Pear Shaped (26 page)
‘You just need to get some perspective,’ he says, giving me a hug.
I just need to get some more bread.
Get some perspective. Your self-pity isn’t helping – move on.
Of course I KNOW THIS. But it might as well be written in Webdings:
But my brain still tries to find the meaning in Webdings. I see a love heart, unanswered questions, big black voids, a man in the distance next to a yacht and a bus – two forms of escape …
Zapf Dingbats is more like it:
I should be on
Top Gear
. I can now distinguish the purr of a Maserati from any other performance car with my eyes closed. If I hear one, let alone see one, panic grips my guts.
Suddenly London is aswarm with midnight blue Maseratis. Whenever I spot one, I automatically squint to see if James is driving it. It’s amazing how many middle-aged men with a slight chin drive midnight blue Maseratis.
God forbid I ever have to cross at a light in front of one. I can’t help but stare: these men all have the same expression. It reminds me of an old Garfield poster I had on my wall as a kid, with Garfield saying: ‘It’s hard to be humble when you’re as great as I am!’ They often have a sullen twenty-something girlfriend next to them. That’s such a simple equation, even Amber could do it:
40 <
< 55 +
=
+
< 30
And all these men race off before the light’s turned green, flooring their accelerators, as if you could ever get anywhere in London fast.
That is the best thing about a long distance relationship: breaking up is not so hard to do. But according to Google maps, James lives only 2.5 miles from my door by car, 2.1 by foot.
I walk the streets in fear of seeing him, or worse – him seeing me. I start wearing noise reduction speakers on my iPod, and taking the bus at all times.
It is now March. Spring has yet to sprung and the London sky is relentlessly grey. A year ago, I was sitting opposite James in the Dean Street Townhouse, eating the Queen of Puddings and falling in love. Today I’m sitting opposite Devron in Boardroom 4B, watching him demolish a Benjy’s egg and sausage sandwich without chewing it.
Ton of Fun Tom, Julie from packaging and I are here, waiting for Devron to wipe the egg dribble from his chin and then brief us on the ‘Change of Direction’ he so sweetly shit-bombed last week.
Zoe has already told me what the ‘Change of Fucking Direction’ is: the Fletchers deep freezer is the retail equivalent of the Deepthroat car park.
Our Research Unit has tapped into twenty-first century lifestyle trends and identified a new female audience ripe for exploitation: SLOTs, Single Long Terms. They’re ‘cash rich’, ‘lonely’, and ‘dissatisfied’. They want single-serve portions
of their favourite comfort foods without the temptation of eating a family pack.
‘Right, Soph, I don’t want you getting all creative with your bin liner biscuits. What we need is three low-cal treats to appeal to these women – 30 to 45, ABC1s. Research says that custard is a big win – reminds them of happy childhoods.’
‘Hang on. I’ve just done a year’s work with Appletree on custard, I’ve got twelve products that are launch-ready, can I use some of those?’ Will deserves this brief after all the work he’s done on it.
‘If you can get them down to less than 3% fat and crush them on costs – 30% cheaper – yes. If not, go from scratch. – I was thinking perhaps we could invent a biscuit that has custard in the middle. Hit these women in their tea break.’ I’ll hit you in your tea break, dickhead.
‘Do you mean a custard cream?’ I say. I’d like to have invented the custard cream – quite audacious in its day. Not so innovative now …
‘Shit. Okay, just whatever, something for tea breaks. And something that’s good for commuting, and something in a small bucket for those long nights in front of
Sex and the City
reruns.
‘Can we brainstorm together, pleeease?’ says Ton of Fun Tom.
Tom is as irritating as a raspberry seed in your molar and equally hard to get rid of.
‘Yeah, make sure Tom’s included in everything. The brand is key. On that note, I’ve had some ideas for naming the range,’ he says, opening his file. ‘Okay. One is Fun.’
‘Delia’s got a book called that,’ I say. Besides, one is not fun.
‘Julie, write it down,’ says Devron. ‘Then there’s Serves One, or Suit Yourself.’
