part0005

W hen Mother’s Daily Mail was shoved through the letterbox this morning by the spotty, sullen teenager from the newsagents, inside was a bunch of leaflets and flyers, the usual two for one on pizzas, a handyman for everything and other assorted junk mail. I usually throw it all straight into the bin, and that’s exactly where it was going until a sheet of paper fell onto the floor as I was chucking them away and when I picked it up, the words jumped out at me.

Is this fate? Could this be another sign that there’s going to be a new me. Could I actually get a job? I think it definitely is a sign because I dreamed I was on a rollercoaster last night and I checked my dream dictionary and it means I’m embarking on an exciting journey. Perhaps a cleaning job is the first step. I’m overqualified for cleaning even though I’ve never had a job. Even so, it’s a start; it’ll get me away from Mother and I can earn some money.

I put the rest of the pamphlets in the bin and place the flyer carefully back inside the newspaper while I get Mother’s breakfast ready. I arrange her cornflakes and jug of milk carefully on the tray along with a cup of tea, tuck the newspaper underneath my arm and carry it up the stairs. Once she’s eaten that I’ll have to take her toast up to her; she doesn’t like cold toast .

I place the tray and newspaper on her bedside table while I hook my arms under Mother’s armpits and help her to sit up, plumping the pillows behind her.

‘Ouch!’ she glares at me as I pull her up, ‘You’re pinching me, you great lump.’

Her mood hasn’t improved much since last night and I’m going to have to suffer several days of her nastiness.

Well, more nasty than normal.

‘Sleep well, Mother?’ I know better than to argue and give the pillow a final, satisfying pummel.

‘No,’ she snaps and lets out a deep sigh, ‘never slept a wink, dreadful night.’

‘Oh, dear, that’s a shame.’ I say sympathetically. She was snoring the whole night; I could hear her from my bedroom. I pull out the legs from underneath the tray and place it carefully over her lap.

‘Tea’s a bit weak.’ She takes a miniscule sip from the cup and pulls a displeased face as she puts the cup back down.

‘Sorry, I’ll make the next one a bit stronger.’

Mother purses her lips and sniffs. I put the paper on the bed next to her so that the flyer slips out onto the quilt. I hurriedly pick it up and whisk it away and turn to go back downstairs.

‘What’s that you’re hiding?’ she says suspiciously, I stop with my back to her.

‘Nothing. Just rubbish.’ I allow myself a small smile.

‘I’ll be the judge of that, give it to me.’

I turn around with what I hope is a caught me expression and carry it back over and give it to her .

She takes the flyer from me and frowns as she reads it then looks up at me with an appraising look. She’s trying to read my mind, find out why I was trying to hide it from her.

‘Says no experience necessary,’ she says.

‘Oh, they always say that, Mother, and then when you ring them they always want loads.’ I put my hand out to take it from her.

‘Might be worth a phone call, you could fit a few hours in between looking after me.’ She tightens her grip on the flyer.

‘I expect the jobs are already gone.’ My hand hovers in mid-air.

Mother puts her hands on her lap, keeping a firm hold of the flyer.

‘We could do with the extra money. The way things are going up we’re going to have to tighten our belts and cut down anyway.’

I keep my face impassive; no need to overdo it.

‘Ring them,’ she commands, holding the flyer back out to me. I hesitate and she snatches it back. ‘Or I can, if you’re too frightened to speak to them.’ She says nastily.

I reach across the bed and take the flyer from her fingers.

‘No, I’ll ring them Mother,’ I say with what I hope is a worried expression, ‘I’ll let you know what they say.’

‘And don’t take all day about it either.’ She picks the newspaper up, gives it a shake and starts to read. ‘And I don’t want to hear any of your excuses.’

She doesn’t see the smile on my face as I come down the stairs. Mission accomplished.

I put Mother’s toast in the toaster and wait. I look around the kitchen with a feeling of pride, pleased with last night’s work. I got up earlier than usual this morning and did some exercises.

