the alcove of the Post Office and preparing to pound on the door to be let in, I stopped to catch my breath and glanced up at the clock on the wall above the post boxes. It hadn’t gone a minute past five but Anne, the woman who ran the shop, was a stickler for time keeping and rules. And somehow, I always seemed to be on the wrong side of the law.

I put my hand over my eyes and peered through the glass of the door. Then, as I raised my knuckles to knock, Anne — who was straightening the display of CDs — turned. God, it was like the woman had some sixth sense. Or supersonic hearing. She shook her head and tapped the face of her watch. Her mouth pursed, making every wrinkle around it more prominent. A grey hair in her chin that was usually invisible suddenly became visible. I bet she didn’t know that. I mean, it wasn’t exactly a face you pulled in the mirror to check out how you looked, was it?

I gave her my best impersonation of a sad puppy.

“It’s five-oh-three, Olivia,” Anne mouthed slowly, from the other side of the glass.

Well, it was now. I upped the sad face to extremely forlorn. “I know, Anne. I know. And I’m super sorry but I had a client till five and I legged it here as fast as I could.”

“Hmph.” With a furtive look to make sure no one else was hiding around the corner waiting to rush the door, Anne unsnipped the lock allowing me entry. Then she re-locked it and stomped to the counter. She clasped her hands on the laminate top. It was hard to ignore the massive number of rings she wore on every available finger. They nearly reached her knuckles, a complete contrast to the minimalist shirt that was buttoned up so far it obscured most of her neck.

“And it’s a package you’re after, I suppose?”

Because unless I was getting my driver’s license renewed, there was no other reason why I’d ever set foot inside the Post Office. I had absolutely no need for DVD box sets from the 90’s. Or pens in the shape of fluffy emus.

“Yes. A pair of jeans.”

The expected parcel, ordered a week previous, contained a new pair of jeans from Not Your Daughter’s Jeans — sleek, dark, skinny denim — that I’d planned to wear to on my next date with Connor. The jeans had this bum lifting and tummy tucking technology woven into the denim. I don’t know how they do it, but they manage to make your bum look amazing, even if isn’t. Though given the way Connor felt about being misled by a pair of jeans, I was unsure as to how they’d be received at Shannon-down-from-Perth’s birthday party in a few weeks time which was where I was now planning on wearing them. Unless Patrick Dempsey stopped by to asked me on a date first, of course.

“What box number?” Anne enquired professionally.

“You already know my post box number, Annie.” I flashed my nicest ‘pretty-please’ smile, which was quickly countered by a roll of the eye from Anne.

“Three. Three. Zero. Seven.”

Anne swivelled, disappearing out the door to the post boxes.

Having received the bulky yet squishy package, I set off down Harold Street towards home. I couldn’t wait to get my new jeans on and try a few tops with them. I was determined to look my best when Connor and I met again. I wanted him to see what he was missing. Not that I’d ever take him back but I wanted him to see, all the same. It was a matter of pride. Or was it principle?

I walked down the street past the I.G.A and a few plops of rain fell on my head. Ignoring them, I smiled to myself. The mental picture was forming — the jeans, hugging my curves, a pair of heels like the girl, Adelaide, had been wearing earlier on and that nice sparkly top I’d picked up on a trip to Perth. That’d make a few heads turn. I reached the front door as the rain began to pelt. Giving the parcel a quick shake to rid it of rain, I flipped the hall light on before walking to the bedroom, biting the plastic satchel of the parcel open as I went. I was going to show everyone you didn’t have to be a size eight to look good. Once I got those jeans on, they’d eat their words. Because I was not fat. Curves were womanly. Sexy.

Stepping out of the canvas trousers I wore at work, I tossed them towards the washing basket and shook the new jeans from their tissue paper wrapping.

Oh, the smell of new denim, it was like getting a new car but better. Not that I’d ever had a new, new car but I’d smelled that scent you spray at the car wash tonnes of times.

