Last Chance Saloon - Marian Keyes [49]
Tara made a leap to the side of her desk to try and get through the gap there, but quick-as-a-flash Ravi had her marked. There was a brief skirmish.
‘Vinnie, call him off!’
‘He’s only doing as you asked.’ Vinnie shrugged wearily. No wonder he was losing his hair.
They faced each other – Ravi bent at the knees, his many muscles tensed and ready for action, his hands crossed, poised to do a kung-fu chop. Tara bitterly regretted ever enlisting his help. ‘Can we start tomorrow?’ she wheedled. ‘Please?’
In disappointment, Ravi dropped his en-garde stance. ‘Off you go, then.’
So Tara went shopping and tried to pretend that she wasn’t starving. She had high hopes that looking at clothes would take her mind off things, but found she couldn’t wrap her head around the idea of being size sixteen. Shopping for clothes was a pleasure that no longer belonged to her; instead it had become an exercise in damage limitation.
There were so many clothes that she was automatically disqualified from; sleeveless tops, fitted macs, knitted dresses, anything involving jersey, Lycra, pleats or no bra. She couldn’t tell you the last time she’d worn trousers.
The only consolation lay in looking at sexy, funky shoes. Shoes were the fat woman’s friend. Shoes still looked beautiful when all else had gone to hell in a handcart.
Hair mascara also struck her as a good idea – she always had an eye out for diversionary tactics. Interesting jewellery, mad handbags and technicolour make-up were all part of the look-over-there factor. A blue fringe was as good as anything to distract people from her rotund belly.
By the time she’d bought a strawberry-flavoured tree air-freshener for the car, a pair of high black dolly shoes, blue hair mascara, purple hair mascara and the knitting pattern, knitting needles and wool for Thomas’s jumper, she’d missed her step class.
She pretended she felt let down. She had the option of going circuit training, but that was always full of beefy men doing one-handed press-ups and grunting a lot. She couldn’t take it, not in a pink leotard. I’ll start tomorrow, she vowed.
18
On the way home, on impulse, she called in on Katherine. She hadn’t been able to get her on the phone all afternoon and she felt like having a chat with her.
Visiting Katherine unexpectedly wasn’t something she normally did. They’d been affected by the ethos in London, where it was considered the height of rudeness to drop in on someone unannounced. The words, ‘I was just passing…’ were considered to be as much of a social gaffe as ‘You’ve a really big nose.’ Many Londoners, used to being able to screen their telephone calls with the aid of an answering-machine, were sent into a flat spin by an unexpected ring on their bell. A person! In the flesh! On their doorstep!
If they were sure it wasn’t the postman, Londoners often simply refused to answer the door. The usual drill was to flatten themselves against the wall and try to peek out the window, like someone in a police shoot-out. Not with the idea of letting anyone in, but simply to get some notion of who this social deviant was and cross them off their Christmas card list forthwith.
Katherine was having a shower, but Tara thought she was being ignored because she hadn’t made the requisite appointment. She pulled out her mobile to ring Katherine and order her to open the door but she’d forgotten to charge the battery.
‘It’s me,’ Tara called, stepping back from the intercom and standing in the tiny front garden, looking up at Katherine’s front window.
‘Let me in.
‘You hairy-arsed eejit,’ she yelled in frustration. ‘I know you’re up there, I can see the light.’
‘Hello,’ said a voice. ‘Looking for Katherine?’
Tara turned around and someone, who must have been poor Roger, was advancing towards the front door with a key.
‘Yes.’ Tara could barely look at him, considering the other occasions they’d had contact – Roger banging his ceiling with a broom handle and Tara screeching drunkenly, ‘Lighten up, would you, you young fogey?’
‘Thanks,