Pear Shaped (10 page)

When I turn on my phone the following morning I have two missed calls. I assume now that he’s lost me as an option he suddenly wants me back, but the calls are from my grandma’s number. Two calls, too early in the morning.

I call straight back and Evie says come round. My grandma’s had a bad night.

I find my grandma under the impression that the flat is full of Stasi.

I sit with her for an hour, stroking her brow, and she calms down and then perks up momentarily. ‘Have you ever met my best friend Cecily?’ she says, her left hand resting almost weightlessly on my knee.

I shake my head, even though I took my grandma to Cecily’s funeral six years ago.

‘What a creature!’ she sighs. ‘We used to have such fun together. When your father and I got married, he asked her to be his best man. We used to call ourselves “the horse stealers”.’

‘Why?’

‘We were fearless.’ Her grip on my arm tightens. ‘We knew we could take on the world.’

He has called every day for five days but left no messages.

Here’s the thing: it makes no sense. ‘I didn’t want to make love to you six days ago, but I do today.’ Six days ago I had the same face and the same body. In fact, six days ago I was younger, and, pre-New York, thinner.

I don’t believe it’s actually anything to do with me not being his type. It’s either his ego’s need for a trophy, or his fear of commitment. Whatever the problem is, I reckon it’s about his head, not my body.

And while I’m furious and crushed, I still yearn for him. I feel it in my ribcage, this desperate desire to get in my car, drive to his house and join my body with his, my heart, my mouth.

I’m scared he’ll give up and stop calling me.

Some of my best friends are black and white.

Pete and Laura come round with bags of food from Ottolenghi. I’d told them not to, that I’ve lost my appetite,
but they know me better than that and they’ve chosen everything I love most: the aubergine salad, the chargrilled broccoli, the apple and sultana cake.

‘I’m going to call him back,’ I say.

‘No way,’ says Laura.

‘No,’ says Pete. ‘You’re not.’

‘I have to,’ I say.

‘Turn your back on him,’ says Laura. ‘He’s not good enough for you.’

‘What he said was not okay,’ says Pete.

‘That’s rich, coming from you!’ I say to Pete, ‘What about Marcella?’ The girl he dumped for saying ‘Ciao’ all the time.

‘I never told her it was because she had an annoying verbal tick,’ he says,

‘She was Italian!’ I say.

‘Don’t compare me to James,’ says Pete.

‘You don’t understand,’ I say. ‘He’s just tactless, he blurts out exactly what he thinks….’ Normally I find this trait endearing; normally I’m not on the receiving end of it.

‘He’s forty-five, I think he should have learnt to censor his more unpalatable thoughts,’ says Laura. ‘You’re not on this planet to teach a middle-aged man how to be a grown-up.’

‘Look, I know it sounds bad but you weren’t there so you don’t understand the context,’ I say.

‘He only beats me ’cause he loves me? Come on, Sophie, get a grip,’ says Laura.

I feel my face flush with shame. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen him.’ Laura flashes Pete a look of incredulity. ‘Laura. He looked incredibly uncomfortable when he said it. I think it was very hard for him.’

‘Oooh, poor him,’ says Pete.

‘Yeah, poor him,’ says Laura, ‘shall we send him a card, Pete? Some flowers?’

‘Stop it. I know you are trying to protect me, but I need to hear what he has to say. And I want to tell him what I have to say. So I’m going to call him tomorrow.’

‘It’s a bad idea,’ says Laura.

‘Very bad,’ says Pete.

‘I have to see this thing through. Everyone deserves a second chance.’ And besides, I’m too far gone.

I look at my body in the mirror and here’s what I see:

Relatively recent clavicles and collarbones that please me.

Breasts that are losing buoyancy and looked better a year ago when I was a size 14.

Good arms. Toned, no bingo wings.

A small, curvy waist.

Hip bones – three months ago they started to stick out. I love this; it makes me feel I could be a backing dancer in a Christina Aguilera video.

Legs – not my best feature. Too chunky, too short, the knees and ankles nowhere near birdlike. But generally toned
and muscular apart from the bit at the bottom of my bottom, which is still flabby. I figure if I ran twenty minutes every day for six weeks, it’d be gone. I know I will never be bothered enough to do this.

