FAT CHANCE
by
Malla Duncan
Copyright 2011 Malla Duncan
ISBN: 978-0-9870052-6-7
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Fat Chance
Prologue
He knew timing was important.
He hurried to the vantage point, found his place against the crook of an old pine tree. A spring dawn was already throwing sundial pointers across the hillside.
From where he sat, he could follow the shadows as they slowly retreated from a cobble of white stones fringed by yellow flowers and crooked lines of wild geranium. The stones were a collection of small boulders diminishing in size as they trickled away to eventually form a river of pebbles in the cleft of the hillside. Far below, he glimpsed a grey skein of coastal road as it drew a line between mountain and sea.
The sun rose, clearing a spotlight place on the stones. Ah…and there…in the stone jigsaw was the evidence he sought; a claw-like object that could have been an old root or the remnants of a dead plant whittled to dry contortion.
But he knew it was neither. In the strengthening light he could pick out knuckled bones as the emaciated hand seemed to search for something to grasp, looking to pull its owner from the makeshift grave and into the warmth of this glorious Mediterranean day.
For one poignant moment, he remembered her smile, so beautiful in the plump cheeks, and that look of delight when she saw him. Momentarily, he was lost in regret, remembering also the respect.
For a long while, as the sun climbed, he contemplated that grisly remnant and all it represented. He imagined the body lying in delicate angles, clothes falling to folds, a new, high-cheeked face emerging from mud; a fashion model dancing in the gloom, poised in airy display, her smile now much too wide. Bone thin.
Chapter 1
If you’re larger than average (note I avoided the term, fat), there are two things that never allow comfortable access – an airplane seat and a coffin.
I know you’re wondering about the coffin. You’re thinking…well, I’d be dead and hardly worried about a neat fit. But life can be unexpected. As can death.
I went to Italy for a holiday and found myself embroiled in a kidnapping, the recovery of an ancient corpse, a donkey chase, the evil clutches of a psychotic serial killer whose knife (in my particular case) was not long enough to reach any vital organ, a fifty foot plunge from a cliff into the sea, a fruitcake competition, and a desperate search to save a terrified victim chained in a dark cellar. Oh, and did I mention the bit about being stuffed into a coffin?
I also had to deal with a policeman, a forensic anthropologist and a psychiatrist – all of whom dwelt on personal dilemmas rather than the discomfit of the prisoner in the dark cellar. (You see! It’s not only in books!)
Not everything that happened was my fault. But I will admit that events might well have been shaped by my mindset. And to understand that, I need to begin with my visit to Dr Shelton one summer afternoon at 3pm.
(Note:
Before literary nitpickers fling up their hands in exasperation
because Dr Shelton does not appear in the rest of the book (and no,
he is not found murdered shortly afterwards with ancient scrolls of
mysterious hieroglyphics stolen from his safe), let me assure you
that the topic of our discussion has relevance for events thereafter.
Okay?)
Dr
Shelton peered at me across the expanse of his desk. He was a small,
wiry man with a large, balding head. Above a putty-coloured face lay
a ribbon of dark hair no wider than a length of licorice. It shifted
slightly as he glanced up from the folder in which my medical details
lay itemized, his expression that of regret.
‘I’m sorry, Marsha, but there’s nothing I can do.’
This must rate as one of life’s most excruciating moments: that irrevocable moment when you know you will never go back to that blissful state of ignorance and anticipation of a few seconds before.
‘Are you saying you can’t operate?’
‘To a degree,’ he responded reluctantly. ‘But it’s not an operation I would recommend at your age.’
‘My age?’ I repeated, feeling that familiar sense of alarm when confronted with this word. ‘What does that have to do with it?’
He shifted. ‘Well, unfortunately your skin has lost elasticity and the result could be a fair amount of puckering and that would require further surgery to repair and scarring is possible. People have not always been happy with the results.’
‘But clothes would hide all that,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘But most people want to wear a swimsuit.’
‘I never swim.’
He straightened my folder. ‘I want you to think about it.’
‘I’m sorry, but I have no intention of swimming.’
‘I’m referring to the operation.’
Pause.
I had to ask, ‘What age would have been the right age?’
‘Preferably before thirty-five.’
I gazed at him as though both he and the number had retreated to a distant hill.
‘I would suggest,’ he said cautiously into this silence, ‘that you try a good diet and exercise. A lot of people have found fair effect with this.’
‘But not a cure.’
His eyes dropped. ‘Well, no. The problem is no doubt hereditary. Things bred in the blood do require more than the usual procedures.’
‘Exactly,’ I said acidly.
He sighed. ‘The truth of the matter, Marsha, is that you are presently carrying too much weight for the operation to be effective. In order to facilitate our way, you would need to lose weight on an overall count, before we could reconsider.’
At the words ‘lose weight’ the room darkened. I swear a cloud passed across the window. As though bolstered by his little surge of courage, Dr Shelton added, ‘Your bottom is rather big and we would have to consider balance.’
There was a horrible silence. The words big and bottom seemed to hang emblazoned over his desk. Suddenly the cushiony volume of my buttocks became acutely uncomfortable. I was in a midget’s chair.
I looked at him. He was a quarter my size. His large head seemed in imminent danger of toppling from the narrow appendage of his body. I imagined his bottom. Probably the size of a walnut. He would be able to slide bent over and bottom-first through a keyhole. Although what the purpose of such an exercise would be, I wasn’t sure. His head would have the most difficulty getting through. I began to wonder how somebody shaped like a dessertspoon could possibly make any empathic pronouncement on my condition.
But it got worse.
‘Once you have lost around eighty pounds, we can reassess.’ He looked down at my file. ‘But even after dieting, the pear-shaped problem of the saddlebags will remain. They’re composed of deep fat, close to the muscle. To re-align the body, we first have to eliminate at least some of the surface fat.’ He offered the gesture of a comforting smile.
Fat. To my unwilling ears, the word had a squat, lethargic sound, squishy and obstructive. It was something you trimmed off red meat and pork. It was so dangerous it was rigorously removed from something as innocuous as yogurt. It was condemned in butter. Whales were killed for possessing it. It was eradicated from every food stuff possible. Low-fat. Low-fat. Low-fat.
Fat-free.
