My Big Fat Low-Fat Wedding

chapter 10



I’m more than happy to pay Anika double over time. She’s practically been running my cafe with Fiona since I got engaged!

“Thank you so much!” I express my gratitude to the best employee anyone could ask for. “You’re very brave picking up my clothes for me, considering the fact that Mia has one of those things at her shop.”

And by things Anika knows I mean robot.

It’s only been a day since vowing to keep all thoughts of bots out of my mind and so far it’s going quite well. Anika collected all the clothes from Mia that I had her take in by two inches, so at least I now have ensembles to wear that don’t need extra cinching in with belts. As far as I know Lara hasn’t received her new batch of dresses that she wants me to try on, so I’m safe from confronting her robot for the time being.

I’ve also been offered the chance to distract myself from bots in the form of teaching a cooking class at my former college. I’d grabbed the offer of instructing evening lessons the moment I’d received the call.

It’s been a normal —free from robots— day at my cafe and I’m just closing up shop. My old college is just down the road so I’m leaving my car here and hoofing it. I know Callum said he doesn’t want me dieting too much anymore, but I just can’t seem to work up much of an appetite lately. I haven’t been happy in any of the gowns I’ve tried on at Lara’s bridal shop, and if I can manage to lose just a little more weight I think it might help me work up the confidence to look in the mirror again.

As I walk down the street I pick up my knees for added exercise. I do think Brenda was right in what she said about making every physical activity count towards fitness, even if I didn’t exactly appreciate the way she tried to get her message across. I just don’t think that poking someone in their fat is anything other than counterproductive.

I’ve made it to the front entrance of Westmid College and I take a moment to stare as memories flood my mind.

This is where Callum and I met at the age of sixteen. I had just started in one of my cooking classes and he was doing an engineering degree. Lara had come from the same secondary school as Callum, so even though she was doing a textiles course at the time, she was still able to introduce me to the hot guy she already knew.

It’s been years since I’ve instructed a cooking class after graduating. I wonder if the lecture rooms still look the same. There’s only one way I’m going to find out, so I walk in through the main entrance.

“Emily!” I’m greeted by the receptionist. “So good to see you.”

“And you, Hannah. It’s been ages.”

“It certainly has.” She hands me a stylus pen. “Just sign in here. You can find your own way to the cookery rooms, right?”

“Of course I can.” Bending, I look to where she’s pointing. “Oh. This is new.” I’m now signing my name onto a guest book app on a tablet PC.”

“Yeah, no more wasted paper around here anymore. This college has gone very eco-friendly.” Hannah winks at me and I return the stylus.

I head off down the corridor and I still remember exactly where I’m going, even after all these years. When I get to the cooking room I find it’s just as I remember it. The central prepping island space is surrounded by four walls that contain refrigerators, drawers, ovens and stovetops.

For today’s lesson there are six attendees who are already here.

“Welcome everyone!” I’m quite excited about teaching today’s class because it will give me a chance to spread the word about some new low carb dishes I’ve designed.

Although, I’m not going to tell the class members that it’s basically a diet dish. I’ll wait until after the lesson is finished and then I’ll surprise them by revealing the results of my great tasting recipe!

“Now don’t add too much olive oil.” The class is in full swing fifteen minutes later and there are lovely aromas wafting through the air from six sizzling frying pans. I’ve instructed everyone to add in meat and vegetables, but to only turn their steaks every 4 minutes. “You want your veg to be blackened on one side only,” I waltz around the room knowingly surveying each frying pan. “It will add a yummy smoky flavour to your dish.”

“Oh heavens above!”

What’s this now? “Is something the matter, Dotty?” I make my way over to the oldest member of the group.

“I think I may have added a bit too much olive oil.” The white haired woman titters and backs away from her frying pan as I near.

I’ll say she put too much oil in, her pan is positively splattering grease everywhere. “It’s fine, everyone!” I shout, moving steadily forwards. “I’ll just turn down the heat and — oh!”

Just before I can get my hand near the gas dial a loud pop emits from the steak. A huge glob of oil lands on the back of my forearm. You’d think I’d be used to the searing pain of grease burned flesh after all my years in cooking. I’ve learned to control my reactions to pain, but Dotty clearly hasn’t.

