The Year I Went Pear-Shaped (11 page)

Chapter 18:  Butcherlerette

‘Dearest Gordon,’
the girl wrote carefully at the top of the thick, cream writing paper. It wasn’t cheap stuff either because she believed Gordon deserved quality.

‘Hi again, how’s it going? Well, you probably remember from my letter last week that it was my birthday yesterday. I’m 36! I had hoped we might be able to go out for a romantic dinner with champagne but I guess you were busy. In fact I know you were! I saw you in the papers the next day going into that swanky party at the MCA with some hack from Lush! magazine. You could’ve invited me you know, I’ve got some nice dresses. Maybe next time? I guess you had to go with that mag hag as part of your job, publicity and all that. I certainly can’t believe you’d cheat on me with someone like her.’

‘Hey Andy, whatchudoin’?’

The woman stopped writing and looked up to see an obese, sweaty, red-faced man of about 20 wheezing in her direction. He was wearing a big white overcoat, which was covered in red, brown and yellow stains, and white gumboots. In his hand was a mop.

She forced her face into a smile.

‘Hello Harry, I’m writing a letter to my boyfriend. You know, the one I told you about.’

‘Aw yeah, him off the telly eh Andy?’ The large young man replied. ‘That doctor bloke what’s in that show comes on after Jerry Springer.’

‘That’s the guy Harry. My Gordon.’

The young man looked troubled for a moment. He glanced down at his gumboots and a pink rash spread across his cheeks. He looked at the woman in front of him and wished he had the guts to touch her long glossy, chestnut hair. But he was afraid she’d get angry and yell at him.

“Well, he’s really lucky Andy,” the man mumbled. “You’re so beautiful. I wish you was my girlfriend.”

“Aw you’re so sweet Harry, thank you!” Andy checked that no one else was standing close enough to overhear and lowered her voice. “But y’know we can still have our secret time when you’ve got the money don’t you Harry? It’s fine until Gordon and I get married, then we’ll have to stop. But it’s got to be our secret, just you and me, ok?”

The man’s empty eyes lit up.

“Yeah, I’m saving up Andy. I got about $70 so far. By next week I should have the $100. I’d have gotten it faster but Mum needed some help with the groceries. She reckons I eat too much.”

Andy made herself smile once again at the man-mountain of fat in gumboots standing over her. “You’re just a growing boy aren’t you Harry? But it’s good that you help your Mum. Well, I’d better finish my letter; I want to get it in the post tonight. Have you finished cleaning up the slaughtering room? Is it ready for the butchers in the morning?”

“Yep, it’s all done Andy. And I sharpened your knives too so they’re ready for tomorrow’s lot.”

“Aww, thank you so much Harry. Anyway, must get back to it, I’ll talk to you later.” And she turned her back on him to finish her letter. Harry shuffled off singing what he thought were the words to an Avril Lavigne song about being young and wild, ‘what did you have to be so confiscated...’

‘So Gordon,’
wrote Andy
, ‘I really think it’s about time we moved our relationship along. I know you’re the consummate bachelor but you can’t be a wild boy forever. I know we are meant to be together. I feel it in every cell of my body. Do you feel that too? I think about you all the time and would do anything to be with you. It’s time Gordon, I’ve been very patient but I’m getting tired of waiting. You can’t go on living alone with nothing but a cat for company you know Gordon. I could look after you, I’d cook you dinner and keep you company in the evenings. Ok, this is what I want you to do; I want you to write to me at the PO Box number at the top of this letter. I know I’ve asked you to write to me in the past and I’ve let you get away with not doing it but this time I mean it Gordon, if you don’t write to me I’ll have to punish you. I don’t want to hurt you but you force me into it. It’ll be worth it in the end though, when we’re together.

Ok my love, I await your letter. You have two weeks from tomorrow.

All my Love, A.

Chapter 19: Talking a lot of Tobsha

“Darlink Darl, you are too ‘ard on yourselv. You are an attractive voman. It iz ridiculous for you to sink zat no man will ever love you because ze circumference of your thighs is 40cms rather than 38cms. Do you see how reedickuluss zat iz?”