How could I be carrying this stuff around? What dark, nasty trail had my ancestors followed to ensure this legacy of lard, as feared in our first world as tap water in the third, would be served up to me, Marsha Angela Linton of 29 Gerrison Road, London?
Dr Shelton opened a drawer, scrabbled around. He proffered a piece of paper.
I put out a trembling hand. ‘What’s this?’
At last expression came to Dr Shelton’s eyes – encouragement disturbingly mixed with sympathy.
‘It’s a healthy eating plan.’
‘I
can’t believe he said that!’ The permanent shade of red in
Milly’s plump cheeks deepened. ‘Can’t you sue him?’
‘Of course not. He didn’t intend to be insulting.’
‘Saddlebags!’ Milly exclaimed, annoyingly for the fifth time, her bright blue eyes flickering about the restaurant, afraid to look me in the eye. ‘It’s just a very feminine shape.’ This was kind coming from a woman who was taking up the whole of a bunker seat designed for two. She peered at the menu then slapped it to one side. ‘Is it dangerous?’
‘The operation?’
‘This liposuction.’
‘Not if it’s done properly. They suck out the fat with a tube.’
Milly’s eyes lit up.
I said quickly, ‘They can’t do it with general fat. They would tell you to lose weight.’
At the words ‘lose weight’ Milly’s eyes glazed. ‘I think I need to have my jaw wired.’
‘That’s drastic.’
‘It works, you know. I heard about this woman who – ’
Our order arrived.
Milly fished around with her straw. ‘This woman lost one hundred and ninety pounds.’
‘Good grief! Was she still there afterwards?’
‘Yes, but she had to learn to walk again.’
‘Why?’
‘She’d been so fat, she hadn’t been able to walk for five years.’
‘Dear God.’
Aggrievedly, I looked down at our chocolate sundae shakes with the flake sprinkles. ‘There’s supposed to be chocolate on top of the ice-cream.’
Milly swilled her drink. ‘I think yours has sunk to the bottom.’
And there it was – that moment of clear relevance that shapes much of this story. Dr Shelton was right. Pear-shaped. I was like a cork stopper. But upside down.
Everything had sunk to the bottom.
Chapter 2
My colleague, Shirley, thought I was disgusting.
Shirley was as thin as a needle and wore enormous blue-rimmed glasses designed to highlight her long blonde hair. Her cheeks bore a rough lumpiness I’d noticed in most advertising people – an early side effect of the pressure that sent many creative people out of the industry before they were forty. Shirley hardly ever smiled and was often vague, her mind rooted in her next idea. Sometimes, when she did focus, her attention was less than polite.
‘What on earth are you wearing?’
My reply was practiced. ‘A design by Paolo.’
Shirley would snort mirthlessly. ‘Honestly, Marsha, you should get yourself something more fitting.’
‘Pour myself into designer jeans?’
‘No, I mean something sharper, more snappy. Colourful, for God’s sake. You look like an undertaker in the rain.’
Those were the good days. On a bad day when a client had changed her copy, she would look to snipe.
‘You’re obsessed,’ she said.
‘With what?’
‘With your weight. It’s disgusting. People are starving in the Sudan and you’re worried about your shape. It’s disgusting.’
I looked at her as she stood angled in an elegant collection of thinly fleshed bone against my desk, and thought that on any good day, Shirley would have given those Sudanese a run for their money.
I pushed the remains of a cream donut behind some files. ‘You really need to take our industry to task. They advertise a yardstick of femininity that is unobtainable for most women. People spend more on diets than just about anything else. When people are starving in this world, that is actually disgusting.’
She shot back, ‘Have you been on a diet?’
‘Four this year.’
‘It’s only March.’
‘They take about a year to kick in.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘And the gym?’
Silence.
Her look became nasty. ‘People think that if they drink some strawberry flavoured concoction, they will wake up in the morning looking like a sylph.’ She sighed, shook her head. ‘Honest to God, vanity obscures reality.’
‘On the contrary,’ I murmured. ‘I think it is reality. We all want to be beautiful.’
She was quiet a moment, her gaze sharpening. ‘You are beautiful, Marsha. You have lovely green eyes, a flawless complexion and shiny dark hair. Very dramatic. I don’t think it’s your weight you should be worrying about.’ She paused, mulling her next comment. ‘I think you just need some help with shopping.’
(Note:
This is just for back story, okay? I had to put in the bit about
Shirley saying she thought me beautiful. I think that’s important,
don’t you?)
Lester
was my husband because he had never criticized my weight.
Lester was one of those lanky people who eat with gusto at mealtimes and rarely nibble in-between. He had dark hair, a swarthy complexion and wore forbidding horn-rimmed glasses (purely for effect – his eyesight was quite good). He liked swimming and tennis – and gave up the former because I wouldn’t go anywhere near a place where people might disrobe for any reason. In return, I supported his tennis afternoons, often acting as referee. Lester looked rather fetching in his whites, his long tanned legs pumping across the court, his peaked cap tilted rakishly as he took on the aura of a Latin millionaire testing the measure of his private court. My sweet, kindly Lester who worked hard for his money as an accountant, and who adored me as if I were thin.
Only once had Lester made a serious gaff – and that was about three months into our marriage when, unwisely, I mentioned that the lumps on my thighs bothered me. Lester was either half-asleep or he thought mistakenly in this nuzzling, post-coital moment, that marriage of a few months would allow him some leeway on a topic hitherto taboo. He grabbed the lumps, one in each hand and most offensively, squeezed them. ‘I love all of you,’ he murmured happily. ‘Especially your love handles.’
I have never seen a man leave a bed in such haste. He paused desperately at the door. ‘My pyjama bottom – ’ he asked hopelessly.
‘Fuck your bottom!’ I screeched.
He made a dash and to my fury, grabbed the duvet off the bed. Then he fled.
I spent three cold nights before he came back, as much on his conditions as mine. I was never allowed to mention the words fat, weight or shape when we were in bed. He agreed to never mention them when we were out of it. And Lester was a man of his word.
But I was a woman of mine – so these words were constantly burning in my mind, if not sizzling on my tongue. Milly became the only person I could really talk to.
I
met Milly at the local hairdresser. When I spied her under the drier
I was prompted to speak to her because she had a packet of donuts in
her lap.
‘Those are very good,’ I said, pointing at the packet. ‘Quite the best.’