“Oh dear!” The old woman shouts and pushes forward.

Turning, I intend on reassuring the retiree. And therein lies the biggest mistake I could make of the evening. Possibly the most tragic error of my life thus far.

I hadn’t realised, but Dotty was reaching forward. In what seems like a split second I’m still pulling my hand away from the splattering grease. Our arms crash together and I’m caught off balance. I also didn’t realise just how much oil had accumulated on the floor from frying up out of Dotty’s pan. As I’m turning my foot slides through the grease. I slip and fall and I’ve managed to catch the handle of the pan in the same instance.

Yes, my life does actually flash before my eyes at this particularly perilous moment in slow motion time. It’s as though I can see all the hot ingredients fly through the air like they’re moving through thick water. I’m helpless to do anything about it as I too seem to be drowning in the slow-motion uselessness of watered-down time.

Just as suddenly, time fast forwards and seems to catch up with itself. Unfortunately this is at the precise moment when I’ve landed flat on my arse and all the flaming hot meat and veg in the flipped up frying pan comes tumbling down onto my legs.

Someone screams and I think it was me. I’m not so sure though because I’m being helped to my feet by the two twenty-something lads in the class.

“Ha, hoo, hee,” I start to hyperventilate and kick at my legs. “It burns!” I screech and do the only plausible thing that comes to mind. Quickly kicking off my shoes I proceed to undo the button of my new smaller sized jeans. After that I quickly flip down the zip and immediately shove my denims down and off my legs.

“Careful!” One of the guys shouts as another grabs me under my armpits.

“I’ve got you!” He bellows while the other four ladies in the room all back away whimpering.

Lad number one bends down and yanks my trousers off. It’s at this point I’m not thinking about how embarrassed I could be during such inappropriate nudity on my part. I’m not even thinking very deeply about the burns that my legs might be suffering. No, what I’m most concerned about for some stupid reason is that I’m grateful I never did purchase those super-skinny jeans. If I had done this awkward situation might have been entirely more catastrophic.

As it is though, the young man is able to get my trousers off quick as a flash, which is something I never thought I’d be able to witness another man —apart from my fiancé— ever doing for the rest of my life.

“I know first aid!” Ian —the person who’s holding me up under my arms— bellows.

“So do I!” Well, of course I do, I’m a certified chef for chrisake. Although, considering the disastrous unfolding circumstances, you wouldn’t think I’m certified in anything other than being a professional berk.

“I know first aid too!” Michael, the man who’s just whipped off my jeans proclaims. He throws down said denims and proceeds to grab my ankles. “We have to get running cold water on her burns!”

“Agreed!” Ian shouts and I’m wondering if these two are members of the territorial army that’s currently recruiting in town.

“Woooooo!” I holler as I’m scooped up whilst pantless by two strong men, neither of whom are the man I’m engaged to. I’m so beyond mortified at this point I can’t even feel any burning sensations where the hot oil spilled onto my legs.

“Be careful, lads,” Dotty whimpers from the corner of the room where she’s standing with the other terrified ladies. “Don’t you two go slipping in that oily mess!”

I’m dumped onto the countertop next to the sink and Michael whips on the tap hose. He douses down my shins and now I feel a bit of stinging. I can see that the flesh of my skin is reddened a bit upon my calves.

“Thanks, Michael.” Leaning away, I pull out of Ian’s grasp. “I’ll take it from here.” I grab the spray tap from Michael without looking him in the eye. “Class is dismissed.”

“I beg your pardon?” Michael leans his head nearer making his face come way to close to my bare legs.

“I said class is dismissed!” I don’t know how else to react other than by barking orders. I want everyone in this room to clear out right this minute! “Sorry, Ian… Michael.” I blurt. “If I’m going to hose down my burnt legs I really don’t want everyone staring at me while I do so!”

I think I’ve just managed to embarrass everyone in the vicinity. The ladies in the corner all skitter towards the door and vacate the room immediately. “I’ll telephone for an ambulance!” I hear Dotty shout from the corridor.

“Tell her she should do no such thing!” I yell to Michael and Ian as they leave me to wallow alone in my burnt leg spritzing sorrow.

