Losing It. Jane Asher
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Stacey
My dad always said it was my fault. My size, I mean. But he didn’t understand – you only got to look at my mum to know I can’t help it. She’s big too – not as big as what I am, but she’s big. No one understands what it’s like: even my mum tells me not to moan about it. But it’s the aching – I ache so much all the time. That’s the worst bit – the aching. It’s the weight on my joints, the doctor says. They just ain’t meant to carry that much around. He says I’ve got arthritis now, too. Well, thanks, great. That’s all I need. And the last time I saw him he said I was lucky not to have diabetes. Lucky? What does he know? I asked him about them new patches I’ve read about that you stick on your arm and sniff and then you don’t wanna eat. He just had this kind of smirk on his face and said I’m being stupid again. No – not stupid. What was it he said? Gullible. He said I was being gullible again. And he says the arthritis won’t go unless I lose some weight – and there’s only one way to do that, he says, and just hands me out another diet sheet.
I’ve been overweight my entire life. There ain’t never been a time when I wasn’t fat. I can prove that, too. My mum says I’m remembering it wrong, but if I show her the pictures she can see I’m right. She doesn’t like to know that, see, because I think she overfed me, because it made her feel good when I ate so much. But when I show her the pictures now I can see in her eyes they shock her. There ain’t that many of course. Dad never bothered much with pictures. But that one of us on the beach at Bognor: I’m next to my mum and we’ve both got swimsuits on and you can just see how fat I am. I look more like her sister than a daughter. I’m as big as she is but half her height. It’s horrible. Why am I so fat? I don’t know.
I don’t behave like other fat people, I know that. I watch them and I see the way they move and the way they look. I’m not like that. It’s different for me. I think it’s an illness I have – I know I shouldn’t eat as much as I do, but it’s not just that. I’m trying some herbal supplement that I read about in the paper, and it said that some people react different to food than normal people; we don’t burn it off and our metabolisms don’t work right. These herbal things are going to regulate it. They cost a bit but I put in overtime last month at work and I got a bit saved so it’s OK. I didn’t tell the doctor because he’d just say I was being stupid again.
It may be genetics. That’s the other thing. They’re finding all these genes now, and my friend says they’ve found the fat gene and if they can take it out you won’t get fat any more, she read it in the paper. But I asked the doctor and he just laughed. He said I need to exercise more, but how can I exercise when it aches so much? Fucking useless he is.
Mum says I was a normal baby but then what does she mean by normal? I know I wasn’t normal when I was going to school, because I can remember going to buy school clothes. I must’ve been about seven or so and we had to get the clothes that was meant for twelve-year-olds. Mum didn’t know how much I minded the way the assistant looked at me. It’s only a tiny memory but I know how ashamed I felt.
And another memory is splitting my jeans. I was playing with my friends in the playground by the church and I was always ever so careful not to move about too quickly because I didn’t want to fall and rip my trousers. We was playing ‘it’ and I tried to touch one of the boys and I fell and, sure enough, I heard that horrible noise of the fabric ripping. Just giving up under the strain. I went home and found another pair but when I went to put them on they didn’t fit so I squeezed myself into them as best I could but my thighs was so large the crotch only came about halfway past my knees.
That old guy came to my checkout again today. That’s the fifth or sixth time running in about a week. Tried to chat to me – I knew he was but I pretended not to notice. I hope he ain’t one of those weird ones.
‘Hello, Stacey,’ he says, ‘how’s it going?’
‘S’all right,’ I says, trying not to look him in the eye. I didn’t want to encourage him, see, and also I could see Mr Chipstead hovering round Sheila’s till and I wanted to keep an eye on them. I just hoped the old bloke wasn’t going to bring up the bogof thing again. That’s four times he’s done it now. If I let on I know exactly what he’s talking about it’ll only encourage him, but if I go on pretending I don’t know what he means then he’s gonna go on saying it every time. Can’t win. Stupid, that’s what he must think I am.
‘S’cuse me,’ I says, before he could say no more, ‘Mr Chipstead!’
The old guy smiled a bit and turned round to look the way I was shouting. God, Mr C looked gorgeous: his arse looks so good in them navy trousers he wears for work, and you don’t often see it because it’s hidden under that long jacket of his, but he was leaning over Sheila’s till and you could see it under the suiting, all round and lovely. Two apples. Braeburns? No – more Pink Lady, although that don’t sound quite right for Mr C. Not that I can see the colour, of course, although, God knows, I imagine it often enough, but Pink Lady’s much too poofy for Mr C. All man, he is. Gala, maybe – that sounds good. A Gala arse, that’s what he’s got. I’ll write Crystal that in my next letter: she’ll enjoy that – she’s always on about great arses. Muscly, she likes them – what does she call it? Sinewy or something. I like them a bit rounder, myself
Anyway, he come over at last and the old guy was just stood looking at him.
‘Yes, Stacey?’ He’s got a gorgeous voice, too.
‘Can I go for lunch now, Mr Chipstead? Only I’m doing late shift and –’
‘Stacey, you don’t have to call me over for that, you know you don’t. Check it with Mrs Peters.’
‘Yes, but I never had my lunch break Tuesday and Mrs Peters said I should ask you about taking extra time today to make up.’
‘All right, Stacey. If Mrs Peters said so then that’s fine – go for lunch when you’ve finished this customer and I’ll send Janet over. Now get on with your work, this gentleman’s having to wait. You’ve got to get your speeds up, Stacey – I’ve told you this before.’
It’s funny but I don’t mind when he tells me off. I just mind when he don’t talk to me. Or when he talks to Sheila. I can’t stand that.
‘So, Stacey,’ the old guy says to me, ‘you’ve got your lunch break then. That’s good. Your manager – Mr Chipstead, isn’t it? – seems like a nice sort of chap.’
‘You said that last week.’
‘Did I?’
He looked pleased when he said that. I wondered for a moment if he was gay, but I don’t reckon he’s the type. Just happy that someone’s remembered something he’s said, if you ask me.
‘He’s all right.’
There was a bit of a pause while I checked the vegetable on the belt. Funny-looking thing it was, and I couldn’t find it in the idents for a bit. While I was looking he was watching me again, but I never let on I knew.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ he said.
‘Well, you can tell me what it is.’
‘No, I didn’t mean that. I meant – well, is there anything I can do for you – sort of – generally. You just looked a bit upset. When Mr Chipstead was here.’
‘Sweet potato,’ I said. ‘Found it.’
What a weird guy. One of those that fancies big women, as they call it. Really creepy. I wondered if I could call Mr C back to get rid of him, but there wasn’t really nothing I could put in words, just a feeling that he wasn’t coming to my till every time by chance. I was coming to dread it, really, when I saw him approaching with his little basket with four or five things in it. Why don’t he do a big weekly shop in a trolley? It wasn’t like he was short of the cash or nothing, you could tell that just by looking at him.
‘No,