She looked up, her face bright red from the heat of the dryer. I was mesmerized by a pair of crystal blue eyes.
‘Very good for shock.’
I was taken aback. ‘Oh! I’m sorry. Has something happened?’
She nodded. ‘Haven’t had one since yesterday.’
It
was a connection, like the donuts, made in heaven. Milly was tall,
her china blue eyes perfectly offset by gold-spun blonde hair framing
her delicately featured face which was supported by a dome-like body
tapering to tiny hands and feet. The red cheeks I would learn, were a
constant.
Milly at thirty-seven was ten years my junior and unmarried. She worked at the call centre of a large engineering company, dealing with cranky people who had spare part problems – probably the crankiest customers of all. She was a patient, kindly person suited to finding solutions for people whose first line of attack was to try and magically strangle her through her headset.
Considering that Milly sometimes (well, nearly always) missed the point in any key debate, I secretly assumed that some of her irate callers may have partially achieved this purpose. Nevertheless, there was no more comfortable person to be with than Milly. And not just because she was fatter than me, but because she rarely flapped. She just never saw a problem – either distant or close enough to splinter bone. Sometimes I thought it was a gift. It allowed her to pass through life in a haze of contentment and gentle inertia – like a single cow in a field of daisies.
Milly
and I spent time fantasizing about what we would look like if we were
thin. We did imaginary shopping trips.
‘Something clingy,’ said Milly with relish. ‘That elasticky stuff.’
‘A décolletage,’ I said.
‘Stockings,’ she mouthed.
We stopped there. The decadent imaginings of silky whisperings as lissome thighs swung smoothly past each other in a willowy, seductive lope, was a bridge too far.
As soon as reality kicked in, we would talk about food instead. We were good at food. We could cook. We often lamented the fact we had never written a recipe book. On Saturday afternoons we would gather in her kitchen for an afternoon of blissful experimentation and tasting.
(Note:
I know there were only two of us, but Milly and I together in
one space seemed like a gathering.)
(Second
Note: I know at this point you are beginning to fidget and wonder
what all this has to do with a prisoner chained in a dark cellar. Be
patient. Our cooking expertise was to feature dramatically in this
story – especially with regard to the fruitcake. Just wait,
okay?)
Chapter 3
I suppose if I must make a proper beginning, I must begin with Betty’s invitation for Lester and me to spend ten days vacation at her sumptuous villa on the Amalfi coast of Italy.
(Note:
I’m detecting a ripple of interest. The words vacation, villa
and Italy in the same sentence are appetizing to say the
least. But before you curl up on the couch with your little piece of
chocolate (oh, c’mon!) I must tell you about Betty and
Guido. Actually, Betty and Guido should have been noted as one of the
great love stories of the twentieth century – along with such
greats as Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy. That type of thing.)
Betty
and I went to school together, right from first grade. They called us
the Thumpalina twins because we were both overweight and similarly
proportioned, except Betty was a redhead while I was dark. After
school, she went to university to study languages and got a job
teaching English at a night school. She hated the job but for some
reason saw fit to hang onto it as though she had no other option.
One evening she had one of those I am all alone and nobody cares moments and bought a cup of hot chocolate to cheer herself up before going to class. As she walked into the lecture room, a man stood up to take off his jacket and elbowed her cup skyward. They both looked up as the cup flew through the air. Then, on perfect cue, the cup lost its cap and dropped its hot, sugary load on Betty’s upturned face.
Et voila! Betty met Guido.
Guido was Italian (not tall, dark and handsome – rather think short, grey and stocky), and stinking rich, available and immediately smitten with Betty. Within a few months they were married and living in Guido’s luxurious villa on the Italian coast. There. I’ve said those words again.
But the most remarkable thing about this union was that Betty was three times Guido’s size; it was rather like watching a Panda cuddled up to a Jack Russell. But ultimately, that wasn’t what caught everybody’s attention. It was their absolute devotion that held friends and family in thrall. Betty and Guido loved each other in a way that went far beyond mere cinematic passion; they shared the kind of love that most people yearn for and can often only imitate, fabricate and complicate to hell.
Lester and I regularly took a leaf out of their book.
‘Look at Betty and Guido,’ Lester would say.
‘I’m looking and looking.’
‘I bet they’ve never had a fight.’
‘Oh, I’m sure they’ve had fights. They’re not abnormal.’
‘You think it’s abnormal to get along?’
‘I didn’t say that. What I’m saying is that disagreement on a civilized level is the sign of a healthy relationship.’
Lester rubbed a damp cloth soaked in Handy Andy along the wall. ‘But they never seem to fight. Do you think their relationship is unhealthy?’
‘I didn’t say that. I said I’m sure they have arguments but they resolve things in an amicable, civilized way.’
‘You think they hide it all?’
I worked the broom along the floor. ‘I’m not saying that. I’m saying that they have such a good relationship that they have found ways to get around disagreement.’
‘You think we’ve not as civilized, then?’
I felt hot and sweaty. I’d been cooking boeuf bourguignon all morning and it was a good thing to be cooking when you were angry because you could throw in stuff with a fair measure of violence and it still tasted good.
‘We often find ways to get around disagreements.’
He looked at me then, the kitchen light reflecting off his glasses, a small splatter of gravy on the left lens obstructing his vision. He asked, ‘Do we?’
Steadily I looked at him. ‘You’re the one who usually finds the way around things.’ It was the most honest thing I could say. ‘Why are you asking all these questions?’
‘I just want to know if we’re normal.’
‘I think we’re normal.’
‘Betty and Guido,’ Lester said musingly. ‘It must be rather boring.’
‘What do you mean?’
He finished wiping the boeuf bourguignon off the wall.
‘Always getting along. Must be boring, don’t you think?’
When
I got home after the life-changing interview with Dr Shelton, Lester
was waiting for me with the letter from Betty.
‘She’s invited us for ten days.’
I surged forwards. ‘That’s wonderful! When?’
‘Next month. It’s their tenth wedding anniversary.’
‘Oh, Lester! Can we go?’
‘You must go.’
‘Why not you?’
‘I’m tied up with that property investment case. It’s going to take months. There’s no way I can go this August.’