Soon, male voices approach and for a second I think it’s the only two men in the class returning. The sink I’ve got my feet tucked into faces away from the corridor. I should have remembered to tell someone to shut the bloody door on their way out.

“Go away!” I shout as the voices near.

“We’re here to help,” One of the men says. “Oh jesus.” I hear him add despondently.

I have a bad feeling that voice doesn’t belong to either Ian or Michael. Craning my head around as far as it will go without snapping my neck, I’m inclined to agree with the new arrival’s latter statement. “Oh jesus, Ben. Why did it have to be you?”

I should have known this would happen. It’s just my luck that this particular paramedic happened to be on duty today.

“I’ll take it from here, Luke.” Ben has a quick chat with his paramedic partner. “It’s only a three per cent burn incident.”

Turning back around I huff exasperatedly onto my bare knees. I’m still sat on the countertop with my feet in the sink as cold water pours over the oil burnt patches on my shins.

Ben approaches me, but he’s not alone like I thought he’d be after his partner left. “Get that thing away from me!” I screech as a black and white robot —shaped like a dome— comes floating nearer.

“Emily, relax—”

“Don’t tell me to relax!” I shout and cower away, scooting on my bum until it collides with a toaster. “Just get it out of here. I’m serious!”

“Okay, all right.” He holds up his hands in surrender and barks some orders at the floating bot.

After it leaves. I’m still in a shouty mood. ““Shut the door!” I yell for good measure. Ben obliges me then walks back over to get a good long look at my exposed legs. Despite the fact he’s a paramedic who’s seen worse, I’m so not comfortable having my cousin’s stripper boyfriend stare at my personage like this.

Maybe it’s karma though. I’ve seen him nearly naked whilst grinding up on me. Perhaps I owe him a show.

Oh stop it! My brain screams at me. As if this situation isn’t awkward enough, why do my thoughts always have to wander so annoyingly?

Ben patches up the pink spots on my legs. “I’m sure the doctors will tell you this is an upper dermas burn, so it won’t leave any scarring.”

Silence ensues.

I don’t know what to say to this man who the last time I saw him was under rather compromising circumstances.

“ThanksfornottellingNicola!” Ben blurts at the same time I mumble, “Ididn’tsayanythingtoNicola!”

Well, so much for easing an awkward situation. This is getting worse by the second.

Sighing loudly, I hop down off the counter with my newly bandaged legs. “It’s not my place to tell Nicola anything.” I’m not about to mention the thing in question. We both know perfectly well that he flaunted his willy all nilly like in my face. There’s no need to verbalise it and bring it out into the open again. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t think you shouldn’t tell her. She has a right to know about her boyfriend’s other job… Jobs?”

I stuff my leg into my jeans carefully so as not to shift the bandages.

“That’s my only other job, Emily.” Ben clears his throat. “And it’s just a job, not a lifestyle like in that Magic Mike film. Not that I’ve seen Magic Mike. What bloke would—”

“You’re rambling.”

“You’re right.” Turning, Ben strides away and opens the door. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”

“I’d rather not.”

In response to my statement my cousin’s paramedic stripper boyfriend shakes his head. “You and Nicola are definitely related.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind,” he says, huffing out an exasperated sigh. “It’s just… you two must really hate hospitals.”

***



It’s not that I hate hospitals, it’s just that I don’t want to show my face at my nearest health institution due to the fact that the medical staff probably consider me a fake heart-attack hypochondriac. But I wasn’t about to tell Ben that. I’d left the cookery class on my own two minimally scalded legs, and not in an ambulance. I remember my cousin Nicola telling me that’s basically how her and Ben met. She’d had ambulance incidents with him on many occasions, which I think is quite funny considering how she’s always calling me a klutz. As far as I’m concerned it’s my dear cousin who’s the accident prone one in the family.

As I walk along the pavement now I can’t help feeling doubly sorry for Nicola. I should just come out with it and tell her that Ben rubbed up on me. I for one would want to know if my Callum was running around gyrating his crotch into women’s faces after completely stripping down.

It’s decided then. If Ben doesn’t confess to Nicola soon. I’ll tell her myself.