It was my third session with Tobsha and she was trying to challenge my vision of myself. She was trying to make me see that my value as a human being, as a woman, was not decided by my daily kilojoule intake. And, sure, the logical, intelligent me knew she was right. I knew it was ludicrous to judge myself by such vacuous, meaningless standards! Did Mother Theresa ever wonder if she’d be better off worrying about her carb to protein intake rather than the orphans in her care? Yet, there was another big part of me, clearly not ruled by the logical, intelligent part, which did believe I was not enough. Not pretty enough, not thin enough, not good enough, not loveable enough, not worthy enough.

For some reason, this fucked up part of me believed utterly and completely that I would only be good enough if I just lost a bit of weight. According to Tobsha, this was the very reason that I couldn’t lose weight, that was why I had battled with my weight for the last 25 years. The fundamental problem was that very deep down, part of me didn’t want to lose it because then, what would my excuse be? That was a big thing for me to try and get my head around.

“Tobsha, are you actually telling me that deep down I actually want to stay fat? How crazy is that! Losing weight is the one thing I want more than anything else in the world!”

“Darlink, your fat iz your defence. Anysink zat iz not going right in your life. You blame on ze fat. You think ‘oh, ven I lose weight, I vill get ze man and my real life it vill start’. Darla, your life iz almost half over and you are still vaiting for it to start. You must look deep wizin yourselv and find out vhat you are afraid of. Vhat iz holding you back?

“Bloody hell Tobsha, you’re making me sound pretty screwed up. I don’t think things are that bad, I have a job loads of girls would kill for, I have great friends, a hectic social life and, all up, I lead a pretty charmed life.”

“I know all zis Darla but are you happy?”

“Yes, I am happy Tobsha, like I said, I’m one of the lucky ones. I lead a great life.”

Yeah right Darla, if you’re so bloody happy why were you at home by yourself last night eating your way through a small mountain of chocolate, a family bag of crisps, and half a loaf of bread loaded with peanut butter and jam?

“Ok zen Darla,” said Tobsha, changing tack with me, “you vere telling me about your parents’ divorce ven you vere seven. Do you av much contact wiz your farzer?”

My Dad. Tony.

“Not really, to be honest. He moved away not long after the divorce so I might see him once every couple of years. We talk on the phone every few months and swap the odd email but he’s never been a big communicator my Dad, I know he loves me though.”

“I did not suggest zat he doz not love you Darla.”

Dammit. She got me. You could almost hear the crashing and banging of my defences going up and locking into place.

“Yes, your farzer loves you Darla but he still left that little girl zat you were zen and it iz natural for zat to av caused pain to zat little girl.”

“Y-y-y-yes,” I choked out as the grief hit me in waves and suddenly I was a howling, blubbering mess, crying uncontrollably. It came so strong and so fast I could hardly breathe and had to gulp for air between howls.

Tobsha passed me the box of tissues she always keeps handy.

“Ah yes, now ve are getting somewhere Darlink.”

Chapter 20: A Right Nutter

Kat was pouting and frowning at herself in the round make-up mirror that sat permanently next to her computer.

“This is sooo hard!” She whined to no one and everyone. “I can’t decide whether Tuscan Earth suits me better than Florentine Sunset or whether I’d be better off with something different altogether, like this Slick ‘n’ Shimmer gloss, or maybe the rum and dark chocolate flavoured one by Tommy Hilfiger, it really is amazing that lippy. Darl, you should try it,” she said, turning to me, “all the taste and smell of rum and chocolate without the calories. Maybe it could help you shift those stubborn kilos that you just can’t seem to get rid of...”

Before I could spit something nasty back at her, she stood up and shrieked across the office to get Roxy’s attention. Low groans and tuts echoed around the room from the rest of the staff.

