The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (26 page)

“Why?”

“Because! That’s what grown-ups do. You’ve witnessed our immaturity.”

“But you love each other.”

“We haven’t been together long enough to get married.”

“You’ve been together longer than Britney Spears and her bloke were before they did.” “But we’re too young!”

Rory smiled patiently. “Gareth is 31, and how old are you again?”

“Yeah, all right.”

“You know what? If you love each other and want to be together, you should just go for it.”

Why does everyone else think the situation is so clear-cut? It’s all too surreal. It was only a year ago I was wondering if Gareth would ever ask me out on a date, and now everyone’s sending us down the aisle?

“Hello?”

“It’s only me,” said the Mothership. “Just wanted to say hi.”

That didn’t sound right. She always takes great pleasure in announcing, “It’s the Mothership!” Her voice was flat and dull, and she kept asking questions instead of telling me school stories or a scene-by-scene recap of the last episode of
Taggart
.

“What’s the weather been like?”

“Crazy!” I replied. “Freezing one day, unseasonably warm the next.”

“Oh well, I’m sure you can handle all temperatures now that you’re skinny.”

“Sorry?”

“And how’s Gareth? Done his exam yet?”

“Another few weeks. He’s so busy that we haven’t really talked about the Future yet. I’m crapping my pants.”

“You’ve got no reason to be nervous when you have that fabulous body!”

“Mum!” I spluttered. “What the hell does that have to do with anything? Why are you so obsessed with weight today?”

“I’m not obsessed!”

“But you keep bringing it up!”

“Because, because…” Her voice wavered. “I just … admire you for what you’ve done.”

“What I’ve done?”

“Losing your weight.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“Well I’m not really doing it very well lately, I’ve barely lost a thing all year!”

“You’re doing it!” she insisted. “You’re skinny!”

I didn’t know what to say.

“How did you do it?” I could hear the despair in her voice. “How did you stop making food the answer to your problems? Where did you find the courage? I’ve got to do something but I just don’t know where to start.”

“Oh Mum.”

“I’m just watching my life pass me by and I don’t know how to stop it.”

Why can’t you just dive through the phone line and hug somebody? She was saying the exact same words I’d said nearly four years ago. I’ve been lounging in this “not quite fat, not quite skinny” stage for so long now that I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to be seriously overweight, how difficult it is to take that first step. Or maybe I just don’t want to remember.

I felt helpless as she started to cry. I always thought Mum was so strong and in control. I’d watch her in action at Weight Watchers, bubbly and warm, with the ladies clinging to her every word as if she was the Weight Loss Messiah. But then I saw her marriage erode that confidence, and now ten years after it ended she still sounds so lost.

“Anyway,” she sniffed, forcing a laugh. “Have you got any words of wisdom for me?”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Umm. Don’t do anything radical,” I began. “Don’t try and change everything at once, even though everything might feel like shit right now.”

“That’s exactly how it feels.”

“Just pick one thing. Think of one healthy thing and do it tomorrow.”

“Go for a walk?”

“Yeah! Just try twenty minutes. I used to go early in the morning so no one could look at me.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Seriously, Ma. Don’t beat yourself up. Don’t worry about what you’re eating and don’t even think about what you weigh. Just try doing one positive thing this week. That will give you courage to add something else next week. I know it sounds simplistic but it’s much less daunting, and starting small really can lead to something big.”

“OK.”

“OK.” My heart was pounding. It felt ridiculous to be giving diet advice to my mother. Did I sound too glib? Did I sound like those patronizing weight loss magazines? But when I think about my lard-busting methods, it really does boil down to baby steps. Why do I always lose sight of that?

Suddenly she was sobbing again. “I’m so sorry I put you in this position.”

“What position?”

“All the things I said to you when you were a kid. All the diets I put you on.”

“Ma, you don’t have to apologize. We had this out a few years ago, remember?”

She just cried harder.

“We weren’t living in a happy environment. It wasn’t easy for anyone. There was a lot of crazy shit going on.”