‘Is there no-one else that can do your stuff and you sneak away for a little break? Oh, Lester it will be so nice. We haven’t had a good summer – ’
Maybe it was my reference to his work as ‘stuff’ but I could see he was annoyed. ‘I can’t do it, Marsha. It’s impossible. Maybe next year but not this August.’
Pause.
Sulkily I said, ‘I won’t go without you.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Don’t do the guilt trip, Marsha.’
‘I’m not. It just won’t be the same without you.’
He eased up, pushed his glasses back to position. ‘Darling, it’s not something you can miss. You and Betty go way back.’
I looked at him hard – and realized he looked sickly. He hadn’t had a haircut in a while and there were dark rings under his eyes. His swarthy skin had a sallow tinge. But it was the lightless look in his eyes that was the most concerning. It was as though my fun-loving, humorous man had lost his spark. What shocked me the most, was that I didn’t know how long he’d looked like this; for weeks I had been focused on my size, weight and shape. But these were the words we were not allowed to air publicly or privately.
‘I’m not going to leave you,’ I said.
He sighed. ‘Please go to Italy.’ There was a kind of desperation in his voice.
‘You want me to go?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alone?’
‘You’ll be all right. It’s a civilized country.’
‘No, I mean, you want to be alone?’
‘I’m not saying that.’
‘Yes, you are.’
Pause.
‘I think a break would do us both good,’ he said at last.
Tearfully, I said, ‘I can’t go alone.’
‘Take Milly.’
I thought this was daft. ‘Milly won’t go.’
‘The furthest Milly has been is Brighton. Believe me, she’ll go.’
I stared at him, dumbfounded. My husband didn’t want me.
‘You need a tonic,’ I said tearfully.
He flung his head back. ‘Oh, God.’
We both remembered the bottle in the brown paper packet in the bathroom.
‘Not that,’ I said. ‘I’m going to cook. And I’m going to do a pudding. Something special.’
Lester looked me for a long moment. And at last a vestige of the old twinkle returned to his eyes.
Chapter 4
‘I can’t go,’ said Milly.
‘Why ever not?’
‘I haven’t got a passport.’
My mind whirled. ‘We can sort that out. We can get a temporary one – emergency – Lester will fix it.’
‘I haven’t got any clothes to wear.’
‘It’s casual. Still summer. Easy stuff. Just bring something nice for the dinner party.’
‘I haven’t got swimsuit.’
At this I froze, the plan crashing to a halt like a train into a brick wall. ‘We won’t be swimming.’
‘Are you crazy? It’s Italy, Marsha. People swim. They lie around on beaches in bikinis. I’ve seen pictures.’
‘Trust me, swimming is not on the agenda.’
‘Well, it’s on mine,’ Betty said firmly.
I stared at her. Was she not aware of what she might look like in a swimsuit? Was it possible she didn’t care?
Filled with trepidation, I said slowly, ‘You want to buy a swimsuit?’
She looked at me shyly, a little hungrily. ‘Do you think I would find one to fit?’
Shirley
said, ‘You don’t want anything too cut away.’
‘Cut away where?’ Milly asked. She was staring at Shirley as though a heavenly messenger had been sent. The Angel of Thinness had arrived.
‘The legs,’ Shirley said crisply. ‘You need something with coverage at the top and definitely a cross at the back.’
Not wanting to offend the Angel, Milly said, ‘I’m not in any way religious, but if you think that in Italy that would be best, then it’s okay.’
Shirley glanced at me, eyes narrowed. I mouthed, nothing in red or yellow. She nodded. ‘Black or deep green,’ she agreed. ‘Sunlight expands pale colours.’
If that was the case, I thought, then Milly was going to look like Vesuvius in a vest.
Milly eventually disappeared into the change rooms with something resembling a small black tent with a skirt, and an expanse of dark blue sporting a scintillating myriad of straps and buckles that would have put a suspension bridge to shame.
Shirley focused on me. ‘What are you going to wear?’
‘I don’t swim.’
‘I didn’t ask if you were going to swim, I asked what will you wear?’
‘I don’t wear swimsuits.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘Have you ever thought about your good points, Marsha?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Good points. Everybody has good points. Except nobody talks about good points. They only talk about what’s wrong with them.’
I looked at her in horror. Was I that boring? What were my good points? Did I have any? I’d never looked for good points, only bemoaned the bad. Shirley was right. But it made me realize that few people would admit to having no good points. For the first time in a very long time I looked at myself in the full-length mirror outside the change rooms.
I was tall – five foot ten inches – and very pale with thick dark hair to my shoulders, no makeup except for a light touch of mascara. I noted that my eyes were large, my nose very straight and a little pointy, my mouth wide, generous smile, good teeth. The top of my body was medium-sized I would guess, in relation to height. My gaze traveled past large, plump arms, average-sized boobs, the semblance of a waistline, and then…the strange bell-like flare of hips, buttocks and – the lumps. My trousers were so wide, they made my legs look like two sheets on a washing line.
Tremulously, I whispered, ‘I’m overweight.’
‘Good points, remember?’ said Shirley. ‘Good points.’ She finger-combed my hair. ‘Your hair is gorgeous. Look at this face – well-balanced. Good complexion. Bit of makeup and you would be stunning. And here – ’ she nestled her hands at my waist ‘ – this has definite shape. And the hips – ’ Her hands slipped to the top of the bell. ‘Men find this kind of shape very sexy, don’t you know?’
‘No,’ I whispered.
She flapped something in front of my face. ‘I’ve picked out something for you. Very deep green.’
Lester
looked up with interest when I got home.
‘What’s in the packet?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You brought home a packet of air?’
‘Nothing you would be interested in.’
‘It’s clothing.’ His look was sharp now.
‘A little bit of clothing,’ I admitted.
‘Show me.’
‘I can’t.’
‘But you bought the bloody thing. You must have liked it!’
‘Shirley made me.’
‘Shirley…’ Lester breathed. ‘Open the packet.’
Reluctantly I drew out the box, lifted the lid.
There was a long, excruciating silence.
Eventually Lester remarked, ‘You’re right. It is little.’
The sea-green bikini with its strategic flares of sequins glittered in the box.
Lester’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. ‘Are you going to wear that?’
‘Yes,’ I whispered back. I had no idea.
He struggled for words. ‘My darling, you will look stupendous.’
Pause. We both knew this wasn’t quite the right word.
