JANE ASHER
Losing It

Dedication

For Rory

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Now

Judy

Then

Judy

Stacey

Charlie

Judy

Stacey

Charlie

Stacey

Ben

Judy

Crystal

Charlie

Sally

Charlie

Stacey

Charlie

Ben

Sally

Crystal

Stacey

Charlie

Stacey

Ben

Judy

Crystal

Stacey

Judy

Charlie

Stacey

Charlie

Next

Sally

Charlie

Ben

Judy

Stacey

Charlie

Crystal

Ben

Stacey

Charlie

Crystal

Stacey (e-mail)

Sally

Charlie

Judy

Charlie

Stacey

Sally

Charlie

Sally

Stacey (e-mail)

Charlie

Chipstead

Judy

Charlie

Stacey

Charlie

Chipstead

Crystal

Judy

Ben

Stacey

Chipstead

Charlie

Judy

Stacey

Chipstead

Charlie

Judy

Stacey

Crystal

Stacey

Charlie

Stacey

Charlie

Now

Judy

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

Now

Judy

I couldn’t move. That was the problem.

I wanted to be quick so I’d decided to take the direct route, rather than going by the back streets. It’s quite a bit longer by the back way, of course, but it does mean I avoid passing – what shall I call it – the scene of the crime? Hardly.

As soon as I saw that neon sign shining out across the wet pavement I knew I’d been crazy to attempt it and I stopped dead in sudden misery. I’d done it before in daylight, forcing myself to look away to the other side of the road as I approached the dreaded place-I-can’t-name. I even enjoyed the test sometimes: seeing just how much or how little it took to trigger me into going back over it all; watching myself almost disinterestedly for signs of hysteria, regret or anger.

But this was different. I hadn’t realised how strongly it would make its presence felt once darkness had fallen. I turned away quickly as the old panic began to churn in my stomach, and I looked back towards the way I had come and took deep breaths in an attempt to calm myself down enough to be able to walk on again.

I was outside the post office, and, as usual, there was a pitiful little huddle of swaddled figures in the doorway beside me. Poor things, they looked more like heaps of old clothes than ever. I pulled off a glove and fumbled in my bag for some change, grateful for the excuse to stand still a little longer. I found a fifty-pence piece and threw it into the battered box they’d put out on the pavement; if they used it for Special Brew or whatever then good luck to them. I felt desperately in need of a drink myself.

I didn’t get a thank you of any kind, mind you. Not even a grunt this time. I tried not to feel irritated: the joy is in the giving, and all that. But it did make me hesitate for a moment – whether because I was seriously considering admonishing them or because it was still part of my effort to delay moving on again I really can’t say. I’m prepared to find my subconscious capable of plotting just about anything these days: it’s taken me by surprise so many times over the last year or so while it’s been dealing with the unthinkable. Giving me an excuse to avoid facing the painful reminder just a few yards ahead of me would be simple – only sensible, in fact: no point in giving my poor old brain the opportunity for another sand papering unless it had to.

I did move on, though. The moment of panic had passed and the cold wind and thoughts of the as yet uncooked casserole were enough of a spur to encourage me to walk on towards Dixons.

As I came nearer to passing the – how can I describe it? – supermarket sounds too cosy and everyday for the place that can still make my heart beat faster in remembered anxiety. Anyway, as I came closer I felt braver, and, without any intention of going in (that would be one test too many, even for my reconstructed self), I stopped outside. I tortured myself for a few moments as I looked through the large plate-glass window and searched quickly for what I half-dreaded and half-wanted to see. Funny, I thought, that here I am, looking with the same eyes, standing on the same legs, wearing – and I glanced down at myself – yes, even wearing the same coat as I did over a year ago, before it all started. So which bits of me have changed? I vaguely wondered. What makes me so utterly different from the woman I used to be, who walked into this wretched place so many times over so many years to do the shopping? Awareness, of course. Memory. Knowledge. Knowing what he did – what the two of them did. Knowing that, even as I pretend to carry on my life as if it still has a point, everything has changed for ever. That, once I’ve completed my pathetic little outing, bought my packet of floppy disks from Dixons and gone home again, he won’t be there. That he never will be again.

Then

Judy

He was at home the evening that started it all. If he hadn’t been there, then perhaps – no, I won’t let myself go through all those ifs again. Not any more: that’s over. I know I can’t stop myself replaying it all like an old film, but I do surely have enough strength now to recognise that it can’t be changed.

I can still picture him that evening. Or can I? Perhaps I’m imagining it. Maybe it’s another sign of this bloody crafty subconscious of mine inventing the bits that have got lost. I could be conjuring up an image from any one of the thousands of evenings of our marriage. It wasn’t unusual for Charlie to be home first, and that day didn’t feel any different from hundreds of others before it. Why should it? Nothing signalled that it was to be the start of the end. In fact all that strikes me now about that evening was just how extraordinarily ordinary it was: the way I remember it, it was a masterpiece of uneventful domesticity hiding the horrors to come.

He was sitting reading the paper in the sitting room. And, no, it’s not my imagination: I can see it clearly. He was in the large green armchair on the far side of the fire and I saw his profile silhouetted against the striped wallpaper just before he noticed I was there. He’d already put on his old burgundy cardigan, and he’d loosened his tie and pulled it away from the collar of his blue shirt. (God, it’s fascinating how much I do remember: I suppose, as well as being the opening scene of the impending terrible drama, it was also the last scene of my other life.) He looked up as I came in, and put the paper down in a rustling heap on his lap.

‘Hi,’ he said, then, after a pause, ‘What?’

‘How do you mean?’ I answered, knowing, of course, exactly what he meant. I was quite aware of the hint of weary resignation that I’d allowed to settle onto my features as he greeted me. Although I’ve no idea now which school I’d been inspecting, I do remember I’d had a particularly frustrating and tiring day, but I don’t think there was any other excuse for taking it out on him. It wasn’t as if he didn’t work just as hard as I did – more so, probably.

‘You look tired. Or something.’ Oh, how subtle is the language of the long married! How many layers of subtext lurked dangerously under the innocent words! Why didn’t you say it, Charlie? You, of all people, who were always so good with words in court; how clearly and succinctly you could have put it. ‘You look fed up and resentful. You clearly disapprove of the fact that I am happily relaxing in this chair when you have only just come in from working all day,’ might have been near the mark. But the habit of years allowed us to speak without acknowledging a fraction of what was really being said. What a waste.

‘No, just tired. You’re right. I am. Exhausted.’ And I turned and walked out of the sitting room, and the hairline crack, which might just have opened up into a discussion of how we really felt, was safely papered over – again.