“I’m so proud of you both for turning out so well, considering everything I put you through. I should have left the farm years before I did.”

“I kept on eating for five years after I left home. I had to take responsibility for my own actions.”

“But you and your sister had to move to the other side of the world to get away from all those memories.”

“Oh,” I sighed. “It wasn’t like that.”

“You don’t have to lie!”

“Well…”

“Do you remember what you were like when you were really young?” she said suddenly.

“Umm… aside from ginger?”

“You were the most outgoing little four-year-old. Confident and bright, always chatting to people. Don’t you remember?”

“No.”

“When your father and I split up, you changed overnight. It was like someone turned the light out behind your eyes. I think you blamed yourself, somehow. You just withdrew into yourself, you were so fragile and insecure.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You were never the same after that. We were so worried about you that I took a whole term off school just to be with you all the time.”

“Oh.” My throat felt tight. “That kind of explains a lot.”

“That’s why I was always sending you to drama classes and swimming lessons, trying to help you find your confidence again. But now I know that I was too overbearing and pushy.”

“Don’t worry, Ma, I was too busy thinking I was fat and ugly to notice.”

“Shauna! I’m trying to apologize!”

“I know.” I couldn’t help it, I was crying too. “I’m glad you told me all this, but I’m OK now. I’ve moved on and I’m doing fine.”

Mum honked into a tissue.

“I’m happy how things have turned out,” I said. “So please don’t worry anymore. I think you need to start worrying about yourself.”

There was a long pause. “I’ll go for a walk tomorrow morning.”

“Good.”

I still don’t know what to make of that conversation. But I am aching to go back in time to that four-year-old me and say, “Chin up, ginger. Twenty-three years from now you’ll think you’re great!”

On Tuesday night Gareth’s band played a wee gig at the Liquid Rooms. It was the first time I’d ever seen him in musical action. He’s always been so bashful about playing the bass in front of me, so I’d started to suspect he just goes to the studio to chat with his pals and eat pizza.

But he was all business as he walked on stage with his slouchy shuffle, wearing his trademark faded jeans, T-shirt, and beanie. He picked up his bass then squinted through the spotlights in a searching fashion. Finally we made eye contact. He flashed a grin and held up the Fist of Rock.

And in that tiny moment I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. With that smile of recognition and that cheeky rock fist, everything fell into place. Finally I just knew, knew knew knew: that I had to have this guy in my life no matter what.

Whatever it takes for us to be together, I’ll do it. And I’ll be happy to do it.

He looked so at home on the stage, a faraway look on his face as he plonked away with skill and swagger. That’s what I loved about him right from the start: his serenity, how he looks so comfortable in his own skin. He always looks as if he’s thinking about something deep, although it’s usually motorbikes or equations. But I love how there’s no big dramas with Gareth. No jealousy, no arrogance, no smothering self-doubt. He just is who he is, in a completely unassuming way.

And that’s how he’s always made me feel. Calm, at ease.

I remember the night we met at the pub, with me resplendent in my size 18 jeans and faded T-shirt. I was already happy and content and finally learning to like myself just the way I was. I didn’t think I was looking for love, but now I see it was the perfect moment. I was ready. It’s not that he changed me; he enhanced what was already happening. Meeting him was like taking the final step toward being the confident, joyful person I always hoped was hiding inside the fat suit. For years my life was ruled by doubt, but our relationship is something I’ve always known was right. Even if it’s taken me a while to believe that it really could be that simple.

All my fears about our future suddenly seemed trivial. They were just annoying technicalities that we could work through somehow. I saw the future with perfect clarity, what I wanted and where I wanted to be. And in the midst of wailing guitars and thundering drums I’d never felt so peaceful.

Let’s hope the feeling’s mutual.

I got brave today and brought up the Future with Gareth. The timing was rubbish—he’s snowed under at work and his viva is just a week away. But we were having a pub lunch in Cockburn Street and he looked rather relaxed after his pint.

“The Mothership called again yesterday,” I began.

“Oh?”

