Prologue #2
‘Estoy bien, gracias,’ I reply. I’m not fine but I need at least five minutes’ grace to try and get myself out of this conundrum before I humiliate myself.
I need to roll the fabric back down, so I make a strange wave-like motion with my stomach.
This is basic physics. But my skin is so clammy and strangely pink that nothing seems to work.
It’s the panic. If I take some deep breaths maybe my body will magically slim down.
I fall to my knees and try and rub myself against the velveteen pouffe in the corner.
I spy my phone at the top of my open tote bag and look out the corner of the curtain that precariously separates me from the rest of the shop. The sales assistant has disappeared.
‘Siri, call Dean. Put call on speaker.’
‘You’ll need to put in your passcode first.’
‘Piss off, Siri.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that.’
I grab at the fabric around my fingers and try and push it down, kneeling on the floor as I look up to try and type in the numbers. The phone starts to ring.
‘Hola, Senora!’ Dean says chirpily. ‘How are the shops?’
‘Dean, shit. I’m in a pickle.’
‘Why are you whispering? You want a pickle?’
‘Where are you?’ I whisper, my face literally next to the mic on my phone.
‘I’m with the girls at the hotel. We’re having snacks by the pool. Which one of them is allergic to strawberries again?’
I don’t reply.
‘I was joking. Why are you breathing like that? Is this a sex call? Now’s not the time, babe.’
I’d laugh if this wasn’t so bloody ridiculous.
It was Dean who suggested I have a break; it was his idea that I get out of the hotel, away from the girls.
It’s his turn to escape for the day tomorrow, most likely to a golf course.
It’s been nice to have a holiday just the four of us, but Ellie’s been teething and Amber hasn’t settled into the new surroundings, so it’s not really felt like a break.
As Dean said, it’s the same (baby) shit in a different place.
We’re still changing nappies, wolfing dinner down quickly so we can take it in turns to entertain the kids, applying suncream for our lives, and falling asleep at night with the kids draped over us, the TV lightly humming in the background. It’s the same routine, just hotter.
‘I’m stuck in a dress. I’m in this boutique by the beach and the thing literally won’t move past my tits.’
‘I… I don’t know what to say. Stuck how?’
‘Like wedged in.’
‘Have you taken a really deep breath in? Suck in all the—’
‘Don’t finish that sentence, I beg of you,’ I say.
Suck in all of the fat. Because if this holiday has also proved anything it’s that I’ve really let myself go since the twins.
I’ve never fully understood the term ‘to let yourself go’ because it suggests an almost joyful sense of freedom, but the truth is that my self-care and attention to my weight and diet have been non-existent.
And I’ve only realised this by noticing the haphazard way I’ve packed for myself this holiday.
I brought the cutest bonnets, sunsuits and adorable matching gingham dresses for the girls, but for me?
I packed my bag in some sort of delusional state, as if a bikini I once wore pre-baby would just wondrously fit over my body again like a glove.
Hon, it’s not even covering a single butt cheek.
I was feeding for two which made my cup size swell from a C to a G.
As a result, I’ve hidden behind big tent-like T-shirts, cycling shorts and maxi smock dresses.
My bosoms look like flotation devices in the pool.
In the evenings, I’ve recycled the same black smock dress, watching as other women, wearing clothes with cut-outs and giant slits, bounce around the buffet without a bra and in kitten heels.
I am honest and kind to myself about this change but being here with more flesh on show and having to strip down to my bare essentials at the pool means I’m more self-conscious and prone to comparing myself to others.
My feelings of paranoia and frustration are amplified to their very max.
‘Olive oil. You need to grease up,’ Dean says.
This is what Dean does: he covers up stressful situations with humour, always looking on that bright side of life. I manage a laugh, if only to imagine why I would be carrying around a bottle of olive oil in my bag.
‘Dean!’
‘Should I come to you? With the girls? I… Maybe just tear the thing and pay for it? Say it was an accident.’
I pause. It’s a fifty-euro dress. I can’t justify the expense, money down the drain because I didn’t think I’d need a bigger size. I settle down on the changing-room floor with my back on the wall, my legs absorbing the cool of the marble floor.
‘I feel like a complete idiot, Dean.’
‘I got stuck in that wetsuit once, remember?’ Dean says, trying to make me feel better.