I slid open the second drawer of the chest and rifled amongst the ‘going out’ tops until I found the silver one I’d been thinking of. I tossed it on the bed, next to the jeans. Then, on hands and knees, I pulled a few pairs of shoes from under the bed. Holding two different heels aloft, I cast a critical eye over each. Clearly, updating my shoe collection hadn’t been high on the priority list since moving home. These shoes were about as fashionable as the ones grandma had worn before she met her untimely death at the nineteenth hole of the Merrifield golf course. When had I turned into such a fashion disaster? I’d been prancing around town in these, completely oblivious to their absolute hideousness.

Disgusted, I stood up and took the silver top from the bed, slipping it over my head. I turned to look in the mirror admiring the drape and the way the fabric fell in soft folds around my torso. I hadn’t let myself go, had I? If I went to the party wearing this top, I wasn’t going to be the laughing stock of the town, was I?

I turned to the other side. No, it looked nice. I looked nice.

I picked up the jeans and slid them up over my hips.

Okay. Maybe slid wasn’t the most appropriate word in this instance.

As the jeans reached the centre of my thighs, they stubbornly refused to move another centimetre. It was as if they sensed the impending pain of trying to stretch across my bottom and had gone on strike.

I pulled and yanked, finally managing to get the jeans up to my hips. The button and fly might be another story though. There was an expanse of skin exposed on my stomach that even I could acknowledge would pose a problem if I was trying to button anything up. There was only one thing for it. I was going to have to get the jeans done up the way Alice and I used to do them when we were in high school.

One coat hanger hooked through the zipper, some rather uncomfortable breath-holding later and bingo, the jeans were on. The only problem was, I couldn’t get off the bed. I couldn’t even sit because the denim was so taut across my tummy, bending was not an option. I was so stuck I could die there, right on the bed because I couldn’t get off it to use the phone or get food. People would find me days later, prone on my back and wonder what the hell had happened. It’d be like a scene from that movie Seven but without Brad Pitt.

Well, that certainly wouldn’t be happening. I began to roll side to side to gain momentum. Like a sausage roll stuck on the shelf in the bakery, I rolled until I reached the edge of the bed. Then using my elbows, I hoisted myself upright and turned to face the mirror.

Wow.

I looked amazing. My stomach was so flat you could have put a tablecloth on it and used it to serve dinner. That is, if you discounted the fact that the fat from my hips and stomach had formed an enormous muffin top above the waistband. Actually, it was more like a cake shelf. There was no way the silver top would cover that, not even with neck-to-knee Spanx on.

Hands trembling, I cajoled the jeans back to my ankles and flopped to sitting on the edge of the bed. The company must have sent the wrong size. It happened frequently — well, to me at any rate. I couldn’t have put on that much weight. Ignoring the red marks around my middle, I picked the jeans up and turned them inside out to reveal the label. Size 12. When I saw the promo on the shopping network, the women had definitely said you should order a size down from your usual. Thus, I ordered a 12. But these were nowhere near my size.

Diving to the wardrobe, I dug through the pile of clothes, meant for ironing. At the very bottom I retrieved my Levi’s — the ones I’d shoved there because the shade of denim was wrong — or, if I was honest because they were getting a little tight. I measured them against the new jeans.

Crap.

Exactly the same. No discrepancy in size.

I knew I’d been wearing those wide leg linen pants because they were ‘in’ and I did wear track pants around the house more than I used to but that was only for comfort. It wasn’t because I had no other clothes that fitted me without a fight.

Was it?

And in that moment of uncertainty, the craving hit me again. The longing for something sweet that would make me feel better about myself was so great I would have stabbed someone if they’d stepped between me and that sticky date pudding and double cream I had in the fridge.

As I stood at the open fridge door, stuffing my face and feeling the sadness disappear, I felt truly grateful yesterday had been a good enough day that I’d been able to save half the pudding. There was no way I was going to be reduced to begging for a biscuit over at Mum’s place.

