My Pear-Shaped Life. Carmel HarringtonЧитать онлайн книгу.
shift between them. It was one of those perfect nights, the air still and quiet, with a large white moon, full, throwing light and shadow into the garden. And Greta thought about every romantic comedy she’d watched, where the girl got the guy. Could she too? What would happen if she reached over to clasp Dylan’s hand in hers? Or perhaps he would throw his arm around her shoulder, then pull her into his arms, his breath warm on her cheek. Greta longed to be part of something, a couple, a world, where someone cared about her and only her.
When they reached the entrance to the hotel, their cast mate Donna was watching them, a wave of cigarette smoke wafting into the air around her. She shouted over, jokingly, ‘You two look very cosy. Something you want to tell us?’ Greta flushed from head to toe. Had Donna somehow guessed what Greta had been fantasizing about? Was it written all over her face? She was about to tell Donna to feck off when she saw a look cross Dylan’s face. He looked horrified at Donna’s insinuation. The dream melted into the air, leaving Greta feeling silly for ever contemplating that she and Dylan should or could be anything but friends. She was happy on her own.
As Greta inched closer to the conveyor belt at security, another moment flashed into her head. A moment where she’d almost messed up her friendship with Dylan for ever, because she stupidly … she shook her head and forced herself to shove the memory back into a place deep inside her. Now was not the time to dwell on the past. She had to focus for her audition.
She typed a message back to Dylan, smiling through her pain, and did what she did best – when all else fails, make ’em laugh.
Greta: I’d better not read the lines as Inspector Clueless by mistake! Can you imagine? Good moaning, this iz Clara. Do you ’ave a massage for me?
Dylan: Never mind Inspector Clueless, all you need to do is put on your Ruby Mae costume and the job would be yours!
Greta: Er, I told you what happened with that a few weeks back. Don’t mention the war!
She’d played the part of Ruby Mae, a curvy, sexy saloon girl, until she’d had a wardrobe malfunction. Greta had stepped into her red and black cancan dress, but it wouldn’t go up over her thighs. It had been getting tight for months, but she’d always been able to manoeuvre her way into it, once she was wearing her Spanx knickers and slip. She stepped out of the dress and decided to put it on over her shoulders, so that she could shimmy her way into it. Several shimmies later, she was standing in her room, with a dress wedged on her shoulders. Her face was scarlet and her hair, washed and curled only twenty minutes previously, was now half stuck to her head. With two arms above her head, she couldn’t pull the damn thing either up or down.
Greta knew she was not going to extricate herself from this situation on her own. Dylan might be her closest friend, but there was no way she was showing him her lumps and bumps. So she had no choice but to call her cast mate, Donna, for help. Skinny Donna, who had two pert boobs that defied gravity, and an even perter personality. It was the worst ten minutes of Greta’s life, as Donna squished Greta’s boobs down as flat as possible, so that she could yank the dress up and off.
Then, when the mission was accomplished, Donna asked, ‘Shall I play Ruby Mae, seeing as the costume doesn’t fit?’ She’d had her eye on the role for months and practically danced out of the room with it in her hands.
Dylan: I told you we can just buy another costume. It probably shrunk in the tumble dryer.
Greta: Maybe you should throw me into the dryer too the next time! This queue to security is horrendous. Distract me with another URG example.
This was one of their things. Dylan the hopeless romantic, Greta the cynic, discussing moments in cinematic history that were Ultimate Romantic Gestures, or URGs, as they nicknamed them.
Dylan: I need to bring out the big guns so. How’s about Bridget Jones’s Diary? The first one, though. When Mr Darcy buys Bridget a new diary so she can make a fresh start. URG central.
Greta: OK, that’s creepy not romantic. I mean, the guy read her diary. Shootable offence.
Dylan: Noted. No reading of girls’ diaries.
Greta: I’d have shoved his new diary where … well … somewhere painful!
Greta put her phone away and placed her luggage in the large square plastic box on the conveyor belt.
‘You’ll have to take those shoes off,’ the security guard said, pointing to her boots.
She held onto the side of the conveyor belt and felt a shot of pain to her ribcage as she leaned down. The first time she’d experienced it, she thought she must have a serious illness. So she’d approached Doctor Google for help. And found two words that made her flush in shame and recognition. Apparently the pain was a fat cramp, caused by her lungs being flattened by her organs. By the time she managed to pull her shoes off and had placed them beside her iPad and handbag, a line of sweat had formed above her lips. She swiped it away with the back of her hand as she walked towards the security gate.
The alarm went off. The alarm always went off. Greta moved to the left as indicated and looked upwards with embarrassment while the female security guard patted her down. She was mortified by the woman’s touch, especially when her hands felt her back fat. And as always when she was embarrassed, Greta started to sweat like Donald Trump in a spelling bee. She could feel trickles of water snaking its way down her back, under her boobs, between her legs. And the shower she’d had only a few hours earlier began to feel like a distant memory. She couldn’t turn up at her audition looking like a sweaty mess.
Greta took a steadying deep breath and willed the perspiration to disappear. She made her way to the ladies’ bathroom, so that she could freshen up before it was time to board. A full-length mirror ran along the wall at the entrance which meant it was impossible to miss seeing her reflection.
Who was that woman staring back at her? A round face, shiny and patchy with sweat, looked back in horror. Greta walked closer to the reflection to study herself, something she didn’t do very often. This morning when she’d dressed she had felt good about her appearance. Her midi print dress in navy and ochre, with three-quarter-length sleeves, felt like the perfect audition dress. It had skimmed over her wobbly bits; paired with her ankle boots, she felt hip and trendy. As the saying went, fake it till you make it.
Now all her eyes could see were the two dark stains that lay under her armpits. She pulled her shoulders forward and tried to hide them, mortified that she’d walked through the airport unaware that they were there. Then she noticed a pull in the buttons that strained over her breasts. Had her boobs grown since she’d left home an hour ago? Was that even possible? And the print that she thought hid her extra weight, now seemed to offer a neon-light invitation for all and sundry to look more closely at her imperfections.
Her body had let her down.
Which wasn’t strictly true. It was she who was letting her body down. She had done this to herself.
Greta thought of her two brothers at home, fit and toned. And thin. She thought of her parents, now in their fifties, both managing to keep any middle-aged spread at bay. She stood out like a sore, angry thumb. The runt of the Gale litter. Except she was as far from little as you could be. What had the lads at the bus stop called her the other day? Fat cow.
Greta tugged at her dress. She had to get it off. What on earth had she been thinking? She felt something new and insidious begin to nip at her. Shame, she knew well. Anger; self-doubt too. But this pain in her stomach, the trouble catching her breath, it felt like … fear, panic. And it wasn’t like her. She was the girl who just brushed herself off, dusted herself down when life threw a curve ball at her. But right now, Greta knew that if she didn’t change her clothes, her audition would bomb. An irrational thought, but now that it was planted in her head it started to grow and blossom, until it took over everything.
Greta made her way into one of the cubicles and placed her case on the toilet. She pulled off the dress then mopped the sweat from her body with swabs of toilet tissue.