Dimples on my thighs – a smattering, which, like my freckles, only come out in the sun. Skinny women have cellulite too …

I take out the tape measure. Waist – 22 inches. Hips – 40 inches (that was 44 this time last year.) Bust – 32D. I’ll never be on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Such is life.

I try to look at my body through James’s eyes:

Legs – too short. Distance between knee and hip – should be at least one inch longer, preferably three.

Area between knee and mid-calf – not indented sufficiently.

Hips – too wide.

Stretch marks on hips.

Bottom – very large. Flabby.

Cellulite – on thighs. Unacceptable.

Bones – generally – too wide.

Arms – good? Hadn’t really noticed.

Breasts – breasts of a 33-year-old woman. Not ideal.

And then through the only lens that’s actually worth looking through:

Knees, ankles – same as my father’s. Inherited along with the ability to see the funny side of things, trusting people who shouldn’t be trusted, a love of the world.

Waist – from my mother’s side. Inherited along with a quickness to judge, a fear of abandonment, a generosity that is inconsistent but magnificent when it comes.

Hands, feet – from my father’s mother. Inherited along with a passion for food, a fighting spirit, an utter inability to cope with boredom.

Hips – from my mother’s mother. Inherited along with a warmth that meant her seven grandchildren called her every day without being nagged to do so by their parents.

Cellulite – all my own work. From a lifetime of putting a love of food and pleasure above exercise. That’ll be the way the cookie crumbles.

On the basis of the above, I’m doing just fine.

James picks up on the sixth ring. I imagine he’s wondering whether to give me a taste of my own medicine by not answering, but he’s itching to see what I’m going to say. I know exactly what I’m going to say – I’ve rehearsed it all morning.

‘Hello,’ he says.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Are you well?’

‘I’m okay. You?’

‘Yup,’ I say. Does he want me to be devastated or not
give a damn? I have no idea. ‘Why have you been calling me?’ I say.

There is a long pause. ‘I think I might have made a mistake,’ he says.

My heart leaps.

‘You think?’ I say.

‘I’m confused,’ he says.

‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘I’m thirty-three and I know who I am, and I know what I want. You should too, at your age. You said you were ready for a commitment.’

‘I am … just not necessarily with you.’

‘For God’s sake, listen to yourself – you’re an idiot. If you don’t fancy me, why have you been having sex with me for the last three months?’

‘I do fancy you, I’m just not sure I fancy you enough to sustain a long-term relationship.’

I take a deep breath. ‘Listen: you are forty-five and single and you say you want to get married. Whatever your “type” is, that “type” clearly hasn’t been working out for you so well. Some men have a turning point in their lives where they realise what long-term relationships are all about. Love isn’t all about crazy hot sex in a glass lift. It’s about finding someone you fancy and like and respect and who you can be yourself with. Find that and you’re very, very lucky. The reason I’m calling you back is because I don’t think you’re a total idiot; I think you might be smart enough to grow up and realise that.’

There is a long silence at the other end of the line.

‘I want to see you tomorrow,’ he says.

‘You can’t, I’m visiting a factory.’

‘I’ll come and pick you up.’

‘No, you won’t, it’s in Sheffield,’ I say.

‘What time do you finish?’

‘What difference?’

‘What’s the address?’

‘I’m not telling you.’

‘I’ll call your boss and offer him a grand to tell me.’

‘Suit yourself,’ I say.

‘Seriously, I want to see you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because.’

‘Because what?’

‘Because,’ he says.

‘Well, I finish at 5pm, so I’ll see you if I see you,’ I say.

‘Give me the address.’

I hang up. This is a man who always gets what he wants. If he wants the address, let him get it.

Favourite part of my job: Phase 4 meetings.

Second favourite part of my job: factory visits.

Appletree is my favourite supplier. Will, my contact there, is a total sweetheart, the most kind, forgiving man in the world. His wife ran off with her second cousin a few years ago, and all he’s ever said about it is that ‘things happen for a reason’; yeah, the reason being his ex-wife’s a weird, cousin-shagging slapper.

I’m here today to see the next stage of development on custard desserts, as per Devron’s instructions. Appletree have been working on the triple layer granola, custard and cream pudding, some flavoured custards (raspberry, ultra-vanilla and butterscotch) – and a flummery – a traditional old English pudding based on oats. Oats are cheap; margins should be high.