I opened the second box. ‘This is worn over it,’ I said. A stretch of diaphanous, sea-green material wafted out of the box. ‘It’s called a sarong. You wrap it around under the arms and it covers everything. Then at the water’s edge you drop it away and swim. And then, when you come out, you drape it around again. Actually – ’ and I had to admit Shirley had been right ‘ – it’s very elegant.’
Lester reached out and stroked the bikini. My breath quickened. He looked up. His eyes were dark. ‘So long to the sarong,’ he whispered.
We leaned closer.
Almost harshly, he asked, ‘You’re not trying to find another man, are you?’
My eyes pricked with tears, I was so in love. ‘Never.’
We fell towards each other over the boxes, the sequined bikini, the delicate sarong. I saw one of my shoes soar upwards. Lester’s glasses dropped magically from his dark, vivid face. And then the warmth of his arms, the generous abundance of his love that, no matter my size, would always safely encompass me.
Afterwards,
I had to throw away the squashed boxes, iron the sarong and search
for two sequins which had been torn from the bikini. But it was worth
it. It was all worth it.
I was going to Italy.
I had a swimsuit.
I had good points.
(Note:
For those of you who are wondering what any of this has to do with a
thriller – preferably blood-splattered – you are perfectly
justified in your complaint. Likewise, those who prefer the
excavation of mouldy bones may be equally frustrated. But bear with
me. If I had known what awaited us in Italy, the above-mentioned
trivia would have been the last thing on my mind.)
Chapter 5
I noticed something at the airport.
An airport is the perfect venue for gawping at people: the good, the bad, the enviable and the ugly; all on show for silent inspection, evaluation and criticism.
While engaged in this absorbing pastime, I noticed people were looking at us. More precisely, openly staring. And to be absolutely precise, mostly men. And then to be ruthlessly precise, they were looking at Milly.
Milly was quite a figure to behold. She was six foot two inches tall and seemed to glide along the floor like a continental pillow lifted by a gentle breeze. Wearing a strapless sun-yellow dress picked out for her by Shirley, and a matching soft jacket with orange stitching, she looked amazing. I noted that she had applied eye makeup and a cupid bow of orangey lipstick.
While yellow was one of those ‘expanding’ colours, and the effect certainly outstanding, the dress somehow managed to compliment Milly’s size rather than make her seem larger. She looked statuesque, voluminous and glowing. I realized that the men staring at her were doing so not out of awe at her size, but admiration. I tried to find place in my mind for that eternal truth so often rejected by society, that men secretly liked fat women. In Italy we were to discover that men liked us a lot, and one in particular who liked us so much our lives would be in danger.
Milly, red-cheeked, bright-eyed, chattering excitedly, seemed not to notice the stir she was causing.
But in light of what happened on the plane, I’m not so sure of this.
The
problem we faced on the plane became apparent the moment we saw the
seats. They resembled thimbles with the sides cut away. Shirley would
have nestled neatly in any one of them, but for Milly and me the
narrow seats offered support for only one buttock.
Milly pointed. ‘Are you in these seats?’ she asked in all innocence.
‘We’re in those seats,’ I replied.
To be honest, I had never seen such small seats on a plane. Obviously airlines were seeking cruel ways to pack more people on board; we were going to be squeezed in like a crate of Alaskan fish, only we wouldn’t have the convenience of having our tails lopped off before packing.
But an even bigger problem was the space between the rows. Even if we managed to squash into a seat, our knees would be pressed firmly into the back of the row in front. Claustrophobia overwhelmed me. I was in the middle seat.
An air hostess noticed our distress and approached warily, sensing a problem. ‘What’s the matter? May I help?’
She didn’t look as though she wanted to help – she looked as though she would rather be anywhere else but on this plane. She had a rigid hairdo like a helmet and too much makeup.
‘We can’t fit in our seats,’ said Milly, her face now the colour of a burst tomato. ‘It’s a bit awkward.’
‘Lift up the arms,’ the hostess ordered.
Milly dutifully lifted her arms and stood towering over the hostess, looking like a bank teller in the middle of a hold-up.
‘Not your arms,’ I hissed. ‘The arms of the seats.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Milly gave a high-pitched giggle of embarrassment.
The hostess looked at her with pity. At this moment a gentleman morphed from the seats across the aisle.
‘Ladies,’ he said expansively. ‘Is a problem? I can help?’
Milly leaned over me. ‘You’re so kind. We’re just having a problem with the seating.’
‘Here, allow me – ’ said the gentleman valiantly. He found the buttons under the central two arms and lifted them back to fit snugly between the backs of the seats. He stood back, overly pleased with himself as though he’d just invented this convenient function. He was a small man, dapper, with black hair sleeked to perfection, and wearing expensive clothes and a solid gold signet ring. His accent was distinctively Italian.
‘So kind.’ Milly flicked her eyes at him.
For one extraordinary, blinding moment, I was enraged. What on earth was she doing? She was flirting with this strange man! And he was loving every second of it. Milly’s smile dimpled all over her face and the man seemed entranced. Me, he didn’t notice. I felt instantly older, irrelevant and thoroughly encumbered by the respectable label of married woman. In a nutshell, I was jealous.
(Note:
I know you are shaking your head in disapproval but don’t pretend
you don’t know exactly what was going on. There isn’t a
woman alive who doesn’t like to be seen with a fatter companion
because this will make her look thinner. The awful thing was, as I
stood there in my pseudo-thinness, I realized my mistake. I had
reached the age where traveling with a younger companion was unwise.
Milly, ten years my junior, had a schoolgirl chubbiness, the youthful
appearance of an inflated twelve-year old. Fat can have that positive
effect – but not when you’re over forty and have begun to develop
that settled look of an older woman. There’s no changing
that. You hate me. You think I’m being awful. I know that. But
never mind. There’s a murder further on and you’ll like that
better.)
The
dapper gentleman offered a slight bow and announced, ‘I am Aldo
Baggini.’ He slid me a quick glance, taking in our hardly concealed
British touristy look. ‘You are holidaying in Naples?’
Milly said in a sort of gushing giggle, ‘We’re spending a few days down at the Amalfi coast.’
I glared at her. Giving away personal details to a perfect stranger was not on my list of things to do. Really, Milly was a terribly naïve traveller!
‘Amalfi!’ exclaimed Aldo Baggini in some delight. ‘But that is where I am going!’