“Ro-oox! I need your help. I don’t know what to doooooo! Which lipstick suits me best? I’ve got to have absolutely the best colour for my lips to wear to this swanky party Hugo’s taking me too.  It is, like, THE party of the year, that guy who owns all the best clubs in town, Hudson Remington, is throwing it to launch his new CD. Everyone’s gonna be there. It’s invitation only, anyway, so I need to look even more fantastic than normal. And I’ve gotta be careful with lipstick because having such big, soft lips like mine means some colours look terrible. I feel soooo sorry for women with thin lips. It must be heartbreaking! Hugo loves my lips; he says I look like Angelina Jolie. He says the one thing I’ll never have to worry about is needing collagen injections...”

Roxy’s eyes narrowed as she swung her head round, flicking her silky hair to the side, and looked daggers at Katerina, interrupting her before she could dive even deeper into another rant about Hugo.

“For godssake Kat, what is so hard about picking a lipstick?”

Oblivious to the contempt, Kat ploughed on like a tractor on autopilot that had just ripped up the farmer’s field and was now heading for the house.

“I need advice Rox!” She simpered. “Can you come over here and tell me which shade makes my lips look totally luscious but doesn’t overpower the rest of my face? And which have the best moisturisers for keeping them soft. And which ones have sunscreen. It’s really important! Pleeeeease.”

“If you want my help, then you get your skinny arse over here Kat,” said Roxy.

Begrudgingly, Kat stood up and dragged her feet over to Roxy’s desk, her hands full of next season’s top priced luxury lipsticks. They’d already been photographed to go in the next issue of the magazine so Roxy had put them in the wicker basket where we kept freebies that anyone could take. She’d sternly said that no-one was to take more than one so that there’d be enough to go around the whole office but Kat had grabbed the lot claiming she needed to look at all of them to know which one she would keep and assuring anyone who’d complained that she’d put them all back in ‘just a wee minute’. That was 50 minutes ago and she’d spent that whole time applying, wiping off and reapplying every one of the 18 lipsticks. Needless to say, Arabella and Naomi were out of the office at some big, important meeting with the company CEO otherwise she wouldn’t have dared.

Placing all the lipsticks on Roxy’s desk, Kat pulled up a chair to sit next to her.

“Do you want me to try on each one and show you?” She asked.

Roxy didn’t answer, she was concentrating on the colours, taking the lids off one by one and every few seconds looking up to study Kat’s face. After three minutes, she handed one of them over to Kat.

“This one would suit you best. Now put all the others back in the freebie box and let me get on with my work Kat. It’s deadline next week and I have to come up with a fresh and unusual way to make a few tubes of oil and water -- AKA hand creams -- look sexy so that our readers will believe that one of these magical tubes will change their lives.”

For once, it looked like Kat realised she’d been snubbed but choosing to ignore it, she didn’t move from the chair, instead she took the lid off the chosen lipstick to inspect it.

“Hmmm, Rustic Venetian. That’s the one I almost chose myself actually. So, what is it about this colour that you think suits me best Rox?”

Roxy sighed, placed her elbows on her desk and started to rub her temples.

“Katerina!” I yelled across the room. “Get the hell away from Roxy, she doesn’t give a shit about your goddamned lips. Unless you promise to keep them together for longer than five minutes that is, if you did that we’d all be fascinated by them.”

Whirling round in her seat to shoot me a look of hate, I could see the cogs of her mind clunking around as she tried to come up with a suitable reply. Just then Naomi and Arabella strode in and they didn’t look happy.

“Katerina,” said Arabella, with barely a glance at her. “I want to see your Great Blowjobs in History copy by 2pm. Today I mean. Not next week. ” And she went into her office slamming the door behind her.

With a quick look in my direction that said, ‘bitch’, Kat flounced back to her desk and got on the Internet to do a Google search on ‘blowjob’. I smiled to myself. Sure, she was exasperatingly painful but she was also strangely entertaining in a hideously vain and self-obsessed way.

