Authors: Becky Siame

The Lighter Side of Large (6 page)

BOOK: The Lighter Side of Large

13.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

“Yeah, yeah. What is it you do again?”

“Management of housekeeping and director of recreational activities,” I answer. He nods and begins to glance around the restaurant as if looking for someone.

Uh-oh, he’s losing interest and the date just started,
I think. “And on the side, I write a column,” I blurt out, “about social issues.”
Well, I did back in college. I suppose you can classify campus club activities as social situations with issues.

“Mm.” Wesley acknowledges this with a glance.

“And I volunteer my time to help the homeless,” I add to make myself appear more interesting. I cringe inwardly at the exaggeration. I didn’t really think of Cat as a project to whom I was volunteering my time and felt badly for twisting our relationship for my own selfish gain.

“Awesome,” says Wesley without enthusiasm. “Where’s that wine?”

On cue, Anatole appears with a tray with the wine and appetizer and sets it on the empty table next to us. He deftly pours us two glasses of Shiraz and sets them down with a flourish. “Just leave the bottle,” Wesley orders. Anatole places the hummus and pita bread on the table and with another slight bow, leaves us alone again.

“Homeless, you say?” Wesley asks as he dips the pita in the hummus and shoves it in his mouth.

“Yes,” I say, but am saved from having to elaborate. A buzzing sound interrupts me. Wesley pulls out his cell phone.

“Sorry, gotta get this,” he apologises, reads the message, texts something back, and places the phone next to his elbow.

“So you play golf?” I steer the conversation away from my lie.

“Twice a week. Last week my buddy and I met Todd Blackadder at the ninth hole. You know who he is, coach of the Crusaders? Yeah, he’s a really nice guy and we had a drink with him at the club afterward. He bought everyone a round. Not that I’m starry-eyed over his celebrity. I don’t care about that. It’s just nice to learn that someone who is a celebrity doesn’t let it go to his head, you know what I’m saying?”

I start to reply when his phone buzzes again. He picks it up, makes an annoyed sound and begins texting. “It’s Michelle, my ex. She won’t stop bothering me. Can’t get it through her thick skull that we’re done with.”

“You can always block her calls or just turn off your phone.”

Wesley looks at me like I suggested he cut off his manhood. “I can’t just turn off my phone. I’m a businessman, got client and suppliers calling at all hours.” He turns his attention back to the phone. I sit there, politely waiting for him to finish. I pick up a piece of pita bread and nibble on it. It’s tasteless. Rather like Wesley.

After two more texts, the food arrives. I don’t worry about finding something to say because Wesley does all the talking. About his ex-girlfriend. With his mouth open. Which is not a pretty sight, especially when the meal is moussaka.

The longer the evening drags on, the lower my heart sinks. Wesley’s arrogance online was merely a hint of his acute case of narcissism. When he isn’t talking about himself, he talks about his ex-girlfriend - or texts her. I lose count after the eleventh time he texts her back.

“Do you want dessert?” he asks hurriedly. I get the impression he wants me to say no.

“No, thank you,” I say.

“Good, we can get back to my place sooner.”

“Excuse me?”

He tilts his head like he thinks I’m a loon for not catching his meaning. “We’ll head back to my place, pop open a bottle of wine, and take it from there. And you can spend the night. I’m not the kind of guy who just kicks a girl out after he gets what he wants,” he adds generously.

My jaw drops. “And just what is it you want?”

He makes an annoyed sound. “What I want? It’s what I expect. I mean, come on, I buy you dinner even though you blatantly misled me into thinking you were someone else. I think I deserve something in return. And besides, you’re so fat you obviously haven’t had any since you tipped the scales two hundred pounds ago. You’re aching for a bang. So what’s the problem?”

His phone buzzes for the umpteenth time and he picks it up. I throw my napkin on the table and shove my chair back with a screech on the linoleum floor. “You are,” I hiss and stomp off.

“Hey, wait a minute, where are you going?” he calls.

I keep my eyes on the floor, avoiding the stares of the other patrons and hurry out the door. The crisp night air is refreshing and I take in a deep breath. I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life.

I look both ways and spot a bus stop two blocks down and start walking in that direction. Bus service runs late in the downtown area so I know I can catch a ride. Sands is on voluntary stand-by in case I need out of the date but I am too embarrassed to call.

“Isabella, wait.” I hear Wesley and quicken my pace, step in a crack in the sidewalk and break off the heel of my right shoe. I don’t bother to pick it up but continue hobbling as fast as I can.

“’Isabella’. He won’t even call me by the name I go by. Wonder if he even remembers it,” I mutter. Briefly, hopefully, the thought occurs to me that maybe he is coming to apologise.

He catches up, grabs my arm and yanks me to a stop. “Where do you think you’re going? How dare you walk out on me like that? I’ve never been so embarrassed.”

“
You’re
embarrassed?” I echo. “You’re the one who makes an unreasonable demand and causes a scene and is now causing another.” I try to shake him off but his grip tightens. “You’re hurting me. Let go,” I say. A couple people walking by throw us concerned looks but make no move to help me.

“You
owe
me, woman,” he growls.

I react on instinct and wrench my arm from his grasp and then, using my full weight, shove him backward. I almost fall doing so, but it works. He falls back and lands hard on his butt on the sidewalk.

“Ow!” he yells. “Assault, is it? Have fun explaining that to the cops.” He pulls out his phone and starts hitting keys.

I turn and stagger toward the bus stop. I can see the bus coming from up ahead and hope I can make it in time.