‘Do you live there?’ Milly widened her eyes.
‘I have a magnificent house on the cliffs west of Amalfi,’ he said with pride. ‘Magnificent,’ he emphasized in case we had missed that important bit.
My heart almost stopped. That was the area where Guido and Betty lived. Obviously this man was going to stick with us all the way. I sighed and pushed my way between them. ‘I think we ought to take our seats, don’t you? We’re beginning to hold up the plane.
Thankfully, Aldo Baggini made himself scarce. Milly and I inserted ourselves into the row and managed to take up all three seats.
Milly pushed her knees against the soft fabric of the seats in front of her. She pulled a face. ‘I suppose it’ll be all right if nobody wants the outer seat.’
But of course, somebody did. A thin, spiky-looking woman with colourless hair and a face with the intent of a recently sharpened hatchet, approached.
‘This is my seat,’ she said, pointing accusingly at the aisle seat.
Milly and I engaged in what can only be referred to as contortion. Milly was forced sideways until her right thigh began to climb the inner paneling of the plane and she was wedged up against the window. I pressed against her until I thought my bones would crack, except our bones, nicely cushioned by fat, were no where near each other. After a valiant effort that left me sweating, I managed to leave the woman about eighty percent of her seat. With pursed lips, she eased in, and snapped the armrest into place to curb any further invasion of her space. Blister packing couldn’t have ensured a tighter fit.
‘I can’t see out of the window now,’ Milly complained. ‘My leg’s in the way.’
‘Try not to wriggle,’ I asked, feeling the heated line of her body pressed unhealthily against mine. ‘You’re moving about like a fish on a hook.’
She looked at me, hurt. ‘I’m breathing, Marsha.’
‘Well, don’t!’ I snapped irritably. ‘It’s like being patted to death by a heavy-weight boxer!’
Milly’s gaze slipped past me to the hatchet-faced lady who was lying back comfortably, knobbly knees poking up under her skirt like two small potatoes under a blanket.
‘We’re the ugly sisters,’ Milly whispered disconsolately. ‘Cinderella there, has got the glass seat.’
Chapter 6
Totally flustered and out of sorts, I must have fallen asleep. Actually, I think I was semi-conscious. When I woke, there was a fight going on. A fist flailed past my bleary vision and something sharp was pressed into my leg. As I opened my mouth to protest I was struck across the head and a hundred pound mallet dropped on my foot.
Naturally, I screamed.
This seemed to send a shiver through the plane. People turned around, stood up, stared.
I turned my head.
Milly was lodged at an odd angle between the seat in front of her and her own seat, her right leg stretched against the edge of the seat, her left leg bent under her. Under her right foot pressed to the floor was the crumpled outline of my own. She tried desperately to lift herself upwards, pressing with some effort on my foot. Grabbing violently at the back of the seat in front of her, she thrashed about like a whale in a canoe.
From nowhere, and seemingly disconnected to a body, a head appeared. There was an ingratiating smile of very white teeth, dark eyes lit with anticipation. For one confused moment I thought it was a steward come to take an order.
The head said, ‘Aldo Baggini. So sorry if I can help?’
I looked from him to the sweating, red-faced Milly.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ I hissed at her.
Into the smiling face of this ubiquitous Italian stranger, Milly blurted, ‘I want to go the toilet.’
He
got her out of the seat.
Don’t ask me how. All I can say is that Italian engineering skills are legend. And he must have been very strong even though he wasn’t a big man. He unhooked, unwound, unravelled until it seemed Milly had attained the flexibility of a rag doll.
I did notice that during this exercise his skilful hands managed to position themselves rather close to areas of possible offence, but there was so much struggling going on that any complaint would have seemed out of place.
I watched with alarm as they disappeared down the aisle, Milly nestling against him, dipping her head and smiling shyly as they progressed, her hand still wrapped in his.
Fretfully, I waited for their return.
And waited.
And waited.
My
mind twisted and darkened.
Were they doing something peculiar in the toilet?
I’d heard of these things.
And I knew about Italian men.
Oh, yes. I could tell you some stuff…
Over the last twenty years, I’d had several holidays in Italy. I could tell you about the time when Betty and I –
At this point, the hatchet lady next to me jerked violently upright in her seat, grabbed me by the hair and screamed, ‘The battered bones of death! What are the marks of death? Tell me, you fool! Tell me the manner of death!’
My mouth dropped open as I stared at her in horror, her fist still clenched painfully in my hair. The entire plane was now electrified. People were standing, peering over seats. I saw the hostess of the helmet hair approach. Row 14 ABC was becoming a problem.
‘What’s going on here?’ she inquired icily.
‘Please – ’ I whimpered. ‘Please make her let go of my hair!’
‘What did you do to her?’
‘Nothing! Nothing! She must have been asleep and had a nightmare. I don’t know! She just started screaming.’
The thin-faced woman slumped back, dropped her stranglehold on my hair. Her eyes opened slowly. She took in the rows of gawping faces and then slowly turned to look at me.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘Did I strike out at you?’
‘Yes,’ I gasped.
‘I’m sorry. Unfortunately, I am subject to bad dreams.’ She gave a hoarse, self-deprecatory laugh. ‘Drawback of my job.’
‘Your job?’ I repeated blankly, trying to ascertain if any of my hair had gone. ‘You work in a morgue or something?’ This slipped out without me thinking – although her contribution in that department as anything other than a corpse would hardly be credible.
The woman regarded me speculatively. Her pale, incisive eyes were the colour of ice.
Helmet Hair twitched. ‘Would you like some tea?’
The woman turned her freezing gaze on her. ‘No, thank you. It was a momentary lapse. It won’t happen again.’
The hostess departed while managing to effect an air of long-suffering.
I turned to look at the woman more closely. In my mind’s eye I could see her emerging sticklike from a musty tomb. ‘What is it that you do?’
‘I’m a scientist,’ she replied crisply, cutting any further enquiry. ‘I’m very sorry I disturbed you.’ She settled back and closed her eyes in a clear effort to end the matter.
I studied her. Perhaps she was embarrassed. Her nose was beaky and high-set, her hair a wiry, dead grey. Her skin had an unnaturally crinkled look, the dry texture of parchment. She looked like something that had been dipped in formaldehyde. Perhaps I was leaning too close, I don’t know, but suddenly I became aware of a strange smell – rather like mould.