*****

When Mrs Sotheby arrived the next morning with her dog, Snuffle, I was up to my nose in fur. My first client of the day had been a particularly shaggy Old English sheepdog that looked like he hadn’t seen the back end of a pair of clippers in a long while. Consequently, I resembled a snowman, only with fur. Silver, grey and white fur that clung to every part of my body and no matter what I tried it refused to budge.

I wasn’t in the best of moods either. Accepting Connor may have been right about my weight was like accepting you needed help from your most hated enemy. You only did it begrudgingly and it left a very dirty aftertaste. I wasn’t prepared to go down that road yet.

At the tinkle of the doorbell, I leant my broom against the wall, did another swift fur brush down and went to greet my client. Mrs Sotheby had been on an Asian Escape cruise followed by a trek around the Great Wall of China for the past three months. We hadn’t seen each other in quite a while.

“Hi, Mrs Southby.”

I bent down to scratch Snuffle behind the ear. The dog pushed against my hand, enjoying the attention.

“Olivia. How are you?” The elderly lady stretched, giving my forearm an affectionate rub. Mrs Sotheby was such a sweet old thing. Her hair, carefully dyed, was cut into a chic bob and held with a vintage clip at her temple. Her dress reached her knees, revealing a pair of super fine hose and buttery coloured shoes that matched her handbag. I couldn’t remember a time in my life when my shoes matched my handbag. Not even when I was a minor G list TV celebrity. Most of the time, I looked like I dragged my clothes out of the ironing basket.

Okay. Most of the time I did drag them from the ironing basket. Sometimes even off the floor.

“I’m well,” I said. “How about you? You look as if the holiday agreed with you.”

“It was marvellous. The Great Wall is such an incredible landmark, awe-inspiring when you see it in person. It was quite a hike and sleeping in a tent on the Wall was the most indescribable experience.”

“You camped on the Great Wall?” Mrs Sotheby was pushing seventy-five. That was awe-inspiring.

“Only for one night. The second night was spent in a boarding house.” The woman paused to look me up and down. A faint hint of a crinkle formed between her pencilled brows. “And you look… well.”

I knew I wasn’t exactly the picture of glamour, being covered in fur and everything, but I had a feeling Mrs Sotheby wasn’t talking about my actual attire. “Erm, thank you?”

“You’re such a sneaky young thing.”

“Pardon?”

“I can’t believe you kept it under wraps this whole time,” she continued, her eyes travelling towards my tummy and stopping there. “And still working, too. Well, good on you. It’s the sign of the modern woman. You don’t need a man to be a mother.”

Then it dawned on me. The last time we’d seen each other, Mrs Sotheby had had her great granddaughter, Megan, with her. She was the cutest little thing, golden bouncing curls and big blue eyes. I couldn’t keep my hands off her. I wanted to snuggle her to me and tickle her to see the dimples in her cheeks. At the time, I’d expressed my desire to have children one day. I certainly hadn’t meant immediately, not even if I was ‘a natural’, as Mrs Sotheby had put it, and I had no intention of doing it as a single mother. For me, the child came with the man as a package deal. But Mrs Sotheby had somehow convinced herself I was having a baby.

This was the last straw.

Not to mention immensely awkward.

“How far along are you?” Mrs Sotheby said.

“I’m not pregnant.”

The room was suddenly quieter than a morgue. Mrs Southby’s face reddened and she began to cough quietly into a handkerchief that she’d whipped from heaven knows where.

“Oh dear, I do apologise. It’s… well, you seem to have put on a bit of weight since I saw you last. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s been a stressful couple of months. I guess I have been doing a fair amount of comfort eating.”

Not that I’d been that stressed until yesterday but I had been eating. And as I knew only too well, one cake led to another. Okay, probably half a dozen.

“Of course, of course. And sticking to an eating plan is so difficult when you’re not feeling yourself, isn’t it?” the other woman justified. “You don’t look fat as such… maybe a little... er, rounder in the middle.”