“Yeah that’s right, run,” Wesley yells. “I know your number and your screen name. I’ll make sure you never get a date again. You’re a liar. That’s right, a liar and a loser!”

Several people are waiting at the bus stop and stare at me as I arrive, panting. The bus pulls up right then.
I’m rescued,
I think, and climb aboard. It is a relief to get away from Wesley and I just want to be by myself, but unfortunately the bus is already crowded and with the addition of this stop, it is almost full.

I’m the last one in and look from side to side for somewhere I can sit. The benches which have only one occupant aren’t big enough to accommodate me. The riders seated there have shopping bags and backpacks which take up a lot of room, or they are also overweight.

The bus driver clears his throat as a hint, so I bump from bench to bench and person to person down the aisle in search of a seat farther back. Finally, I find one to share with a little old lady who is all of 40kg. She smiles and scoots over even closer to the wall to make room, but my butt still manages to plaster her to it. I hope her stop is soon, for her sake.

The bumpy, crowded ride over city streets and the dim lighting is a relief compared to the agony at the restaurant. My face burns with shame as I recall Wesley’s words and actions. Texting his ex-girlfriend the whole time? That was rude. The more I think about him, the more I am disgusted. He really didn’t make an effort to learn more about me. He had a grand time talking about himself - he didn’t even need my contribution to the conversation. I know he was disappointed in the real me, but that didn’t dissuade him from wanting to see all of me.

“Ugh,” I say aloud and Little Old Lady graciously pretends she doesn’t hear.

Wesley’s accusations about sex hurt deeply. Sometimes I do ache. I long for intimacy, but with the right man in a meaningful relationship at the right time. There is no way I can ever hop in the sack with just any guy because I haven’t had sex in a long time. I’m not that kind of person.

His accusations about lying are correct, though. I did lie and look where it got me: riding home on a bus from a disastrous date. Plus I can never eat at Yummy’s again without wanting to vomit in disgust in memory of him.

Why can’t men see what a great person I am? Why can’t they see past the fat to the real me? I may be overweight and desperate enough to fudge the truth a little on my profile in order to meet men, but it’s not fair for them to think I’m fat and desperate.
I exhale loudly and grind my teeth.

Little Old Lady looks nervous and tries to hug the wall even more to get away from me.

Who needs men anyway? They want one thing and they don’t really care about women as people with feelings and thoughts and ideas. Just look at how Sands is treated by the bums at the gym.
I take a deep breath, pressing Little Old Lady farther into the wall, and exhale.
I hate men. I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for Tiresa stealing Mika from me. And if Mika loved me unconditionally, he wouldn’t have minded my weight. Men are just horny idiots who only care about supermodel looks instead of the things which really count about a person. And if my friends really cared about me, Riyaan wouldn’t have suggested online dating and Sands would have made more of an effort to stop me from doing it or even going on this stupid date. Nobody cares for me except Dad. It’s me against the world and I am the loser.

Much to Little Old Lady’s relief, mine is the next stop. I get off and shuffle five blocks home, wallowing in misery and not wanting to work up a sweat walking, which I can only accomplish by moving like a turtle.

I haven’t left any lights on to save on the electric bill, so my cottage home looks asleep when I reach it, a dark welcome to my dark mood. It is devoid of life, rather like me, with Abe and Fi gone to their dad’s for the weekend.

I walk through the door, drop my purse and key on the small table next to it, and head straight for the kitchen. A bottle of chocolate vodka waits for me in the cupboard. I pass over the shot glass and grab a tumbler instead. This is my kind of date: sweet, strong and affects me all over. No insults, no cell phone; just some one-on-one time.

I drop onto the sofa and drink until I feel emotionally numb from the night’s events. I come to the realisation that no one loves me and no one will ever love me. So what did I have to live for? More disastrous dates? More ill-conceived advice from well-meaning friends? Demands from family to make nice and not rock the boat?

I think of Abe and Fi, my pride and joys, the cutest, most rambunctious and loveable children a woman could ever have. Will they miss me? Will they remember me in a few years after Tiresa becomes their stepmum and showers them with everything I can’t afford?

After a while, the vodka hits my bladder. I manage to avoid looking at the hallway mirror as I stumble to the loo, but a glance at the small one makes me stop and stare. No wonder Wesley treated me rudely. No wonder Tiresa stole my husband. “I am fat and I always will be and no one will ever love me,” I snarl at the image.

In a moment of clarity, I get the practical idea to put the bottle of aspirin and a glass of water next to my bed, so in the morning when I wake up, I can immediately take something for the wicked hangover which is coming. I open the medicine cabinet and a better idea hits me.

The small bottle of sleeping pills sits on the shelf next to the aspirin. It is an old prescription, one I hardly used, so I know there are enough pills left in the bottle to end everything. There will be no hangover in the morning.

Like a ball in a pinball machine, I bounce from wall to wall back to the sofa and plop down. There’s a loud crack and I know some support piece has split.
No matter,
I think. This sofa won’t be used after tomorrow.

With difficulty managing the child-proof cap, I open the pill bottle and reach for the vodka. Then my stomach growls. Not surprising, since Wesley’s behaviour significantly decreased my appetite and I had hardly eaten any of my meal. It growls again, louder this time, and trails off with a gurgle.

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to die on an empty stomach,” I say and push myself off the sofa with the intention of making a snack. The room spins as I try to maintain my balance, then the floor rushes closer and my vision goes black.

CHAPTER SIX

“Is there room enough in the world for fat people? If calculations are correct, yes. And yet there never seems to be enough room when an obese person comes around.”