I drew back. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
She opened her eyes. ‘No need for you to apologise.’
‘No,’ My smile was pure plastic. ‘I mean I’m sorry but you’ll have to move. I need to get to the loo.’
I
saw Milly and Aldo as soon as I stood up.
They were sitting towards the front of the plane and Aldo was talking animatedly, throwing his hands around. Milly was squashed up against him, laughing her head off.
Fuming, I approached. ‘What is going on? I thought you’d gone down the plughole or something.’
‘Oh, no,’ Milly turned a brilliant face towards me. ‘Aldo is just so funny. You won’t believe what he does.’ Her eyes were set on mine meaningfully.
‘Is that so?’
‘Tell her, Aldo.’
Aldo placed his hand over his heart as though about to confess to a priest. ‘Milly is making me up.’
‘Really?’
‘Sit here.’ He effected three inches of space and patted the seat.
I squeezed in. ‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘You’re a fashion designer.’
Much laughter. His eyes settled on me speculatively, and suddenly his eyes were deep and dark and huge. Utterly melting. The smooth brown skin, the classic Roman nose, the thin lips pulled back on a row of perfect teeth; a wide, intent smile. He was, I realized reluctantly, rather handsome. A tuff of dark hair made a small but obtrusive appearance at the top of his open-necked shirt.
‘Well, tell me. Is it shoes?’
‘I am a little shy,’ he said with a look that was suddenly as far removed from shy as a bullet from a cottonball. I was annoyed, but his eyes were suddenly compelling.
He ran his hand across the lower part of his face. A golden brown hand with thick dark hair on the back. As he watched me, his thumb pressed gently at his mouth – and in an instant I could feel that pressure on my own lips. Despite the fact he was at least ten years younger, I felt a surge of desire for his touch, utterly mesmerized.
His hand dropped, enfolded mine. Warm as honey.
‘Tell her,’ urged Milly.
His thumb moved gently across the top of each of my fingers, exploring the soft, plump lines.
I merged with the chair.
‘You would be a special customer,’ he whispered.
My eyes felt large and soft, staring into his. ‘Really?’
His kissed my tingling hand, and then looked up at me as though asking for forgiveness.
‘I am a chocolate maker.’
Chapter 7
We landed at Naples and went straight to the bus station to take a bus through to Salerno and then to connect down to Amalfi. From there we would get a taxi out to Betty’s house which lay just west of Amalfi on the upper slopes of a curving buttress of cliff.
To my relief, Aldo Baggini had disappeared.
‘We should have waited for him,’ Milly said with regret.
‘I’m sure he can find his own way.’
The incident on the plane had inflamed me in all sorts of ways I didn’t even want to admit to myself – one of them was anger. I had considered myself long past the effects of insidious flirting by opportunistic Italian men but Aldo Baggini had somehow made himself magnetic. With those hypnotic eyes, he had conveyed his admiration with almost professional finesse – and elicited a response in me I hadn’t felt in years. And within seconds I was teetering on the brink of that age-old feminine desire for sexual power; wanting to be the conversation-stopper in the centre of the room, and falling for the first man who deftly read me, played me, and set me up for a fool. Another age-old and successful strategy.
I
was still fuming when the taxi dropped us at the top of the lane that
led down to Guido and Betty’s house.
We stood a moment looking down through the trees to the late afternoon sun scintillating off the ocean. The familiar velvet blue of the Tyrrhenian Sea began to work its magic – as though fresh, clean air was soaking through my skin. A few stately pines, ancient and thick with the salty waft of the ocean, leaned together in whispered conversation. Colours winked between them in glimpses of royal blue, green underbrush, and grey cliff rock to the east. There was an atmosphere of solitude, hardly affected by the sweep of traffic on the road behind us.
‘Oh,’ said Milly. ‘Oh, Marsha! This is lovely. It’s so beautiful. I knew – I thought – I never really expected – how lovely to live here all the time. It’s a paradise.’
‘It’s a bit of a walk. And some steps. Are you all right?’
‘Of course.’ She hoisted her case.
We negotiated the lane down which the taxi had refused to traverse. On foot was quicker anyway. As we rounded a bend the full view of the bay and a small inlet with a crescent beach far below met our gaze. At various points across the sloping headland, huge villas clung determinedly to outcrops of rock like gigantic mushrooms. Everywhere there was the acrid scent of hot soil and the green heat of underbrush, and above that, caught on a faint breeze, the scent of the sea.
As we walked, we passed several private pedestrian gates marked Proprieta Privata. I remembered Betty’s complaints about tourists who sometimes camped in people’s gardens simply because there was a good view. These gates led through to other houses on the hill and down to the beach. Like all people who have found their little bit of heaven, local residents didn’t want anybody else to have it. Despite the tourist influx, these houses managed to remain private bastions of quiet luxury amidst the jam-packed madness of nearly all year round holidaymakers.
There had been some incidents. Betty wrote me one year of how a group of people had landed by motorboat on the little beach below and trooped up to arrive on the patio. Guido had offered them drinks, and they had stayed ten days…
Below us, just such a motorboat drew a white plume across the bay. Milly pointed, ‘I’d love to take a ride in one of those.’
‘Well, maybe you can. I’m sure Guido has a lot of contacts.’
We passed the garages where Betty and Guido parked their cars. Under an archway of trailing dog-rose, an iron gate opened on a pathway leading down to the house. The steps were narrow, twisting, a little crumbly in places, and the foliage overgrown: japonicas, narcissi, jasmine, plumbago, geranium grown rough and wild in careless freedom. We crept down, and down.
‘Don’t fancy the return trip,’ Milly remarked.
‘You’ll have to get used to it. It’s the only way out.’
The steps reached a level area, crazy paved and peppered with pots of geraniums. The front door beyond a portico of white columns was a magnificent design of stained glass and carved wood. Sweating, I set my case down.
The house, a two-storey stretch of pale oyster pink with black scrolled bars at the windows, was a cross between contemporary and old Spanish. A huge basket of trailing begonias swung from the ceiling of the portico. There was the sweet scent of sweaty petals, the somnambulant air of a lazy afternoon.
Absolute bliss.
I stepped forward and pressed the bell.
We waited.