I put my briefcase down at the foot of the stairs while I hung up my coat, and called out over my shoulder to him as I moved into the kitchen, ‘I haven’t shopped yet – I just couldn’t face it.’

‘Hang on – I can’t hear you. I’ll come.’

I heard him grunting as he pulled himself up out of his armchair, and felt a tiny stab of satisfaction at the fact that I’d got him to move. He stood in the kitchen doorway leaning against the frame, the newspaper still in one hand.

‘What did you say, darling?’

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have moved – it’s not important. Just that we’re out of everything and I haven’t shopped yet, that’s all. I’ll go in a minute. I’m having a cup of tea first. Do you want one?’

I looked up and smiled at him as I switched on the kettle. He’d pushed his half-moon glasses up on top of his head, and looked, even more than he usually did, like an eccentric professor. Or how one should look. His eyebrows were tufts of permanent surprise, swooping up at the outer edges in a sort of wild abandon above his ridiculously bright blue eyes. (His habit of twisting and curling the brows upwards with his fingertips while he studied a brief or read the paper used to irritate me, but so many things used to irritate me then.) The arms of his glasses had pushed some of his still thick, greying hair into ruffled wings on either side of his face, and I noticed his cardigan was wrongly buttoned. I smiled at him again, feeling a familiar echo of what I took at the time to be sentimental fondness. Now I know it for what it really was – love, of course.

‘Darling, come over here,’ I said. ‘You’re done up all wrong. Here, let me do it. Honestly, you’re worse than a child.’

I remember I reached a hand up to his face and stroked his hair, trying in vain to smooth it back tidily behind his ears. It was a habit I had, and my fingers miss the feel of it as much as my ears miss the sound of his voice, and my body misses touching his in our large double bed. Such an attractive, confident man he was then – or so I thought. And as for me – so much I took for granted: all of it, at the time.

‘The whole point of half-glasses,’ I went on smugly, ‘is that you don’t have to take them off or shove them on top of your head when you’re not using them. You’re meant to peer over them. You look like a startled koala when you push them up like that, you silly old thing.’

‘Nonsense.’ Charlie laughed. Yes, he did; he laughed, I’m sure of it. He used to laugh a lot, and it was often at something I’d said; I can’t have made that up, can I? And that’s the most important part of a successful relationship, they’re always telling us. A sense of humour. The couple that laughs together stays together. Make your man laugh. Well, yes. But not enough, apparently, in my case.

‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘I can’t bear peering over them at the world. It makes me feel like I’m playing the old fogey. The dull, dusty barrister.’

And I didn’t answer, did I? I just raised my eyebrows and threw him one of those knowing looks of mine that I used to think were so clever, as I finished buttoning up his cardigan and then gave him a dismissive pat on the belly. A subtle reminder in a look and a gesture that he was older, fatter and greyer than I was, and that his career was, indeed, a little dusty. At the same time, it was quick reassurance for me of my own relatively good shape and tactfully tinted hair. Oh yes, it was – don’t deny it. At least I can be honest with myself now, one of the few comforts I have left.

Charlie sighed and went to walk out of the kitchen, then stopped and turned in the doorway, pulling the glasses back onto his nose and looking at me over the top of them. ‘And I know I could indeed be considered an old has-been but I’m not quite ready to agree to it. Not just yet.’ And, although he was joking, the acknowledgement of my casual put-down wasn’t lost on me.

‘Of course not, darling,’ I said. ‘You’re in your prime. As is your wife.’ I walked over to the fridge and put a hand on one hip as I opened it and scanned the contents. ‘Not too exciting, is it? I’ll go in a minute.’

‘Hmm?’

‘I’ll go in a minute,’ I repeated. ‘Shopping.’

‘Oh, haven’t you been?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Charlie: no, I haven’t been. I said. I told you when I first came in – I do wish you’d listen, it’d make life so much simpler if I didn’t have to repeat myself all the time.’

‘Sorry, I expect I was thinking about something else.’

There was a short pause, but, although he was still looking at me, he didn’t go on.

‘What – work?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Were you thinking about work, do you mean?’

‘No. Just life. You know.’ He smiled as he said it, but I felt the tiniest hint of something chilly and – sinister settling into the silence that followed. Neither of us acknowledged it. ‘I’ll go, if you like,’ Charlie went on. ‘You look far more tired than I feel. What shall I get?’

‘No, it’s all right. I don’t know what I was going to get, I hadn’t decided. I’ll go. I can’t be bothered to go all the way to Sainsbury’s – I’ll pop round to SavaMart and get a bit of mince and do a shepherd’s pie, OK? Even the ghastly SavaMart doesn’t get mince too wrong.’

(There. I’ve said it. Named it. Not exactly out loud, but at least in my thoughts. SavaMart: what a drearily unattractive word to be the cause of such pain as I form its ugly syllables in my head.)

‘No, I insist. I’ll go. How much do I get? Is it just us?’

‘Oh, darling, are you sure? I really don’t mind, you know.’

Charlie put the newspaper down on the corner of the kitchen dresser and felt in his trouser pocket.

‘No, it’s all settled. Just tell me how much mince and – that’s fine, look, I’ve got twenty pounds; that should cover it, shouldn’t it?’

‘Good God, I should hope so. It’s us and Ben – Sally’s out. Get about a pound and a half of mince and – oh, damn, it won’t say that any more. Just get a couple of those ready packs and a large bag of potatoes. I’ve got onions. Oh, and some bread and a small milk.’

‘Right. Put your feet up and drink your tea and I’ll be back in a flash. I’m far quicker at shopping than you are.’

And I did. I’m sure of it. As he went out into the evening and made his way towards that place where it all began, towards the start of the nightmare – I made myself a cup of tea.

Stacey

My feet hurt and I’m shattered. He ain’t looked at me today – not even one fucking glance. It really pisses me off. I ain’t never rung my bell once – not like Sheila, who rings it every five minutes. She takes the bar codes off – I swear she does – just so’s she can ring her bell. Then if Mrs Peters comes over, suddenly she don’t need nothing. Mrs Peters is stood there, waiting, and suddenly Sheila don’t have a problem. But if he comes over it’s all, ‘Oh, I’m sorry to ring again, Mr Chipstead, but there’s no price on this.’ She leans forward and lets him look down her overall at her little pushed-up tits. They don’t exist, her tits. They’re just little bumps pushed up on all that Wonderbra padding. If you had X-ray eyes you’d see there’s half a tit there, sitting on a shelf of wadding.

My bum hurts too. There’s a new sore patch on it. I’ll have to rub it later and it’ll hurt more: it’s just like when Auntie Madge spent all that time in bed with her leg and got them awful raw bits on her hip ’cos she couldn’t turn enough. Disgusting.

