Last Chance Saloon - Marian Keyes [44]
She’d had a bad night’s sleep, jerking awake at some godforsaken hour, seized with terrible fear. What if Thomas stopped loving her and dumped her? What if he’d realized on Saturday night that he didn’t want to be with her any more? What would become of her? Now that she was thirty-one she really didn’t have any time left to start again. She’d thought it was bad when Alasdair gave her the slip. But at only twenty-nine, she hadn’t known how lucky she was. Single men in their thirties were like gold-dust – it could take her years to meet someone else. Then, if she ever did, she’d have to bide her time and pretend she wasn’t serious for at least twelve months. By which time she could be thirty-four or thirty-five. Oh, God! That was ancient. When Tara began to get dressed, she was glad Thomas had already left for work. Watching her struggling into clothes that were too small for her would make him cross again. Despite the cold morning, she was sweating, her hands slipping as she tried to do up the button on her skirt.
She’d been wearing a size fourteen for some time now, but it was only ever meant to be a temporary measure, until she’d lost weight and gone back to being a size twelve. Mind you, wearing a size twelve was only meant to have been a temporary measure also, until she slimmed down and went back to her correct weight, her true size, her spiritual home of size ten. But now, with the waistband of her skirt so tight it was crushing her internal organs, she reluctantly began to face the fact that maybe she’d better buy some size sixteens. Just so she could breathe. It wouldn’t be a long-term measure, of course. Only until she’d lost a bit of weight, and then she’d be back to size fourteen.
But size sixteen, she thought, appalled at how far she’d come. Size sixteen. After that came size eighteen, and then size twenty. Where would it all end?
By the time she’d got her jacket buttoned, the sweat was pouring off her and she was exhausted enough to go back to bed. She hated her body, how she hated it. Having to lug all that lard around with her, she felt as though it didn’t belong to her.
It didn’t belong to her, she reminded herself. It was simply an uninvited visitor that had overstayed its welcome. Its days were numbered.
She forced herself to look in the mirror before she left. She looked awful, she conceded miserably. Her smart jacket was stretched and splayed across her midriff, the round ball of her belly poking out where the jacket’s two seams no longer met.
I’m fat, she realized, in cold horror. I’m actually officially fat. I’m no longer just slightly overweight or pleasantly plump or a bit tubby. I’m fat. The real thing.
She felt herself hurtling headlong towards utter marginalization. I won’t be able to go upstairs on buses. I’ll have to pay excess baggage on planes, just for my bottom. Small boys will throw stones at me. I’ll break people’s chairs when I go to their house for dinner. I’ll be demoted because everyone knows that fat people can’t do their job as well as skinny people. Once I’m in my car I won’t be able to get out again without a winch. People will think I’m a failure because superfluous weight is a sure sign of terrible unhappiness. I’ll have to lie and say I have trouble with my glands.
I’m not worthy to be out in the world, she told herself. I’m so ashamed of myself.
She caught lean, slinky, I-can-eat-what-I-want-and-never-put-on-an-ounce Beryl smirking at her and yearned to give her a kick. Then, very reluctantly, Tara left the flat. So great was her self-loathing, she half expected people to hoot their horns and shout, ‘Look at the fat cow,’ as she walked to her car. It was pouring with rain, and for that Tara gave thanks. People looked at each other less in wet weather. Tara’s car was a bright orange, noisy, backfiring, second-hand Volkswagen. It was a mobile skip, which stank of cigarette smoke and had tapes and cassette cases spilt all over the floor. The seats were strewn with maps, old newspapers, sweet wrappers, empty drink cans and a pair of knickers, which she used when the window