I can’t laugh anymore. Actually, maybe I should laugh – the movement might help shuffle the dress down.
‘I’m sorry. I thought shopping would be a nice break for you,’ he says.
‘It’s not you. I think the Europeans are more svelte and I got the sizes confused. I feel like a… what’s the name of those things we saw at the aquarium with the whiskers?’
‘A manatee. You feel like a manatee. Well, I read the information boards next to their tank and you know manatees control their weight and buoyancy by farting. Maybe if you just rip off a massive humdinger, it could help?’
‘If it were that simple, surely you’d be the size of a twiglet by now,’ I say, giggling.
Dean laughs on the other end of the phone. I can picture his face lighting up at the rhythm of our banter.
‘You’re beautiful, Jessica Starrs. Most beautiful manatee I know.’
My eyes fill with tears at the compliment, and the love and authenticity there, but his words are useless to me now. I need practical solutions. I need scissors and someone with a firm grip to yank this dress over my shoulders.
‘Senora, are you sure you are OK? Can I…’
But the voice doesn’t ask for permission.
The curtain is pulled back and the sales assistant stands by my feet, glancing at the sorry state of me.
I try to climb to my feet and grab at a T-shirt to cover my bottom half, my skin still sweaty and clammy, working out how to explain this.
I put a hand to my completely mortified face.
‘Dean, I’ve got to go,’ I say, hanging up on him. ‘So sorry, so sorry.’
Another assistant appears at the changing room and I can see the absolute confusion in her face.
‘?Qué pasa?’ one of them says.
‘Creo que esta chica inglesa, regordeta y algo tontita, se ha quedado atascada en uno de nuestros vestidos,’ her colleague replies.
Well, my shame is complete. Because I definitely heard the Spanish words for chubby and silly. I look at them both in their belly tops and mini-skirts, trying to contain their judgement, their laughter and their lack of empathy. My body freezes from embarrassment.
‘Gracias. Fancy helping me out?’
They both turn their noses up at me, clearly wondering how someone could have got themselves into this predicament.
I try to stand tall, to reclaim some dignity despite looking like I’ve tried to squeeze myself into this condom of a dress. ‘It’s either scissors or this chubby stupid English girl is going to need one of you to yank me out of this. ?Comprendes?’
APRIL
ZARA
Vence, South of France
There used to be a time when I craved mornings like this.
Slow, honeyed, quiet mornings on a bright terrace to enjoy a cup of coffee, the stone warm under my feet, a few wisps of cloud in the sky.
When the kids were tiny, I dreamed of this kind of peace on holiday.
Back when holiday mornings started at six with endless episodes of Peppa Pig, noisy toys and lying next to them praying they would just sit still.
Holidays were childcare. I longed to read a book and swim a few laps in the pool, to go to the loo on my own without the soundtrack of a baby crying in the next room. But now the silence is almost too much.
I look at my watch, it’s eleven thirty. I’ve had three cups of coffee, I’ve showered and washed my hair, and I’ve even had time to walk around the gardens and take a photo of a crimson-flowered plant.
I’ve looked up the plant’s name. I sent the picture to my mother along with a few other photos of the view.
Where are the kids?
Oh, they’re teenagers, Mum. They don’t take pictures anymore.
Not with me at least and if they do, it’s like I’m posing with three random youths I’ve found in the street because they look so damned miserable in their strange arrangements of white socks and sliders, all with one finger in the air which I hope to heavens isn’t gang-related.
I’ve managed to get on the internet here and plan an afternoon of activity, and also to email my Aunty Sandra to tell her that we will be able to make her seventieth birthday party in three months’ time and we have no dietary requirements even though I know she’s only serving quiche and dips.
So now I’m sitting here and it’s quiet. Too quiet.
I look at the pool, completely still, flat, lifeless.
Bella practically begged me to buy her that giant inflatable crocodile in the supermarket.
Now it floats past, smiling at me. Did we name you?
We should name you, I think. I’m so bored that I’m focusing on naming an inflatable crocodile.
I push the rusty metal chair back along the stone and perch my sunglasses on the top of my head, heading into the large stone villa, welcomed by the stale, cool air.
I weave around the sofas where I can see that the boys had their nightly paprika Pringles and gaming session.
I reach the first bedroom door, knocking tentatively.