And waited.
Milly began to fidget. ‘Are they out, do you think?’
‘Shouldn’t be. I did arrange with Betty the time we’d arrive. Unless she’s rushed out for some urgent shopping.’
‘Maybe she’s forgotten.’
I frowned. ‘I hardly think so.’
I pressed the bell again – a flamboyant affair the size of a wall toilet flusher in pink and white.
We stood.
‘Can we get in another way?’ asked Milly, at last showing signs of frustration.
I was about to suggest we take a side path around to the front of the house, when the door was flung open.
Guido stood there, staring at us as if our presence at his front door was akin to a national disaster. It was the sort of look that immediately makes you doubt yourself. Wrong day? Wrong time? Wrong year?
‘Guido,’ I said nervously. ‘Hello, darling. We’re here.’
‘Marsha,’ he said, peering up at me. ‘My God!’ His small, squirrel brown eyes appeared stricken. The skin was pulled taut across his narrow face, giving the impression the flesh had been sucked away. His dark grey, slightly frizzed hair looked uncombed and there was a stain on his shirt.
I felt that kind of quick freezing in the blood when you know something is wrong.
‘What’s the matter? Weren’t you expecting us?’
‘No – yes. Of course. I had forgotten. I should have contacted you.’
The sinking feeling in my stomach now felt as though it had been attached to a stone. ‘Why? What’s the matter? What’s happened?’
‘It’s Betty.’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘Betty’s gone.’
My mouth dropped open. ‘She’s left you?’
‘No.’ He wavered at the door as though he’d lost substance. ‘She’s disappeared. Abducted. We’re not sure. She – ’ he paused, swallowed. His small body, wiry with muscle, trembled. ‘She may be dead.’
Chapter 8
Guido served chocolate pudding.
‘This is Betty’s recipe,’ I said. ‘One of her first.’
Guido offered a wan smile. ‘She knew it was one of your favourites, so she made a huge dish the day before – ’ he shook his head ‘ – before she disappeared.’
Milly and I had cleaned up a bit and put our cases in our room. Guido, walking in a dreamlike manner, had given us the linen to make up the bed, apologizing profusely for the fact he had not prepared for us. ‘There should have been flowers,’ he fretted. ‘Betty would have put flowers in the room.’
‘It’s all right,’ I said gently. ‘We just need some soap and towels.’
Through all this respectful shuffling, Milly remained quiet. The only comment she made was, ‘Are we sharing?’ with a kind of worried look that gave me pause. ‘It’s my and Lester’s room,’ I explained. She didn’t reply. Just before we went down to meet Guido in the lounge, she whispered, ‘What are we going to do?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll find out what’s happened and see if there’s any way we can help.’
‘This is so awful.’ Her red face was almost pale. ‘Poor man. What a terrible thing to happen.’
‘Italians are always a bit dramatic,’ I said, to calm my own nerves as much as hers. ‘Probably a simple explanation in the end.’
Milly didn’t look convinced. We went downstairs to drinks and the chocolate pudding (the latter being Guido’s sugar-laden solution to shock).
Guido had obviously done a rush job on the living room.
When we’d arrived, the living-room with its white couches and gold cushions, had looked crumpled, papers strewn about the floor, ashtrays piled with cigarette butts, a plate of half-eaten food on the coffee table. Now all that had gone; cushions were straightened and puffed, the smell of polish hung in the air. Sliding doors that led to the patio, were pulled wide to let in light and fresh air. An army of flourishing pot-plants – petunias, pansies and roses – edged a glittering view to the sea.
Guido had brushed his hair and put on a clean shirt.
‘What is today,’ he asked.
‘Thursday.’
‘My God,’ he said. ‘Nearly a week.’
He perched nervously on the arm of a couch as if sitting in the normal way was against the rules. He lit a cigarette and began to pull on it in little short snaps, flicking ash heedlessly to the carpet. It was so unlike his usual pedantic fussiness that I watched him wordlessly.
Milly asked, ‘What happened?’
‘Betty went shopping as usual. She came back and was bringing the shopping from the car but she never finished the task. Between the milk and the meat, she vanished.’
‘What do you mean? Right here, in front of the house?’
He shrugged, looking at me in despair, his eyes a little wild. ‘Somewhere. The car boot was still open when I came home – and the meat still in the boot wrapped in ice-bags. There was a bag with bread and fruit standing at the top of the stairs. She was either attacked at the car or on the steps on her way up again. The front door was standing open but there was nothing taken. The milk – ’ he paused, gathered himself ‘ – the milk was on the table.’
‘But maybe – maybe she was called away or something. How do you know she’s been abducted?’
‘Because – he’ his face crumpled. ‘There have been six others.’
‘Six!’
He nodded. ‘In the last two years. All women. Kidnapped and held somewhere. Then – ’ he flung up his hands and looked skywards as though some greater power was to blame. ‘All murdered!’
Milly and I shrank back on the couch.
‘Oh, no, Guido! No! Why? What does this person or persons, want?’
Guido’s eyes watered. ‘There has been no request for money. The police think it’s some sort of ritualistic thing.’
I set down my pudding plate, instinctively running my finger along the last bit of chocolate. ‘What clues do the police have so far?’
‘Well, that is the problem. Nothing they can get a grip on. Obviously it is happening all around here, all around Amalfi.’
‘How awful.’ I thought of Betty’s size. ‘It must be more than one person.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Well, Betty’s not exactly small, Guido. I can’t imagine her being dragged kicking daintily into the bushes.’
Guido waved a hand as if this statement was of no consequence. ‘Betty had lost weight.’
The room seemed to freeze. ‘What?’
‘Yes. She had been on a diet.’
My throat closed. ‘A diet?’
‘Yes. For a very long time. Must have been at least a year.’
‘One of these weight programme things?’ Milly asked with interest.
‘Yes.’ He looked at me as though suddenly noticing the voluminous spread of my skirt along the couch. ‘She was very much changed. I wonder you would even have recognized her. She became like a model. Very tall and stately but with such figure as we never knew.’ His eyes softened. As if to ensure we had grasped the marvelous thinness of Betty, he added for good measure, ‘A sylph.’
I felt as though I’d sniffed cottonwool into my brain. Betty. Thin. It wasn’t possible. Unacceptable. Betty had always been fatter than me. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair –