Fat Chance (25 page)

With this in mind, I girded my loins and parked the car near to the exit. There was still every chance I’d never, ever find it again, given the mammoth size of the car park and the maze I was about to enter inside, but I figured that by putting my battered Golf as close to the exit as I could, I might stand a fighting chance were I ever to emerge again into the daylight.

The ride up in the elevator is without incident. I emerge at the top of the car park structure and make my way through the
cavernous
open doors into the first foyer area of the store.

Picking up one of the enormous yellow plastic bags, I start to whisper
‘wok and bookends, wok and bookends’
under my breath. I find it helps to utter a mantra like this as you navigate the aisles. That way you’re more likely to keep your mind on the task at hand, and not get distracted by the bright blue watering cans and very reasonably priced coffee tables.

This never works, of course. IKEA is master of the impulse buy. You may just go in for something boring, cheap, and necessary, but you can bet your bottom dollar that you won’t make it out the other end without having purchased something large, expensive, and blessed with a silly product name.

Ten minutes after entering, I’m standing in the middle of level three (bedroom furniture . . . and place of heretics if you’re Dante) wondering whether to buy an occasional table from the Goopli or Smerferdle range.

The Goopli looks bigger, but the Smerferdle goes better with the couch.

I’ve completely forgotten about the bookends and the wok, and I can assure you that I left the store that day without having bought either of them. This happens a lot in IKEA. You should probably get used to it.

No, for Zoe Milton, life is now all about Goopli and
Smerferdle
.

My eyes swap from one to the other in an agony of indecision. I stand immobile, letting the other shoppers flow about me like a river around an upstream boulder. I will not move from this place until a decision is reached. Goopli or Smerferdle. Smerferdle or Goopli. I must decide.
I must decide
. I MUST DECIDE.

‘Oh my God, it’s you!’

The voice is high, hectic, and nearly cracking with excitement.

It’s also completely blown my concentration. I was
this close
to deciding on the Goopli, but now I’ll have to start the process all over again.

Not that I’m going to get the chance, because I now have a high, hectic voice in my ear that shows no concern for the serious dilemma I find myself in.

‘It is, isn’t it!? It’s you!’

I look around at my new companion.

She is a woman whose look can only be described as ‘eclectic.’

That’s if you’re being polite.

If you’re not, you’re more likely to describe her as being dressed like a mental patient. She looks like a charity shop has thrown up over her.

Starting from the feet we have wellington boots. One is red with yellow spots, the other blue with green spots. The tights are nice, if a little too bright orange for my tastes. The jean shorts are fairly sensible I suppose—faded black and sporting turn-ups a good three inches wide.

Then we come to the poncho.

Now, ponchos are a bold fashion choice at the best of times, but when said poncho is a chunky, knitted number in all the colours of the rainbow, ‘bold’ simply doesn’t do the choice justice. Nor does ‘courageous,’ ‘valiant,’ or ‘daring.’

‘Madder than a box of badgers’ is certainly accurate, though.

Normality reasserts itself when we reach her face. It’s an open, pleasant moon shape with happy eyes, and is framed by a brown bob of hair.

Then we come to the top hat.

Yes, the top hat.

The woman is wearing a top hat.

Not crazy enough for you?

Okay, the top hat has a plastic geranium sticking out of the hat band. The kind you can fully expect to squirt water at any moment.

How’s that?

She looks like a children’s television presenter. One you wouldn’t actually leave any kids with for more than a minute.

. . . and she knows who I am.

God help me.

‘Hello. What . . . er, what do you want?’ I say in clipped tones. I’m annoyed that I’ve been distracted from my Goopli/Smerferdle conundrum and fail to keep the irritation out of my voice.

‘You’re Zoe Milton, aren’t you? From the radio? From the
competition
?’ She’s almost vibrating with excitement.

Now, I should do the sensible thing here and lie. If I’m
committed
enough to it she might just go away. However, I have a stupidly accurate moral compass that precludes me from that kind of thing. This has got me into more trouble over the years than I care to remember.

‘Yes, I’m Zoe Milton.’ Time to effect the patented fixed smile of the reluctant celebrity. ‘Are you enjoying the show, then?’

She claps her hands together three times in rapid succession. ‘Oh yes! It’s wonderful! I’m a little overweight myself so you’re an inspiration to me!’

‘That’s nice.’

‘It is! It is! It really, really is!’ More hand clapping.

‘What’s your name?’ I ask, trying to stay polite.

‘Veronica! My name’s Veronica! I can’t believe I’m taking to Zoe Milton!’
Clap clap
.

I offer an uncertain smile. ‘Well, you are.’

Though quite why you’re so excited about it is beyond me.

I don’t think I’d be this thrilled if I saw Johnny Depp standing butt naked over by the pouffes.

‘I just can’t believe it!’ Veronica screeches and giggles like someone who’s no stranger to a padded white cell. ‘I love you so much!’
Clap, clap. Giggle, giggle
.

I have to wrap this up.

‘Well, it’s nice to meet you,’ I say, starting to move away.

‘Yes! Yes! I can’t believe I’m meeting you!’ Then Veronica lifts her poncho. ‘Will you sign my tits?’

Underneath the poncho is a thin green blouse, unbuttoned enough to show what is quite an impressive cleavage. I can see a series of signatures already scrawled across them. They look like
tattoos
.

I’m in real trouble here.

‘Er . . . er . . . I don’t think so, Veronica.’ I look at my watch. ‘I’m really short on time and have to be going. It was nice to meet you, though!’

I try to move away, but Veronica’s cleavage is having none of it. ‘Oh, please sign them! It’ll be a great addition to my collection.’ She points at a bare patch on the left one. ‘You can sign right here next to Cliff Richard and Sir Chris Hoy.’