Yes, really, I exercised .

I can’t go to a gym for obvious reasons, I’m too fat and Mother wouldn’t allow it so I thought: I’ll jog. Not in public, at least not to start with because I probably won’t even make it to the end of the lane. I shut the door of the lounge and started jogging on the spot, it sounded like an elephant was jumping up and down on the floor so I had to stop otherwise Mother would have been asking what was going on. I took my slippers off and tried again and it was much better; hardly any noise at all. Well, jogging on the spot might be easy to someone of normal size and normal fitness but after five minutes I was sweating, out of breath, my face was burgundy and I thought I was going to die. My legs were burning with the effort and I had to go and put some talcum powder on the tops of my legs afterwards because they’d chafed where they’re rubbed together. But that’ll pass, when they get thinner they won’t rub together, will they?

I will persevere, I’ll gradually increase it and it’ll get easier. Afterwards, once I’d had a lie down on the sofa, I soon recovered. I did a few stretches and bends and if I do it whenever I can it’s got to make a difference, hasn’t it?

After that I cleaned the bathroom and when I’d finished I treated myself to a bubble bath and had a lovely long soak. Can’t remember the last time I did that. I usually avoid long soaks in the bath because I like to get showered and dressed as quickly as possible so I don’t have to look at myself. But it’s different now; I made myself have a good long look in the mirror because this is the old me, this is the fattest I’ll ever be because I’m going to be slim. Like Bella. It wasn’t pleasant looking at myself and I won’t be taking any before selfies either. Just looking was bad enough.

Breakfast was a bit different, too. Usually I have a big bowl of muesli followed by three slices of toast topped with butter and peanut butter. This lasts me until around ten o’clock when I have a snack; a couple of packets of crisps and some chocolate digestives and maybe a slice of cake. Today my breakfast was forty grams of cornflakes with skimmed milk and a cup of coffee. I won’t say it was easy; I felt as if I’d eaten two mouthfuls and it was gone. I know I’ll have hunger pangs in about an hour but I’m going to use the pangs. Every time I get one I’ll think: this means I’m losing weight. I’m not going to eat anything else until tonight when I have dinner. Whenever I’m tempted I’ll think of Bella, and how much I want to be like her.

I suppose you could say she’s my role model.

The toast pops and I put it on a plate and scrape a miniscule amount of butter over it, my mouth waters but I ignore it and take the plate upstairs to Mother.

‘Rung them yet?’ she barks at me as I put the toast on her tray.

It’s definitely working; she won’t let it drop now.

‘Not yet, Mother, they’re probably not open yet.’ I pick up her cereal bowl.

‘Of course they will be,’ she snorts, ‘it’s quarter past nine. You need to ring them now , get in early before all the jobs are gone.’

‘Okay,’ I say meekly, ‘I’ll ring them as soon as I get downstairs.’

Once I get downstairs, I go into the lounge and pick the phone up and dial the number on the leaflet.

‘Good morning, Moppers Homeclean, how may I help?’ The voice on the other end sounds disgustingly cheerful and upbeat.

‘Hello,’ I say in my best imitation of her jolly tone. ‘I’ve seen your advertisement for cleaners and would like to apply.’ I cross my fingers and hope that there are still vacancies.

‘Wonderful,’ she gushes, ‘we do indeed have vacancies with hours to suit, as many or as few as you wish. Are you able to come into the office for an interview?’

‘Yes, of course, when would you like me to come in?’

‘Today? We need people to start as soon as possible. Are you employed at the moment?’

‘Er, no, not at the moment.’

‘Wonderful! Then you’ll be able to start straight away, yes?’’

‘Immediately.’ Could this get any better?

‘Super. Can I take your name?’

‘Alison Travis.’

‘Okay Alison, shall we say two o’clock? Our office is just off the precinct.’

‘Yes, two o’clock will be fine.’ She’s put the phone down before I’ve finished speaking but it doesn’t dampen my mood; I have an interview!

My first thought is that I need to find something suitable to wear and do something with my hair. I go back upstairs and into my bedroom and pull open the wardrobe doors. I have nothing decent to wear, I know that everyone says that but in my case it’s true. My normal daily attire consists of long baggy tops to hide my enormous stomach and black leggings to squeeze my elephantine legs into. I pull out a long black blouse and black leggings. A new pair of unworn black velvet effect ballet pumps stare up at me from the bottom of the wardrobe. I bought them ages ago but have never worn them. My feet are too fat for them and they’re agonising to wear but in desperation I try them on anyway. I cram my toes into the end and force my heel in. My foot feels as if it’s in a vice and the middle of my foot bulges from the shoe in a big shiny mound. I walk across the room and it’s agonising but I have nothing else to wear so I’ll have to suffer. I can wear my old, shabby shoes to drive there and change them before I go in. If I park in the precinct it won’t be too far to walk.

My hair. Shoulder length, good old British mouse is the best way to describe it. Flyaway and dead straight, I’ve never been able to do much with it and usually have it scraped back in a ponytail. I washed it this morning and it’s nearly dry and I contemplate curling it but dismiss that idea instantly; the curl will drop the minute I step out of the house and it’ll be a mass of frizz by the time I get to Moppers. No, it’ll have to be a business-like ponytail; it’s only a cleaning job after all. I peer into the mirror and scrutinise my face; hmm, not too bad.

Decent skin, small turned up nose which looks slightly piggish because I’m so fat but when I’m normal size it will look quite cute. Large eyes, green flecked with amber, and, though I say it myself, very long eyelashes. Definitely my best feature.

I rummage around in the top drawer of my chest of drawers which serves as a make-up box and pull out a dried up mascara. I throw that in the waste bin and rummage again and pull out a broken pallet of eye shadows. I yank the entire drawer out and swirl my hand around; a collection of dried up foundation, mushed lipsticks and oddments of eye shadow. I upend the drawer and tip it all into the bin. It’s all at least ten years old and I don’t know why I’ve even kept it as I never wear make-up.

I never go anywhere.

When I’ve lost weight, I’ll buy new make-up to go with the new me.

I’ll just have to go with the natural look for today; it’s a cleaning job so they won’t be expecting me to be dolled up.

‘ALISON!’ Mother shouts from her room, she must have heard me come upstairs.

‘Coming Mother,’ I shout back.

I go into her room and pick the tray up from the bed.

‘Have you rung them? She demands.

‘Who?’ I pretend to not know who she means.

‘The cleaning people, about the job. Have you rung them?’

‘They were engaged,’ I lie. ‘I’ll have to try later.’

Mother harrumphs loudly, ‘Well mind you do or else I will.’

‘Doing it now, Mother,’ I call over my shoulder as I walk down the stairs. ‘Doing it

I walk past Moppers Homeclean the first time and am at the end of the street when I realise I must have missed it. I retrace my steps slowly, and painfully, because the shoes are killing me. I wish I’d kept my shabby shoes on. I scrutinise the door numbers and stop in front of a huge shop window blanked out with grubby, dirty white vertical blinds. The copper coloured metal door next to it has a torn piece of cardboard with Moppers Homeclean written on it in thick black pen. The sign is taped to the inside of the glass on the door which is also smeared and misty.

I push the door open and enter a small office, grubby, grey carpet tiles cover the floor and there’s a faint smell of cabbage. Not a good advertisement for a cleaning company. A huge battered desk is positioned more or less in front of the door and a woman is seated at it knitting what looks like a very complicated, multi coloured jumper which she hurriedly hides when she sees me.

‘Can I help?’ She looks at me with annoyance.

‘Hi, I’m Alison Travis. I have an interview at two o’clock.’ I paste a bright smile on my face.

‘Take a seat.’ She waves a hand at a threadbare chair to the right of the desk while looking longingly at her knitting which is peeking out from the bag she’s stuffed it in. ‘Veronica will be with you shortly.’

‘Thanks.’ I sit down gingerly on the rickety chair, unsure if it will hold my weight. I sit very still, hold my breath and hope for the best. The receptionist ignores me and shuffles some papers so I have a look around the office; directly behind her is a door marked Manager which I’m guessing is where Veronica is. I mentally measure the width between the desk and my chair and hope that I can squeeze through it to get to my interview.

The Manager door is suddenly flung open and a mini-skirted, spiky-haired, peroxide blonde comes out. Fake tanned and wearing shiny black plastic over the knee boots, she looks to be about my age. She stops at the desk and hands a piece of paper to the receptionist.

‘My P45 from my last job, innit.’

The receptionist takes it from her and looks at me, ‘You can go in now.’ She nods in the direction of the Manager door.

I won’t fit through the gap now the blonde is in the way; I know that without even trying. I’m wondering what to do when the receptionist looks at me again.

‘You can go in,’ she says a bit louder.

The blonde looks at me and I see her eyes drop down my body and take in the size of me and the realisation dawning on her that I won’t fit through and the usual feeling of shame swamps me. Her eyes return to my face and I see a spark of sympathy in her eyes. My estimation of her goes up as she moves quietly out of the way so I can get through.

I murmur a thanks and she gives me a surprisingly sweet smile.

I step through into the manager’s office which is even smaller than the outer office. Veronica is seated behind a slightly newer looking desk and has her head down as she fills in a weekly planner with a pen.

‘Sit yourself down,’ she says without looking up. ‘I won’t be a moment.’

I squash myself into the chair and wait.

‘Okay,’ she says with a smile, ‘you must be Alison.’ The smile fades as she looks up from the desk at me.

I give her a minute to get over the shock of the immenseness of me.

‘Hello,’ I say, reaching across the desk to shake her hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Veronica.’

She stares at my hand as if it were a snake about to sink its fangs into her and then recovers and reluctantly puts her hand out to shake mine. Perhaps she’s afraid I’m going to crush it. ‘You’re interested in the cleaning job, is that right?’

‘Yes I am. Very interested.’

‘Okay,’ she purses her lips. ‘We do need people with experience, do you have any?’

‘Oh yes, lots,’ I lie.

‘Who have you worked for?’

‘Um. Well, not paid for work. But I clean my own house and my mother’s. I’m her carer you see.’

‘Hmm. I’m afraid that doesn’t really count as experience.’

I can see where this is going and I don’t like it, not one bit.

‘But,’ I say, trying to sound calm. ‘Your advertisement said no experience required.’

She looks caught out; she wasn’t expecting me to challenge her.

‘Did it?’ she thinks for a moment. ‘Okay, what I’ll do is put you on the waiting list because the thing is, we’ve had a huge response and we don’t really need any more cleaners at the moment. I’ll put you on the list and let you know if any vacancies come up. ’

‘Yes.’ She dismisses me with a cold smile. ‘If you give your details to Moira on reception she’ll put you on file.

My plans for the new me slither to the floor and I feel utterly dejected; a vision of a huge bar of Dairy Milk pops into my head but I push it angrily away.

‘I don’t think so.’ My voice sounds strong and determined, not like me at all.

‘You’ve plenty of vacancies.’ I go on. ‘That planner you’re filling in is at least half empty.’ I tap the planner in front of her.

‘I’m sorry.’ She sits back and folds her arms. ‘I’m afraid that you’re not what we’re looking for. I’m the one doing the interview and my decision is final. I don’t have to justify myself to you or anyone else.’

We stare at each other across the desk but I win and she averts her gaze first.

‘Okay.’ I heave myself, with difficulty, out of the chair. ‘It’s your decision of course, just as it’s my decision to ring up the Frogham Herald and tell them that a local cleaning company discriminates against fat people.’