After leaving the college I run home and grab a parcel that needs returning. Then, I reach the post office and am depressed to find a long queue of customers that I have to wait behind. I bought a top online a few days ago and when it arrived in the post I had quickly tried it on. I’d also instantly hated the fit of the thing, so here I am finally having budged up to the front of the line. Well, I’m second in the queue at long last.

“You don’t usually come in today, Margaret.” The postal worker behind the glass partition speaks loudly to the OAP whose at the window in front of me.

“Beg pardon?” I hear the Old Age Pensioner, Margaret, when she replies.

The postal woman has to repeat her statement even louder. “I said you’re not normally in until tomorrow, darling!”

“Oh!” Margaret exclaims wildly, causing her head of cotton ball white hair to bounce. “I’m doing a bit of retail therapy with my dear friend Alice today.”

Ah, so she’s a woman after my own materialistic heart, no matter her older age in comparison to my youthful one.

“Actually,” Margaret coos happily with her old lady wobbly voice. “I only ever intend to do a bit of window shopping you know. By the end of the day though I always end up buying something I don’t need!”

The postal woman nods knowingly from behind the dividing glass. I nod knowingly myself and look at the parcel in my hand. Sighing loudly I despair at Margaret’s words knowing full well that I’m here today returning something I never needed to purchase in the first place. I guess it seems we as women are destined to impulse-buy for the rest of our lives.

***



As I’m leaving the post office after returning the ill-fitting top, I’m feeling depressed about my body shape. Things always seem to go wrong whenever I order something off the internet.

“Never again,” I mumble to myself and turn the corner. “Oops, sorry!” I nearly crash into someone who’s in a big hurry. Turning, I’m curious as to why I was the only one to apologise. I’m too late though, all I see is a head of blonde hair rushing away around the corner. A blonde head of short hair that I’m positive belonged to Thomas; the lifeguard boy from the Meli Spa.

I swear that kid has started stalking me. I only mentioned it lightly to Callum before, but as I stomp along the pavement I’m positively seething. Maybe I need to think about hiring a lawyer to file some kind of restraining order against that boy.

“Emily! Hello!” I’m so busy with my internal thoughts of court appearances I don’t notice when I nearly crash into my second person of the day.

“I haven’t seen you at my sweet shop in ages, darling.” Isabella pushes back her stunning wavy auburn hair from her shoulders. “I’ve ordered loads of new goodies from America, come have a look see!”

I’m helpless to object going anywhere but with this forceful woman. It’s not that I’m being forced into a candy store because Isabella is bigger than me, even though she is. The woman stands at five foot ten when she’s not wearing heels, which just so happens to be what she does in fact have on her feet today. It’s just that I’m being coerced into a sweet shop and I’m not at all sure it’s against my will.

The scent of sugar rams up my nostrils as soon as we enter the store. I really haven’t been here in ages. The sugar rush goes to my head with a mere whiff of the sweetened air.

“Look,” Isabella coos, lifting a jar from a shelf. “I’ve got Fluff.” She does indeed have marshmallow cream. The woman must love the stuff because she’s literally stroking the container. “I’ll bet you could invent a wonderful fruit dip with this stuff, Emily.” She hands me the jar. “Here, have this one for free and whip up a dip for me, yeah?”

I take the container from her. I can already taste the marshmallow flavour just looking at the contents inside. I’m already imaging the perfect fruit dip recipe in my mind. “I’ll do it.” I admit to Isabella. “And I’ll also have some pick and mix.” I’m feeling down right depressed about the top I just returned at the post office because it was too small. Nothing I do seems to work! I can’t stay on a diet for the life of me and I’m just not losing weight fast enough.

There’s nothing for it, really. It couldn’t hurt going off my diet for just one day anyway.

“That’s the spirit!” Isabella whips a paper bag through the air, opening it with a resounding crack that punches the air next to my face. “Here you are, pick your mix of sweets to your hearts’ content.”

She hands me the bag and I turn to the wall made of pure sugar. Sugary sweets in clear containers with flaps and shovels stuffed inside. There are so many colours, so many different kinds of chocolates. I was even thinking luxurious chocolates for a minute there, but let’s face it, this isn’t an authentic Swiss choc factory. It’s a candy store that’s rammed with sickeningly sweet products made mostly of hardened jelly. Sweets that appeal to children.

Candy that appeals to the kid in me.

Using the scoopers I dump sweets into my pick and mix bag until its nearly brimming. “Um… I think that’ll do.” I plop down my goody bag.

“It most certainly will!” Isabella rings me up. “That’ll be three pounds and ninety pence please, Emily.”

“Is that all?” I dig around in my purse and come up with coins. “So much sugar for spare change!”

Isabella winks at me. “You will make me that fruit dip, right?”

I haven’t even tested out the recipe I’ve got in mind yet. “Of course I will!”

As I leave the sweet shop, popping candies into my mouth as I go, both Isabella and myself part ways with smiles on our faces.

***



Welcome to the sugar-low.

I’d eaten way too many sweets about two hours ago and now that I’m back at the cafe I’m lagging in energy. I know just what will cheer me up! Grabbing a slice of carrot cake off the shelf I sit down in my office and enjoy the moist loveliness with a steaming and aromatic hot cup of tea.

Aaahhh. The brew hits the spot nicely with every sip I take. Then, a bite of carrot cake between gulps of warming tea.

“Ah, such a bibelot is not in fine fettle of your prevalent nutritional regime.”

Anika has joined me in the office and for some unknown reason she’s speaking in her own language.

“Sorry?” I look at her, dumbfounded. “Could you say that again in English please?”

“I was speaking English, boss lady. I was saying that the cake you’re eating is not a healthy thing.”

Pausing, I stare at the bite of cake on my fork, then I pop it into my mouth without a care. “It’s bad for my diet yes,” I mumble between mouthfuls. “But it’s very yummy and scrummy to my tummy.”

Anika shakes her head, rolls her eyes and crosses her arms indignantly. I feel a stern lecture coming on and judging by her zealous use of the English language, I have a feeling I won’t understand a word of it.

She opens her mouth, points a finger into the air and lets loose a string of words that were probably added to the Oxford English dictionary only yesterday.

“You’re right, Anika.” I put down my fork having caught the gist of her message. “I did ask you to prompt me if your ever saw me behaving like a naughty girl.” It’s true, I had asked her as a friend to help me with motivational words now and then, should I ever feel the need to sway from anything other than healthy eating habits.

All in the name of wedding dress fitting preparations.

I do want to look good on my wedding day, I really do. It’s just…

Sagging into my chair I sigh loudly at the half eaten cake. Stupid delicious carrot cake, why do you have to be so delish? And why must I always be so weak willed?

The remainder of the day is much the same. I mope around the cafe eating bits and bobs here and there until closing time. I just don’t know if I care anymore. It seems like no matter how much I diet and workout, I still look like a sock stuffed full of size D batteries in every bridal gown I’ve tried on.

Talking of double Ds…

I really need a new bra.

With thoughts of scheduling a brazier fitting, down at my local M&S, I lock up the cafe and leave the premises in the evening.

I mope sadly and depressedly towards my car. Opening the door I chuck my handbag despondently into the passenger seat. After driving home I slither out of the car like a sloth with bipolar disorder heading towards meltdown. In other words, I’m like a lazy sort of frowny-faced girl. In fact, I’m so downtrodden about my weight the first thing I do upon entering the house is head straight into the kitchen. Once in there I indulge in a bit of everything from the fridge and cupboards. By the time Callum comes home in the evening I’m in the foetal position on the couch.

“Are you all right, darling?” Callum enters the sitting room.

“Noooooooooo,” I moan in anguished reply. “I ate too much.”

Parp.

“Did you just fart?”

My stomach hurts too much for me to be embarrassed about letting one loose. Nevertheless, I attempt to hold in any future bodily gas expulsions.

“No.” Comes my reply.

“Yes.” Callum says nasally as he’s pinching his nose shut. “Are you planning on sleeping here, or should I take the sofa? Because I’m definitely not sleeping anywhere near the smell of your arse tonight!”

“Oh shoosh, you.” Somehow, despite the pain in my lower intestines, I manage to pluck a cushion off the couch and throw it at him.

Callum is right though. I think it’s best if I sleep alone tonight. Unfortunately for him it means he’ll have to be the one taking the sofa. He offered. Besides, our bedroom has an en-suite bathroom that I really think I’m going to need to use tonight. All throughout the night.