There’s a picture in Hello! this week of Dawn French and she looks really pretty. If I could just get my hair like hers I could – no, it’s her eyes. She’s got beautiful eyes. My mum says I have too, and even Sheila once said she wished she had eyes like mine – topaz or some crap, she called them – but I don’t think mine are all smiley like Dawn’s. And why do her clothes always look good? My top always seems to catch and get stuck in those folds round my waist – then it sticks right out at the back until someone tells me. Hers never do that.

Because you’re three times her size, you stupid fucker, that’s why. She’s normal – she’s big, but she ain’t gross like you. You’re disgusting. Of course Mr C don’t look at you – why should he? You’re revolting.

My mum gave me that new diet sheet that came with the paper yesterday. Try it yourself, I said. If you’re so clever at telling me how to do it, try it your fucking self. She had a laugh when I said that – she’s got a good sense of humour, my mum, I’ll give her that. But I’ve had a look at it, anyway: it don’t sound so bad. All protein again. No skin. No carbohydrates. It ain’t that different from the one Crystal told me about in her letter last week that all the stars are doing over there. She says Oprah lost half her body weight in three days. Or was it six weeks? Anyway, it must be good if people like her are doing it. They can afford all them personal trainers and that, so if they choose the diet instead it must be really easy. All lean protein, that’s the idea. I told Ma to get a pack of them chicken breasts when she’s down at Iceland tomorrow. No skin – a pack of them skinless ones. ‘You got to be joking, Stacey,’ she says. ‘I’ll get a pack of sausages – that’s half the price. That’s meat,’ she says. I says, ‘Don’t be daft, Mum, that’s not lean protein; that’s bread and stuff. That’s no good. Get the chicken breasts and we’ll do without the biscuits. And no bread, all right? Don’t get no bread and no biscuits.’

So I’ll start the lean protein tomorrow. We’re having pie and chips for tea tonight so I’ll just eat the meat and the chips and leave off the pastry. That’ll ease me in.

Charlie

I loathe SavaMart but I couldn’t face telling Judy I’d rather walk to the car and drive to Sainsbury’s. I knew it would start the whole boring discussion all over again and it just wasn’t worth it: there’s only so much time I’m prepared to donate to questions of mince and potatoes and the quota had been well and truly fulfilled already. A brisk outing in the crisp November air would do me good, in any case, and, once out of the house and round the corner, it would only take me a couple of minutes to walk down Palace Street and into Victoria Street itself. With luck I could be back within fifteen minutes or so and thus gain a bit of kudos for doing the shopping quickly into the bargain. Always helps the atmosphere at home. Especially on days like today when she has her ‘it’s all very well for you to lounge about in that chair’ look when she comes in. I also thought it might help to shake off the unpleasant feeling of ennui that had been stalking me again since lunch time. However much I try to talk myself down from these moods – mentally listing all the pros in my life like in some puerile magazine self-help quiz – nothing but brisk physical action has much effect. There seems to be something immensely helpful in the mere act of walking away from the house, or from Judy or from whatever has triggered the mood: as if I can persuade my mind to distance itself as easily as I can my body.

The shop was unpleasantly full, and I picked up a basket instead of trying to negotiate the packed aisles with a trolley. I’m extremely organised in my shopping, and, unlike Judy, I would leave the supermarket with only the items I intended to buy, so the basket would be fine. A quick plan of strategy – I’d been often enough to know pretty much where to find the five items I needed – and I launched into the heart of the store, confident that I could make my way round the various sections without too much retracing of steps.

There was a delicious and strangely comforting smell of warm bread wafting about, contrasting oddly with the packaged, mass-produced look of the food on the shelves on either side. I knew it simply meant, of course, that the ready-made loaves had just come out of being finished off in the oven, but for a second or two I imagined I was somewhere in France, strolling to a small café in the early morning to drink a café au lait and pick up a couple of recently baked croissants and a baguette. It reminded me of the last holiday Judy, the children and I took together a couple of years ago in a rented house in Provence, when my favourite part of each day was my solo walk into the village. I’ve never been the best companion on holiday, but that one pointed up even more sharply than usual just how much our little family unit is changing, and how far our interests have diverged over the last few years. None of us liked to admit it, but I think we all felt a sense of relief once back home and away from the obligatory closeness of a family holiday.

The cooking smell gave enough hint of good food to be seductive, anyway – no doubt fully intended – and I picked up a loaf in its Cellophane packet, still warm. I resisted the temptation to break off the crusty tip on the spot and eat it, and continued on quickly round the shop, picking up mince, potatoes and milk as I went. Congratulating myself on the speed of the venture, I looked over to the checkouts and was depressed to see how busy they were. This is another thing I’m proud of: my ability to pick the quickest queue at the beastly checkout. I sized them up smartly and found one that was distinctly shorter than the others and – and this is a crucial point in the fine judgement of queues, of course – the trolleys in it didn’t appear to be particularly full. I made a beeline for it, brushing past an elderly lady who tutted at me as I did so.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘just trying to –’

‘I can see what you’re doing,’ she interrupted, ‘it’s the way you’re doing it that is unnecessary.’

Very precise, I thought. You sound like one of my juniors.

‘Sorry,’ I said again, attempting a regretful smile. ‘Do you want to go ahead of me?’

‘No, no, you go ahead if you’re in such a rush.’

Wonderfully full of put-upon self-sacrifice, that reply was. Almost up to the standard of my mother on one of her better days, or Judy on one of her worse. I gave her what I hoped was another of my most charming smiles and joined the queue ahead of her, giving in to temptation and pulling the tip off the still-warm baguette to nibble as I prepared to wait my turn.

There were three people ahead of me. The young man in the process of stacking his goods onto the moving belt had lank hair falling forward out of a hooded anorak and sniffed as he unloaded his basket. I could see a tin of beans, two packets of sliced bread, four yoghurts strapped together under a brightly coloured foil topping and two large bottles of Coke. As they neared the till they were picked up by the extremely chunky-looking arm of the checkout girl, and then swept briskly in front of the beeping eye of the scanner.

I leant forward to get a better view. That arm was more than chunky. It really did look extraordinarily big. And the fingers on its end were – sausages. The cliché description had leapt into my head and was the perfect word for them, suiting their shiny pink roundness to a T and seeming particularly apt in the surroundings. I felt as if I could stretch across, lean forward and gather them up in a full, squashy handful and pop them in my basket for Judy to use in one of her toad-in-the-holes.