‘Serves One sounds depressing,’ says Julie.
‘Suit Yourself sounds cool,’ says Ton of Fun. ‘Empowering. Feminist.’
‘The “Suit” thing doesn’t work,’ I say. ‘If it was “Suite Yourself” – but then that’s too clever-clever, doesn’t really make sense either.’
Devron rolls his eyes. ‘Or something more jokey. You know that ice cream brand, Skinny Cow?’
‘… Yes,’ I say.
‘So, I’m thinking “Fat Cow,” or “Fat Bird,” with a cute pink cartoon cow or bird on the packaging. Julie?’
Julie is shaking her head violently.
‘The research says women love the concept of Skinny Cow,’ says Devron.
‘Skinny Cow and Fat Cow are not the same thing,’ I say.
‘The research also says these women enjoy “badminton, Radio 4 and laughing.” They’ve got a sense of humour.’
‘Yes, but does the research say these women enjoy being called fat?’
‘They’re okay being called cow, what’s the difference?’ says Devron.
‘Big fat difference,’ I say.
‘Fine, Bird then. We’ll put an exclamation mark after Bird!, show it’s tongue in cheek. Mands thinks it’s brilliant,’ says Devron. ‘Speak to suppliers, press play on Fat Bird! And remember – what does success look like?!’
I call Will.
‘Sophie! I was just thinking about you,’ he says.
‘Oh, I know I still have your scarf, sorry.’
‘My scarf? Oh, I’d forgotten about that.’
‘Listen – you’re not going to believe Devron’s latest genius idea.’
‘Go on …’
‘Low-cal treats for single career women …’
‘That sounds doable. What’s the problem?’
‘The name of the range,’ I say, shaking my head with embarrassment.
‘Go on …’
‘It’s dreadful, I can’t say it …’
‘Give me a clue,’
‘It’s totally insensitive.’
‘You’ll have to narrow it down a bit.’
‘Okay. Two words, first rhymes with rat, second with word, highly inappropriate for a dessert.’
‘… Cat Turd …?’
‘No, but he’s probably trademarked that for his value sausage rolls. Okay, think about two words a woman would not want to be called …’
‘… Fat Nerd?’
‘Almost! Swap the N for a B.’
There is a pause on the other end of the line, followed by a small snicker.
‘Oi! Stop laughing! It’s not funny,’ I say.
‘No, it’s deathly serious, Sophie.’
‘It is!’ I say, knowing full well he can hear my smile down the phone.
‘Okay, when are you up to see us?’
‘I’ll come with a proper brief on Monday?’ I say.
‘Can’t wait. Meet you at the station.’
I’ve been going to see a Cognitive Behavioural Therapist twice a week for the last fortnight. I saw a shrink a few times after my dad died and I hated it. If I’m going to spend £60 on something, I want it to be wearable, edible, preferably both. But, I have no time to be depressed. The pills haven’t kicked in yet; intensive therapy is the way forward.
I like my shrink, I really do. She is smart and kind and has a normal-sized body.
She says that I should treat the relationship as a gift, a ‘learning experience’. My idea of a gift is a Marimekko teacup, or if you’re feeling flush, a pale blue cashmere blanket. I don’t recall putting ‘learning experience’ on my Christmas list. I’d like to take the following back to Selfridges, please: 1 x clinical depression (size, medium); 1 x dignity removal kit (heavily used). Do you really need a receipt? Just look at my face.
I tell her I feel guilty that I’m not grieving my grandma
more. My shrink thinks this must be why the James situation has hit me so hard – my closest relative in London, my dead father’s mother, a double bereavement. But my grandma was ninety-seven, she was bored to buggery. Death was entirely what she wanted.
My shrink also thinks I never dealt with the sadness at the end of my relationship with Nick, and that’s compounding everything. But when Nick and I split up, I felt intact, not in pieces. He’d done nothing to take me apart.
She says she doesn’t think it was ever about my weight, and that James just attacked where he knew I was vulnerable. ‘If it hadn’t been your weight, he’d have pinned it on something else.’