‘No! No! Sorry! Have to go!’ I cry and scuttle off as fast as my feet will carry me.

Veronica inexplicably gives chase, forcing me to shift my arse even faster. I’m actually having to run away now. I have my back turned and am heading for the shortcut leading to the stairs—and hopeful salvation.

This is a thing that is happening to me.

I am trying to escape from a woman with a top hat and 38 DDs, who is now pursuing me through IKEA with crazed determination.

I’m trying, but I’m not succeeding.

Veronica is only fifteen or so feet behind me. From somewhere I don’t want to think about she has produced a large black marker pen. ‘Come back, Zoe! Sign my tits, please!’

‘No, go away!’ I flap my hands back at her.

‘Please! Everybody does it eventually!’

‘No! Fuck off!’ This is hideously impolite, but I’m at the end of my tether.

‘Sign them!’

‘I said fuck off
!’

I round a corner and can see the stairs ahead. For a split second Veronica has lost sight of me. This is my chance to get away.

But the stairs are too far away! By the time I reach them it will be too late. My pursuer will have caught sight of me again. I’ll never be able to shake her off
!

‘Oi! Over here!’

I whip my head around. A tall blonde woman is beckoning me over to the open door of one of the customer lifts. A man is holding the door open, an exasperated look on his face. Between them stands a small, pretty little girl of about five, sucking a finger and looking at me with great concern.

‘Come on!’ the woman hisses and beckons again.

For all I know this could be yet another lunatic who wants me to sign a part of her anatomy, but at least this one isn’t wearing a top hat.

As Veronica the nutcase comes round the corner, I disappear into the open lift, the blonde woman right behind me. As the doors are closing Veronica homes into view. She looks round and sees me standing in the lift. ‘Come back, Zoe!’ she wails and starts towards us. The exasperated man hammers the button to close the lift doors. They start to come together. I hold my breath. If they don’t shut quickly enough, Veronica’s going to be in here with us. I’ll be trapped. There will be no escape from the tattooed tits and top hat!

Thankfully, the last image I have of Veronica is her anguished face and outstretched hand as the lift doors close, ending her relentless pursuit.

The blonde woman blows air out of her cheeks. ‘Blimey, that was close,’ she says and pats me on the back.

‘How did you know what was going on?’ I ask her.

‘We heard her shout about wanting you to sign her tits, and then saw you run away. Figured we’d try to lend a hand. It looked like you needed it.’

‘Yes, yes. Thank you so much.’

‘To tell the truth, I was going to come over and say hello myself. I listen to Stream FM a lot.’

‘You’re not going to ask me to sign something, are you?’ I ask suspiciously.

‘Course not!’

‘Great,’ I put out a hand. ‘I’m Zoe . . . but I guess you already know that.’

‘We do!’ she says with a smile as we shake hands. ‘I’m Laura, and this my husband Jamie.’

The man waves and gives me a sympathetic smile. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘You’re the radio lady,’ the little girl pipes up in a matter-of-f
act to
ne.

‘Yes, Pops. She is. Be nice, though. She’s having a bad day,’ Laura says to her.

‘I am rather,’ I reply. ‘I only came into buy a wok and it all went downhill from there.’

‘Sounds about right for IKEA,’ Jamie says. ‘I came in for a Daim bar cake once and ended up in casualty for three hours.’

‘Really? How did that happen?’

Jamie makes a face. ‘You wouldn’t believe it.’

I think back on Veronica, her top hat, and the choice between Goopli and Smerferdle. ‘You know what? I probably would.’

The lift pings and the doors open onto the car park. ‘It’ll have to wait for another time, I think,’ Laura says. ‘You probably want to get out of here before she rides down in another one of the lifts.’

My blood runs cold. ‘Oh, God! I hadn’t thought of that!’

‘It was nice to meet you,’ Laura adds.

‘You too. And thanks for all your help again.’

‘No problem,’ Jamie says. ‘Good luck with the rest of the competition.’

‘Bye, radio lady,’ the little girl says.

I give the little girl a wave and walk away from all three, thanking my lucky stars that they came along just at the right time.

My pace increases somewhat when I hear the sound of another lift door opening behind me.

I daren’t look back, just in case I see Veronica sprinting towards me with Cliff Richard and Chris Hoy jiggling around on her rather mountainous breasts as she comes at me with that pen.

I ordered a Goopli online when I got home.

God bless the internet.

If Caitlin and Veronica have one thing in common, it’s that they’ve both
completely
misinterpreted my significance in the grand scheme of things.

Yes, I’m on billboards and on the radio, but that doesn’t make me a star by any stretch of the imagination.

The star of this entire escapade is the competition itself. After all, no-one would be running after Zoe Milton through the
bedroom
furniture section if she wasn’t part of the juggernaut that is Stream FM’s weight loss competition. I’m just not that fascinating or charismatic—much as I’d like to think I am after a few drinks.

Achieving even a small amount of celebrity is an extremely strange thing to cope with. It elevates you in the eyes of others, no matter how undeserving you may be of that elevation.

You also seem to lose ownership of yourself to a certain extent.

Some people think that you now belong to them in a strange way, just because they know your name and can pick you out of a line-up.

It’s all just a little bit too much for this girl.

I’ve regained a degree of self-confidence in the past few months that I thought was gone forever, but that doesn’t suddenly make me want to be the centre of everyone’s attention.

Still, it’s all temporary, of course. Once Fat Chance is over then I can return to my life of anonymity, relatively unscathed by my brush with fame—other than a new tendency to suffer a panic attack anytime I see a top hat.