“You wouldn’t believe it. She said she’s found a piper in Goulburn and she’s got him on standby in case of any sudden … important events.”

“A piper!” He went slightly pale.

“Aye! I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not.”

(She was perfectly bloody serious. She also asked if Gareth’s family had an official tartan.)

“Well,” Gareth said, “my mother keeps saying stuff like that too. She wants to know if she needs to start shopping for a new hat.”

“Oh dear.”

We smiled awkwardly.

“It’s crazy, isn’t it?” I said nervously. “This situation?”

“Yeah,” Gareth admitted. “But don’t get the wrong idea, it’s not that I wouldn’t want to. It just feels as if our hand might be forced.”

“Yes! That’s what I’ve been thinking.”

“I’ve always liked letting things happen naturally, in their own good time, you know?”

“Rather than the Home Office making us … accelerate?”

“Yeah.”

“I totally agree.”

Later on, back at my place, I introduced him to the Home Office website and explained the intricacies of the UK immigration system.

“So as you can see, I don’t qualify for work permits, Ancestry, or the Highly Skilled Migrant program.”

He nodded.

“But I could qualify for a Prospective Marriage visa, which is a fancy name for a Fiancée visa, but that wouldn’t make any sense.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, it’s just not value for money. It’s five hundred quid and only valid for six months, plus you’re not allowed to work. I’d just have to sit on my arse until we got hitched, then we’d have to pay even more dosh to get the Marriage visa. So I’d be broke and unemployed just for the sake of six months.”

“Right,” said Gareth. His eyes were glazed over from a combination of confusion, fatigue, and Guinness.

“Anyway,” I said quickly, already feeling nauseous having said the M word so many times. “No need to worry about that now. Just keeping you informed!”

“Well, I appreciate it,” he said, and kissed my cheek. “Don’t worry. Everything will work out fine.”

I’m getting back to basics. There’s no point sitting around getting tubby and worrying about the Future. Onward and downward!

With no further excursions planned at present, Rhiannon and I have scaled back our work at Geriatric Rescue. We’re trying to rebuild our trusty routine of cooking, shopping, and gyming.

I’ve really missed our weekly treks to Tesco. We have turned grocery shopping into sport. We synchronize our watches, catch buses from our respective workplaces so we arrive at the same time. We pause at the magazine rack then glide up and down the aisles with a shopping list that’s ordered in harmony with the supermarket layout. Then we waste half an hour browsing the chocolate, so we always have to sprint across the car park to make the bus on time.

Once the pantry was full and the meals were planned, I decided to start tracking my food again. I’d lost touch with just how much I’d been putting away. I signed up with an online food diary service, like a high-tech version of the dreaded points tracker. It’s got a huge database of UK foods, so I just type in what I eat and it spits out the nutritional information. It tells me where my calories are from (fat, protein, carbohydrates) and logs my weight, measurements, and exercise.

Once I did the sums I could see where I’ve been going wrong. One tiny ounce of mild cheddar cheese is 115 calories, yet so many times over the past few months I’ve sliced a fat wedge off the block then wondered why my jeans were strangling me. So this week my goals were to fill in the diary, avoid the vending machine at work, and get back to wholesome foods in sensible portions.

I have to say it’s mildly arousing having so much data at my fingertips. There’s graphs too! I haven’t indulged my inner statistician for so long—maybe that’s what’s been missing from my lard-busting efforts? Of course, I’ll have to make sure I don’t get too obsessed.

I’ve now racked up seven healthy days in a row. I didn’t skip a workout or fall into a pile of buttered toast. I haven’t had a week this good since… I can’t remember when. I was scared that I didn’t know how to do this anymore. I thought I’d never want it bad enough to get back into the groove. But I do want to see Operation Lard Bust right through to the end, so here’s to another healthy week.

Gareth passed his viva! We can now officially call him Doctor G!

I told him I’d take him out for dinner to celebrate. He sat on my bed while I ran around trying to find something to wear. All my knickers were in the dryer so I had to dig out an ancient pair in a size 20. When I pulled them on, the waistband came underneath my boobs.