I shuffled forward as the young man finished packing his goods into a carrier bag and reached into his pocket to pay, but the elderly woman two in front of me moved in the way just as I tried to take a look at the owner of the sausage fingers, and I could see no more than the arm and hand I’d already studied. I looked down again at the latest load of shopping to make its way along the belt. Dog food; packets of sauce mix; frozen peas. I pictured the grey-haired woman at a dining table sitting next to a large dog, the two of them tucking into huge piles of peas and Pal respectively. Meanwhile, the sausage fingers waved to and fro as the goods were picked up one by one and passed across the magic eye, the huge hand moving heavily and slowly, pausing every now and then when the beep took an extra repetition or two to encourage it to respond. Chips, loo paper, tomatoes. All glided silently along the belt until grasped by the chipolatas. No – not chipolatas: the big ones. Bangers. As the arm moved, relentlessly and rhythmically, and the shopper shifted to the side of the till to reach over for a carrier, I lifted my eyes and for a moment felt confused between what I saw and the images of the food still passing across the bottom of my field of vision. Why was the vast packet of pink marshmallows wearing glasses? And why was it moving: squidging and undulating in sticky, sweaty ripples? When the eyes behind the glasses looked up into mine it shocked me, breaking the moment and forcing me to recognise what I’d been staring at unthinkingly. I dropped my gaze quickly from the face but I was even more unnerved at the sight of the shiny pink folds of flesh continuing downwards in vast Michelin-like coils towards the open neck of a green-checked overall.

And that was just the beginning. I went on working my way down the overall in disbelieving fascination. From where the material began at the collar everything was tension: trussed, straining dollops of flesh, battling to burst free of the huge swathes of green-checked cotton encasing them, pulling at the poppers and oozing from the spaces in between in pale-pink polyester-covered bubbles. The entire human parcel was jammed into the space behind the counter, spilling over the edges in pleats of green-checked fat, as if the unfortunate girl had been crammed in there as forcefully as an ugly sister’s foot into the glass slipper.

As I shifted forward towards the end of the belt, with just one young woman remaining in front of me, I glanced back up at the girl’s face. She was still looking at me while she continued her relentless scanning, and I realised – with a sudden jolt of guilt – that she was aware of me studying her, had probably been aware of it the whole time. I looked away quickly and began to unpack my shopping onto the belt, stopping to reach over and grab the plastic divider with NEXT SHOPPER on it and placing it hastily between my sliding packs of depressed-looking mince and the large box of Persil belonging to the woman in front of me. I arranged and rearranged my five rather pathetic items as they were carried towards the giant fingers, placing the baguette diagonally across the other things, carefully avoiding glancing up, and assuming what I hoped was a look of casual introspection. I removed the plastic divider as the Persil woman got out her purse, and placed it neatly behind my little assortment of goodies, separating them from the rest of the as yet empty belt. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the pink bangers reaching towards my baguette.

‘Bog off!’

I was quite startled by the volume and confidence of her voice. There was such a ring of command in the tone of the incomprehensible words that I started guiltily, assuming I was being given some sort of large person’s reprimand, that she had seen me watching her and was giving me a justified insult in return.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Did you know it was a bogoff?’ she went on, looking straight at me through the slightly smeared lenses of her glasses

I didn’t know how to answer this. While being more than a little relieved to discover that she had not, after all, been retaliating with a mysterious term of abuse for my uncharitable thoughts on her size, I was still at a loss as to the main drift of her communication. I hadn’t, in other words, the faintest idea what she was talking about, and, before I could decide if I knew it was a bogoff, it was clear I would have to establish not only to which object the ‘it’ in question referred, but also what exactly was the meaning of the term ‘bogoff.

‘What was a – I’m sorry,’ I ventured, ‘I still don’t quite –’

‘It’s a Buy One Get One Free – did you know? The baguette. We have to ask.’

The resignation in her voice told me that I was probably not alone in my ignorance, and that she had had to translate the simple acronym many times before. I was glad to find myself alone at the checkout, unembarrassed by any smirking housewives behind me (the elderly woman I had supposedly pushed in front of having given up the wait and moved to another till).

‘Oh, I see!’ I smiled at her. ‘Sorry, I’m with you. Buy One Get One – yes, yes I see. Bogof! I had no idea. I mean I had no idea that bogof meant two for the price of thingummy and I had no idea that baguettes were – um – bogofs.’

‘Well?’

She looked bored, but not impatient, I thought, and her eyes – a startlingly cat-like shade of yellowy brown – seemed surprisingly young behind the up-tilted spectacles amid the puffy cushioning of the cheeks around them.

‘Oh, I see. Well, yes, of course, I’d be a fool not to have the free one, wouldn’t I? Thanks for telling me – I’ll just pop over and get one.’

I walked quickly back to the large cardboard stand that held the baguettes, grabbed one and brought it back to the till. As the girl grasped it in a large, sweaty hand, I was pleased to see that the fingers touched only the Cellophane.

‘Six pounds thirty.’

As I handed over a twenty-pound note, I couldn’t help having another good look at this dumpling of a girl in front of me. Her hair was shoulder length, mousey and lank except for the ends, where it frizzed out into curls that seemed to have a life of their own and bear little relationship to the rest of the head. On her forehead, in particular, the tightly curled fringe looked completely out of place, as if it had been separately attached to her somewhere near the dead-straight, white parting that crossed her head in a scurfy furrow. I can never quite make out how women’s hairdos go, in any case. Judy winds hers up and clasps it back in one of those bulldog clip things with teeth – a croc, I think she calls it – in the most extraordinary, gravity-defying ways. But it does at least always look as if it belongs to her. This girl just didn’t come together physically in any rational sort of way: even the bright-pink lipstick that she wore, instead of emphasising her mouth – presumably the intention – just seemed to accentuate its lack of size against the huge background of her face. Her nose, too, was delicate and small, looking almost comically out of proportion to the rest of her. I guessed her to be in her early twenties – perhaps even younger. While she opened her till I quickly scanned the four checkouts behind her: the other assistants were of normal proportions. This mammoth young girl was one of a kind.

The open drawer of the till was pressed into her abdomen and I wondered if it hurt. She took out my change with one hand and with the other burrowed into the soft folds of her body to find the edge of the drawer so she could push it shut, then passed the money into my hand. As she did so, she glanced up at me, and for a split second I found myself looking straight into those oddly mesmeric amber eyes. I think I must have been frowning slightly: I know I was wondering just how this poor creature coped with the physical difficulties she must surely face at every stage of her day.

‘Is there a problem?’ she asked half-heartedly, in the same tone of dreary boredom that her voice had had all along. It would be hard to imagine anyone sounding less as if they had the tiniest speck of interest in knowing if I had a problem. In an attempt to elicit some sort of response I briefly considered telling her that my leg had fallen off or that a man with a bloody axe was standing immediately behind her, but decided not to bother.

‘Is there a problem with your change?’

‘Oh, I see. No, no, not at all. It’s fine. Thank you. Good night.’ If I’d had a hat on, I think I’d have tipped it. That’s just the way it felt, somehow. The benevolent old gentleman being charming to the young unattractive pleb. How did I come to cast myself in that role? Why did I sound to my own ears so patronisingly middle-class?

But she’d already turned away and was sitting with her hands now resting on the top of the till drawer. There was still no one waiting at her checkout and she slumped back a little in her chair and began to scratch her nose with one fingertip.

When I reached the exit with my plastic carrier I turned and watched her for a moment. She sat unmoving, not scratching now, looking like a huge, unwanted soft toy stuffed into an open drawer. She seemed to have caved in on herself since I’d left the checkout, and her head was barely visible above the magazine rack. I wondered if she needed help to get out at the end of her shift, and for a second I was reluctant to leave. Now that the thought had occurred to me that the poor creature might need a hand to extract her from her packed-in position behind the till, I felt oddly responsible: she didn’t look the type to find help easily.

A woman pushed briskly past me as she made her way into the store, and her busy purposefulness brought me back to thoughts of Judy, home and the waiting frying pan. I turned and headed out into a chilly Victoria Street.

Judy

Charlie was longer than I expected doing the shopping. I even began to feel a tiny hint of unease – he’s usually the fastest shopper of us all, and if he says he’ll be less than twenty minutes he always is. Ben tends to get waylaid by the magazines and the sweets, and Sally’s just like me – she gets diverted and remembers a hundred other things we need – or spots something we didn’t know we needed but now that she sees it she knows that we patently do, if you see what I mean. I may be the one to handle all the finances in this family, but I have to admit that Charlie is by far the most economical of us when it comes to shopping: he sticks to a list and is seldom tempted by special offers and new products. I go for the magnetic school of purchasing: things just seem to be drawn to me as I move about the shop, even in a down-market little shop like SavaMart. Charlie says I come back encrusted, like a barnacled ship. More than a hint of truth in that.

So, after twenty-five minutes or so had passed I started glancing at the clock. I couldn’t identify my hovering worry: I didn’t picture road accidents or muggings, and I knew it was ridiculous that I should be disturbed by his marginally extended absence. I can only describe it as an irritating shadow in the background. When he reappeared, I felt not relief but annoyance that I should have taken the time to be concerned, and his perfectly reasonable explanation of having to queue at a slow till underlined to me my own stupidity.

I took out my mild irritation on him, irrationally blaming him for having caused me to feel uneasy. It makes me quite melancholy sometimes when I think about our conversations: most of them have become a matter of scoring invisible points, and I sometimes wonder when and how we reached the stage where simple pleasure in each other’s company was no longer enough. I couldn’t leave it alone, even once he’d explained what he’d been doing.

‘Why on earth did you go for a long queue? They must have had them all open at this time of the evening, surely?’

‘I obviously wouldn’t have done so intentionally, would I, Judy? In fact it looked shorter than the others – it was just that the girl herself was unbelievably slow. She’s huge – I mean really extraordinarily fat – have you seen her? Do you know the one I mean? I felt quite sorry for the poor kid – there must be something wrong – she’s vast. And so young.’

‘Oh, her – yes, I know exactly the one you mean. She’s hopeless. Very young: not much more than Sally’s age, I should think. I do feel a bit sorry for her sometimes, although I’m sure she could make more of an effort if she really minded. And she always seems perfectly happy, even if a bit abstracted. Very unfriendly, though. Lucky to have the job, if you ask me. I can’t believe she was that size when she first went or she’d never have got it.’

‘She didn’t seem to make any mistakes, though. In fact she quite clearly pointed out my rights as a customer. Two baguettes for the price of one.’

‘Is that why you got two? I did wonder. We’ll never get through all that before it starts to dry out.’

‘Well, as it cost us nothing I don’t think that’s anything to worry about, do you?’

I didn’t answer, and he came up behind me and put his arms around my waist. ‘I should think three of you would fit into that giant overall of hers. There’s nothing of you. I remember the days when you were all rounded and – soft. There’s something to be said for a bit of flesh to get hold of, you know.’

‘Out of my way, Charlie, come on. I haven’t got time for all that nonsense. I want to get supper over and cleared up so I can finish my report.’

‘I don’t know why we bother to have meals, really. You’d be happier just taking the plates out of the cupboard and stacking them straight into the dishwasher. It’d make life much simpler. Or not even bother with that: just open the cupboard door, have a good look at them, imagine you’ve used them and shut it again.’

‘Brilliant idea. I’ve far more important things to do than cook and eat this revolting-looking mince. Let alone clear it up afterwards.’

‘We should have gone out.’

‘Nonsense. Ridiculous waste of money. And I haven’t got time, anyway.’

‘No, nor have I really. I’ve got to write up my notes.’

‘What are you on?’

Charlie leant back against the worktop and crossed his arms in front of his chest as he looked down and frowned. ‘Particularly unpleasant one. Two children involved, and the mother’s remarried a bloody difficult Spanish chap. Lot of machismo involved. And the physical distance, of course. Seems perfectly plain that the father’s not a bad sort of customer – bit short-tempered and quick to take offence but basically a good egg. But the mother’s tricky: quite prepared to whisk the kids off to the Costa del Sol or whatever and keep the father out of their lives for ever. Unfortunately she’s good-looking and speaks well. So it’s not cut and dried, by any means. Even the simplest access could be complicated – if you see what I mean. Makes me feel quite depressed, I have to say. I never used to let these things get to me, but – well, the thought of those wretched children being bartered over like goods, and whisked to and fro so that the parents can get their quota – I don’t know, I just sometimes wonder what the hell I’m doing. Whether it’s really for the good.’

‘Well, someone’s got to sort it out, after all. And you’re very good at it, you know. I’m sure you’ll do the best for them that you can.’

‘Of course I will, or at least I’ll do the best I can for my client – but whether that’s best for the family as a whole is an entirely different matter. I just –’

‘Oh, Charlie, do we have to get into all this now? Sorry, sweetheart, but I’ve had a pretty foul day myself and I’m bloody exhausted. Shall we just have supper and watch a quick bit of rubbish on telly and talk about this tomorrow? We’ve both got work to do, after all, and it’d do us good to have a break from it for a while. Don’t you think?’

I walked over to the sink with the frying pan, tipped it sideways and drained off the fatty greyish liquid from round the pale-grey worm casts left in the pan. ‘This meat looks awful: I’m really not sure it’s worth using SavaMart for this sort of thing. We should have gone for pasta or something.’

‘You did ask about the case, Judy,’ Charlie said quietly. ‘I’ve no desire to bore you with my work, I can assure you. And no doubt you’ll remember that going round the corner to shop was your idea. I don’t particularly like shepherd’s pie anyway.’

‘Yes, you do! Why on earth didn’t you say you didn’t feel like it? It’s not as if I wanted it. I’m not doing it for me, you know. I’d be just as happy with a sandwich or a salad – happier. I just can’t bear it when Ben puts on that deprived expression when there’s no meat for supper. And you do too, you know you do.’

‘Don’t make such a thing of it. Now, do you want me to peel some potatoes or –’

‘No, I don’t. I’m fine. But you choose what we eat tomorrow, OK?’

Charlie sighed and walked out of the kitchen, picking up his briefcase from the hall as he called back to me, ‘Give me a shout if you need me – I’m going to do a bit of work till it’s ready.’

I could feel martyrdom welling up inside and let myself wallow in it as I began to peel a large, lumpy potato. A bit of a mutter into the sink always helps when I’m feeling sorry for myself, even when I know I’m being totally unreasonable. ‘Oh, fine – that’s absolutely fine,’ I grumbled quietly, ‘you just carry on with your important work – never mind about my report, that can wait till I’ve served up your meal. Just because I’m exhausted, that’s no reason to eat something cold for once. No, of course not – that would be too much to ask, wouldn’t it? Barristers come far higher in the pecking order than tired old Ofsted inspectors. You have a good relax in that chair again, like you were when I came in. Haven’t seen me relaxing in a chair since I came in from work, have you? Just time to put down my case and make myself a quick cup of tea and then it’s straight out to the shops and –’ But then I remembered, rather spoiling my flow: ‘Oh, Charlie went tonight, didn’t he? I’d forgotten. Oh well, he doesn’t usually.’

The door slammed, interrupting my enjoyable self-pity, and Ben’s voice, which still surprises me, every time, with its depth, called out a loud ‘Hi!’ from the hall. I plopped the peeled potato into a saucepan of water, and picked up a tea towel.

‘Hi, darling!’ I called back, drying my hands as I walked to the kitchen doorway and leant against it. I watched Ben’s tall figure struggling to close the front door. His brown hair flopped over one eye and his long neck was bent forward like an inquisitive bird’s. He looked too long for his clothes, awkward and gangly in the tangle of coat, bag and arms that flailed around in a vague attempt to shut the door.

‘Take your coat off first, darling,’ I laughed. ‘And drop the bag off your shoulder. It’s swinging all over the place. You can’t hope to close the door with all that in the way. Here – let me take it.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘My God, that’s heavy!’ I said, as I lifted the enormous black canvas bag off his shoulder. ‘You’ll get some dreadful malformation if you weigh yourself down with all that. I keep saying, I just don’t believe you have to cart all those books to school and back again every day – it doesn’t make sense.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Mum, don’t start all that as soon as I walk in –’

‘No, really, it’s just not feasible that you could need all these – it’s crazy. You do all of twenty minutes’ work in the evenings, if that, and most of these just go straight back again. Why don’t you clear it out, for heaven’s sake? It’s such a waste of energy. If I lugged everything around all day without going through it before I left in the mornings I’d be taking the whole of my desk with me.’

Ben said nothing, but looked straight at me for a moment. I noticed how sharply his brown eyes stood out against his pale, mottled skin with its sprinkling of crimson teenage spots, and I saw something else, which made me want to look quickly away. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen it, either – that quick flash of dislike that passed across his face whenever we argued, or when I said something he considered stupid or embarrassing. Ben shook his coat free of his arms, swept it up in one hand and grabbed the bag off me with the other. He pulled the strap back onto one shoulder and sighed as he headed for the stairs.

‘I’ve had a long day, I’m exhausted and fed up and you have a go at me as soon as I walk in the door. Just lay off, Ma.’

‘I didn’t have a go, Ben, don’t be so touchy and childish. Supper’s about twenty minutes, by the way.’

I turned and walked back towards the kitchen.

‘What is it?’ Ben asked, without any apparent interest, as he made his way up the stairs.

‘Mince.’

‘Great.’

‘Are you being sarcastic, Ben? Because just don’t, that’s all. If you want something else, you cook it. And buy it, for that matter. I’ve had a long day, too, you know.’

‘For Christ’s sake, what is the matter with you? No, I’m not being sarcastic. Mince is fine – what do you expect? Applause?’

‘Don’t be so bloody cheeky, Ben.’

I walked back into the kitchen and slammed the door behind me. For a moment I stood still, frowning, then I moved over to the sink and picked up another potato. Why do I always do that? Why do I always lay into him? He’s only sixteen; he’s only a child. He’s going to hate me if I go on like this. I reached forward and switched on the small portable radio that stood next to the sink, but the sweet, swooping sound of Delius only made me feel worse, and I quickly changed to Radio 4, hoping that the crisp tones of a newsreader or the laughter of a studio audience would distract me. The Archers was on, and I listened with one ear as I tried to dismiss the picture of Ben’s resentful gaze from my mind.

I knew that to let myself sink too deeply into the thoughts that were bound to come next was far too dangerous. Ben and Sally growing up, Ben starting to loathe me. Sally off with her friends all the time and Charlie and I skittering about on the surface of our lives, tired and irritable. What does it leave me to look forward to, I thought sadly: my work?

Hardly. I’d known for some time that there was no realistic hope of actually changing anything, in spite of all the good intentions I’d had originally. I soon abandoned the simplistic ideals I started out with on those first few inspections once I was faced with the reality of just how far wrong the system had gone. I suppose hard grind took over and wore me out. How could I possibly hope to improve even the basic standards of literacy, when I could see that the majority of the teachers’ time was spent in keeping the peace and preventing outright physical damage to children, staff and property? If I closed my eyes I could still picture my latest inspection, and I shuddered as I recalled the scenes in the playground: the huge figures of teenage girls, made more menacing by their giant Puffa jackets and stacked shoes, towering over and threatening any teacher brave enough to interfere in the constant fighting and bullying.

I decided to put my mind firmly onto the problems of The Archers while I finished off the pie, and, once it was in the oven, I went upstairs, intending to give myself a quick tidy in the bedroom, but stopped on the landing outside Ben’s room. I knocked loudly, hoping the sharpness of the sound would work its way into his consciousness through the relentless, rhythmic tones of the rap music, but after a couple of seconds I opened the door without waiting to find out. He turned to look at me from where he sat at the desk, and I felt a little stab of remorse as I took in the school books laid out in front of him.

‘Hi!’ I said, trying to sound interested but not too concerned.

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing, darling, Just wanted to say I’m sorry I got ratty again. Didn’t mean to.’

‘That’s all right. What do you want?’