I checked the clock in the bottom corner of my computer screen. 12.41pm. If I went for lunch at 1.30pm I had enough time to skim through some of the letters sent in by readers to Dear Darla and pick four or five to go in the next issue.

The first three were the usual crap from 16 year olds about being distraught because they ‘really liked’ their best friend’s boyfriend and were pretty sure he liked them too because he’d kissed them at some party one night when their best friend was away on a netball tournament or something and they knew it was wrong but he’d told them he was going to dump the friend soon anyway and they didn’t want to hurt their best friend or anything but they also didn’t want to miss out on their soul mate ‘cause, like, she’d get over it eventually. Invariably, these letters ended with something like, ‘I think he might be the one. Should I just go for it or forget about him?’

All three were in the recycling bin by 12.55. Call me harsh but they were just too pathetic.

The fourth letter was just crazy.

Dear Darla,

What would you do if some whore was trying to muscle in on your man? I bet you wouldn’t like it either. There’s this little bitch who’s trying to take my man from me. He can’t see what a tramp she is. I’m going to get rid of her. The only question is how exactly.  Should I poison her? Slit her throat? Shoot her? Strangle her? And should I do it myself or get a friend to do the job? So many possibilities. Which would you choose Darla? I’d love to know.

Yours sincerely, A.

“Fuckinell! We’ve got a right nutter here.” I said. “Nomes, have a read of this letter. It’s made me feel quite ill.”

I stood up to pass her the letter as she covered the two steps between my desk and hers. She read it quickly, her lips curling up as though it smelt bad.

“Darla, this is really weird. I think we should give it to the police. Do you still have the envelope? Is there an address or anything on the back?”

“Um, yeah, hang on I just put it down here somewhere...” I said, rummaging through the papers on my desk. “Here it is,” I said, handing the envelope to her. She inspected both sides of it and looked inside. Nothing.

“There’s not even a stamp on it, this was hand delivered,” she said. “It’s probably nothing Darl but I’m going to be on the safe side and give it to the police. I’ll give them a call after lunch,” she said, taking two strides back to her desk and placing her well-toned, suede-covered arse into her seat. A murderous nutbag was important but not quite as important as her lunch date. Chances are she was meeting up for ‘an informal chat’ with someone from a rival publishing company who wanted to poach her. Naomi was regularly head hunted but so far hadn’t made the leap. I gave her another six months max.

“Sure,” I said, turning to pick up the next letter in the small pile. “Well, fifth time lucky, here’s hoping this one is from a proper normal adult with a proper normal titillating problem otherwise I’m going to have to make up some questions based on the current scandal going on in this office.”

I turned to look at Mands. “Which reminds me Mands, what’s the latest on you and Dozy Derek? Has he convinced you to move back in with him?”

She stopped typing and swivelled her chair around to face me.

“Well, he’s been trying but how do you get over something like seeing your boyfriend’s dick in your next door neighbour’s mouth? I think it’s too late, the trust is gone.” She said earnestly.

“Yeah, well, I don’t think I could have him back Mands but it’s your call. What if you agreed to give it another shot if you moved house?”

She frowned. “Y’know, I thought of that. I thought maybe if we just moved away from Donald it would be ok but then I thought, what’s to stop him from rooting our new neighbour? Or someone down at the gym who gives him the eye? I think the problem is that Derek has a few issues. I think he cheats because he needs to be constantly reassured that he’s attractive, sexual and all that. I don’t know if I have the energy for that and I don’t think my own self-esteem can take that kind of beating.”

That was the refreshing thing about Mands; she was totally honest and open about what she was feeling. I looked at her. She was gorgeous. The fact that such a beautiful girl could have self-esteem issues was just more proof of what a fucked up society we lived in.

“You know what Darl?”

“What Mands?”

“I think I just decided right then and there to end it with Derek once and for all. Hearing myself just then made something fall into place.”

“Well, bloody good on you!” I said supportively. “So, can I use that scenario for a Dear Darl question in the mag?”

“Sure Honey, no problem, just change the names. I’m gonna call Derek now and tell him it’s over.”