‘You’re looking very gorgeous,’ says Will, kissing me hello.

I’m wearing a strappy red sundress, wedge heels, and
good make-up – just in case. ‘I might be meeting a friend later,’ I say.

‘A friend! Oh …’ says Will. ‘I have something for you.’ Will always picks me up from the train station with a little treat for the ten-minute drive to the factory. It’s hot today and he’s brought a mini icebox, inside of which is a rhubarb and custard flavoured ice cream. ‘What do you think?’

I’m determined not to obsess about my weight after the James debacle, but as the ice cream passes my lips, the thought crosses my mind: fat arse.

‘Delicious!’ I say, ‘Can you bring it in under 80p per 500ml?’

‘For you? Anything.’

I catch myself staring at his mouth and wondering why I’ve never noticed how perfect his smile is.

Before we go into the production area we have to get washed and dressed. The handwashing procedure is as thorough as any surgeon’s – I’m an expert at turning a tap on and off with my knees. Then it’s wardrobe time – clompy dark rubber soled shoes, a calf-length white apron, earplugs and a vast blue paper hairnet. I can’t imagine anyone who works in this factory ever has sex with anyone else who works here.

One final dousing of anti-bacterial gel, and then Will opens the double doors and we’re on. The first room
we walk through is for dried fruit and glacé cherries, and smells like a Christmas pudding, which is not the worst thing a room can smell of, but it’s the next room that’s my favourite. The size of a football pitch, it’s where the main sponge cakes are baked, and it’s like walking off an aeroplane into warm air that smells of vanilla and sugar. The room is full of people bent over the line, sticking dozens of buttons on to triple chocolate birthday gateaux, or waiting for the hopper to dispense a perfect dollop of buttercream that they can then palette-knife between two halves of a Victoria sponge.

I want to stay in this room, always, but we go to another vast room where the chilled products are made, and over to a corner where a mini-line has been set up to trial the flavoured custards. I want to see if we can do something original with the packaging, so that the product stands out on-shelf. Will and I have discussed squeezy tubes, spherical packs with a small flat bottom, and triangular pots. I want the product to be fun but not too childlike – the flavours are relatively sophisticated.

‘We’re still having a few problems with the plastics,’ says Will. I watch as a long metal arm drops a tablespoon of  crunchy nut granola into a pale pink translucent pot, then another robot arm deposits a teacup’s worth of raspberry custard on top, a third arm squirts a light layer of Madagascan vanilla cream and then the final arm seals
plastic over it and the pot whizzes along to the end of the line and drops neatly into a tray. God, I love dessert factories.

Will buys me lunch in the canteen, and then we go to his office and talk through all the costs, macrobiotics and life tests on every product. The meeting is overrunning. It is now 5.09pm. I have been checking my watch every ten minutes since 3.30pm. I’m desperate to know if James is outside, and if he is, how long will he wait? I can barely swallow my throat is so dry. My nerves can’t take it any longer and I apologise to Will and say I have to pop out for a minute. I dash to the loo and with trembling hands wipe the slightly smudged mascara from under my eyes, and powder the shine from my nose and when I finally do step outside, my heart racing, I see James, leaning against his car, arms folded. He holds up a little white flag and I can’t help but laugh.

‘Two minutes,’ I say, trying not to skip back into the factory and up to Will’s office.

‘Will? My friend’s here, sorry, but I have to go,’ I say, as I feel my heart doing cartwheels.

‘Already?’ he says. ‘Oh … okay …’ Maybe I imagine it but he seems a little peeved. I guess it is bad form to walk out mid-meeting.

‘I’ll call you about everything tomorrow,’ I say. He escorts
me to the front door, and as I turn to wave goodbye I see him checking out James’s car with a slightly raised brow.

‘Nice dress,’ says James. Ah, the dress! I think. Not me, the dress. Will said I looked gorgeous, James instead comments on the packaging.

He holds the car door open and I get in. He sits looking at me, grinning, for a full minute.

‘Drive, please,’ I say. ‘It’s hot in here.’

He turns the CD player on and I press stop. ‘I’ve had enough Dido for one lifetime thank you. I’ll plug my iPod in.’

‘Feisty today, aren’t you,’ he says, smiling.

I put on my playlist that I’ve been listening to for the last week. First song, The Beatles, ‘And Your Bird Can Sing.’