There was something in his tone that didn’t sound right, and I noticed he avoided looking at me and instead turned quickly away again and studied the notepad in front of him intently. He picked up a pencil and began to doodle on it as he waited for me to answer.

‘No – nothing. I told you. Just to say sorry, that’s all. How’s it going?’

‘OK, thanks.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. I’m just finding it a bit hard to – to get down to it, that’s all.’

‘Anything I can do?’

‘No, thanks.’

I walked over to him at the desk, then bent forward to kiss him briefly on the cheek.

‘Supper about fifteen minutes, all right?’

But he wasn’t listening. He was tapping his pencil unthinkingly in time with the music as he stared at the books in front of him. I watched him for a second, then turned to go.

‘Mum?’

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing. It’s OK.’

I nodded briefly, and left him alone. I started to walk towards the stairs but paused outside my bedroom. I didn’t feel good – the brittle exchanges with Charlie and the worry of seeing Ben so abstracted and isolated had unsettled me. If I went into the bedroom now, using the excuse of a quick brush of my hair, I knew it wouldn’t stop there, that I would give in to temptation and indulge myself. I took a deep breath, then turned away from the door and went back downstairs.

I peered round the sitting-room door on my way to the kitchen and was about to call out to Charlie when the sight of the back of his head bent over the small desk stopped me short. I could hear his quiet, steady breathing as he concentrated on the papers in front of him and I leant against the edge of the open door for a moment and watched him. He was concentrating so hard that I felt excluded, and I had a pang of some terrible, nostalgic need for the Charlie of old who had loved me so much and so irreplaceably. Why do I always find it so difficult now to tell him how much I need him? If I ever try, my words become twisted into something ironic and jokey, as if I’ve lost the ability to convey any genuine emotion without being embarrassed.

I stood there quietly a little longer, then spoke gently to the back of Charlie’s bent head.

‘Charlie. Supper’s almost there.’

He turned to me and smiled.

‘Good – I’m starving.’

Maybe the warmth of his smile stayed with me. In any case, I felt more at ease, I remember, as I walked back to the kitchen, and the feeling of contentment persisted as I opened the oven to check my pie.

So it wasn’t all bad before it happened. It would be tempting to think I saw it coming, that the signs were obvious, that our life as it was then was untenable. But it wasn’t – not at all – and it’s not as if I didn’t appreciate the good things we had. I did – I’m not imagining it. I used to think that people who have terrible tragedies or who lose everything must look back and wish they’d known just what they had at the time. But I did – I did know just what I’d got. And it still didn’t stop it going, did it?

Stacey

He thought I didn’t know he was watching me. But I always know, don’t I? And it’s not as if I dunno why, is it? Like that time at school. Just bend your leg up on this bench, Kylie said. Just bend it up. What for? I said. Just do it, she says. Why? I says. I want to show you something, she says. So I bend it up and she calls the others over and they all start laughing. ‘It’s gross’ – that’s what Steph said. ‘Oh my God, it’s so gross!’ Just ’cos she’d heard that on TV. She never said gross before that. No, she never.

It did look gross. They was right. I had my gym shorts on and the way she’d made me put my foot up on the bench and then bend my knee it made all my leg go wide. It was gi-normous; even I could see that. Even then. That’s what I can’t stand. They think I don’t see it just as well as what they do. I’m not stupid. I may be fat, but I’m not stupid.

So this idiot guy today thought I didn’t see him looking at me while I was serving the customers in front of him. He was staring at my hands and all like anything and thought I didn’t know. Fuck me, he’s the one that’s stupid. I had to say everything over to him. Bleeding stupid – and trying to be clever. Like little Andy in the back stores: he’s so dim he don’t know a fishfinger from a packet of Persil.

I had another letter from Crystal today. I knew it was her straight I saw the pink envelope. And the writing. All loopy and sideways. I always know it’s her. Not just the stamps – there’s a few of them write to me from America. I had loads of replies when I put that ad in the slimming mag, and they come from all over. That was my mum’s idea. She saw it on Kilroy or something: a problem shared is a problem thingummied. It’s true, in fact – Crystal knows the way I am better than anyone and I don’t feel embarrassed at telling her stuff. Anyway, in today’s letter she’d put glitter in again: angel dust, she calls it. With little red shiny hearts mixed in. It went all over the table and bits went in the cornflakes. I hate that. She really does believe in them, though. The angels. Weird. Says she has her own angel watching her. Well, he couldn’t miss her really, could he? She says she’s even bigger than what I am now: not a bad job for an angel if you’ve got to watch someone, I suppose. At least Crystal makes it easy.

And she’d wrote LYLMS on the back of the envelope. God knows what that means. I like her letters but I can’t be arsed to work out all that stupid writing on the back. It was OK when she stuck to LOL for Lots of Love, but now they’ve got so long and complicated I can’t be fucked. And all those stickers with little hearts and teddies and ‘May the Lord be your whatever-it-is. Helper – no, Guide’. Something like that. They’re quite cute, in fact, the stickers, but she uses too many of them.

She’s going over to the other side soon, Crystal. That’s what they call it over there. Anyone who’s done it is ‘on the other side’. ‘The Lord will welcome you, too, Stacey, when you come over to the other side.’ That’s what she said at the end of today’s letter. Some chance. It’s all very well for her: it’s easy to get it over there. No one will listen to me here. So I’m stuck. On this side.

That old guy today wouldn’t have looked at me like that if I was on the other side, would he?

Charlie

I knew I’d go back to SavaMart, of course. Judy’s attitude to the giant girl behind the checkout had inspired me to take another look at the poor creature, and I still felt an odd shadow of the impulse to help her. Catch my wife unawares on her home ground and some of the old reactionary background seeps out – not that she’s the only one, of course. I know I can be just as guilty of it. And it makes me as patronising as if I were being outright prejudiced, I suppose, even if the effect on both of us is to make us more tolerant than we would otherwise be. Positive discrimination taken to such lengths that we end up bending over so far backwards that we topple over. Wrecking the entire attempt at whatever it was and making an idiot of oneself into the bargain. Class, race, size, whatever – you name it – and there’s a little store of bias hiding in our every gene. Hers and mine. I should have said more to defend the checkout girl really; I despair sometimes at how undynamic I’m becoming, but it just never seems worth it at the time. I know Judy doesn’t mean any harm – she’s the most generous and compassionate of women when you reach her from the right angle, so to speak, and she’d be horrified if it were ever suggested to her that she has an in-built snobbism that can come out as patronising in the extreme. But she can be maddening at times. Particularly about anything domestic, of course. She really does believe that she’s the only one who ever shops or cooks or tidies up or makes the beds; those little glances that she gives when anyone else tries to help – as if no one can ever know the vast amounts of hardship she endures to look after us all. She works too hard, that’s half the problem; since she’s been doing this Ofsted stuff I can see how tired she gets. She’s always nipping up to her room to lie down with one of her headaches. I must get her out for the odd meal again.

So, in any case, on to my trip back to the supermarket and to the banned checkout – no, not banned: the checkout that no one who’s in the know ever uses. A sort of perversity on my part, a challenge to prove Judy wrong. Maybe we should have a bet on it? That the huge creature might just prove herself to be the zippiest, snappiest checkout girl of the lot. Untried for so long; not given a chance; growing ever more bored and less practised without the stimulus of chatty, interesting customers such as myself. What hidden depths of wit, charm and skill might not be buried under those mounds of cushioning flesh. Judy’s always chastising me for not doing my bit for all those good works she promotes: is my charitable role perhaps to be Higgins to this generously endowed Eliza?

The day hadn’t gone too badly. Most of the time I wonder what the hell I’m doing in my work – God knows what happened to all my early ideals and ambitions: I look in despair at this run-of-the-mill, middlingly successful person I’ve become. But my questioning of the father today did just what I wanted: showed him up to be the loving kind of bloke he obviously is. An entirely good influence in my opinion: the two kids will be far better off with some time with him than disappearing to Malaga or wherever. If I can get the judge to agree to his educating them over here as he wants to then it might just be possible to keep everyone happy. Pity the mother’s so good in the box. More than a touch of the ‘all women together’ angle going on, if you ask me. The judge is clearly a bit partial to having her femininity appealed to, specially by someone pretty. Probably because she’s such an old boot herself she’s cheered to find that another female can still identify her as the same gender, let alone treat her as one of the girls. Still, it didn’t go badly at all. And I was in the mood to brave SavaMart again, do my bit for mankind by bringing a little joy into the fat girl’s day and then make a little magic in the kitchen. In any case, I wanted to give Jude a break: the tension in the house when she writes her reports is left strung around like trip wire – the kids and I creep about for fear of falling over it. So I could kill two birds with one stone: give myself the fun of the checkout challenge and set up a peaceful, relaxed evening at home.

I phoned Judy on her mobile and caught her in the car, sounding distinctly weary and defensive – in exactly the right mood to be seduced by the thought of not having to cook. If I’m honest, I have to admit that when she sounds like that there’s a bit of me wishes I didn’t have to go home and face her: I sometimes indulge the fantasy that I could disappear and live quietly round the corner without her ever knowing. Still, it never lasts long. I’ve no doubt she entertains the same kinds of thoughts about me from time to time.

‘I’m going to pick up some bits of chicken and do one of my specials. I know this report’s taking it out of you and you must be exhausted. Go straight home and make yourself a cup of tea.’

‘Charlie, that sounds great. But how was your day? What sort of –’

‘Not bad at all. Not a bad day. I managed to –’

‘Pick up a decent bottle of red, will you, darling? We’ve only got disgusting plonk left and I need something a bit more cheering.’

She was there. Squeezed into the space behind her cash register as tightly as before; as large as I’d remembered. It was a bit disappointing to see she had a small queue at her checkout; not as long as the others, but still a respectable number of people. I had rather hoped to be her only customer: a lone experimenter braving the empty wastes of her conveyor belt and discovering the gem of sensitivity and wit buried under the muffling pounds of surplus fat. Kilos of fat, I should say.

I did my shopping quickly and joined the queue, uncomfortably aware that it appeared to be unchanged since I had entered the store. The same five people were lined up with their trolleys and baskets, although the shopper at the till was even now tidying her change and receipt away in her purse. The line shifted forward a little and I watched my marshmallow girl intently. She sat impassively with her hands neatly folded on the rubber surface of the belt, watching the customer slowly pick up her shopping and turn to go, then reaching forward for a plastic-wrapped loaf of bread and mechanically passing it in front of the scanner. The elderly woman she now served lifted a worn shopping bag off her arm and laid it at the end of the belt, not glancing at the girl in front of her, who appeared equally uninterested. Each seemed totally unaware of the other’s presence, as if a mutual pact had been made to get through the next few minutes with the least possible amount of human contact. Only when the small selection of goods was packed into the bag did the girl mutter a barely decipherable couple of words vaguely in the direction of her customer and money changed hands and some sort of minimal communication took place.

My original idea of trying a joke was looking more and more risky as my turn approached and I began to feel slightly nervous. My sense of humour is not altogether unappreciated in the courtroom, albeit a bit too old-fashioned and well rehearsed to be as funny as I imagine when I’m lying in bed planning it. But it generally lightens things up a little, if nothing more. It does require, though, that the recipient takes enough interest to be able to listen to several words at a time. Or, at the very least, allows a little eye contact so that the principle of one party attempting to amuse the other can be established, even if the words themselves are not appreciated or understood. It’s tricky to be even faintly funny if the audience is looking in the opposite direction wearing an expression of utter indifference and boredom. I was horribly shy as a child, and the memory of that excruciating feeling of something being expected of me that I just couldn’t produce still surfaces from time to time. Judy’s always telling me I’m like a different person in company, and she’s right: I clam up. I’m far happier in the circle I know, unless I’m dressed up in my armour of gown and wig and well prepared for what appear to be off-the-cuff remarks in court.

So, as I approached the checkout, I trimmed my sails somewhat. I abandoned any attempt at an anecdote or at telling one of the children’s cleaner jokes and decided to join her on her own ground, so to speak, and to be amusing about an aspect of her world. At the same time I thought it a good opportunity to offer a small reminder of our first meeting, perhaps to reassure her that I was up for a little unthreatening conversation, and that here was a chap who didn’t mind laughing at himself. If all that could be achieved I might just open the tiniest chink of the gate to communication, and begin the process of revealing the hidden glories behind it.

As the last customer in front of me moved away I began to unload my shopping and glanced up at her. It’s fascinating how quickly one’s parameters adjust to the unusual: although she was clearly enormously overweight, on this second viewing it no longer seemed to be her dominating characteristic. I was more aware of those pretty eyes, and the fleshiness of the girl was this time less grotesque, more – pleasantly Rubenesque.

Her gaze was still unfocused, but the head was at least facing the right direction. I picked up a packet of butter from my basket and waved it about in front of her, forcing her to pay it attention.

‘Is it a bogof?’ I smiled.

A faint frown rippled the heavy folds between her eyebrows. She stopped moving my shopping and looked directly at the yellow pack of Anchor that I was holding directly in front of her nose.

‘Only you may remember I missed a bogof when I was here the other day. You kindly pointed it out to me. And I didn’t know what you meant – do you remember? I even thought you were using some sort of offensive term, or something!’

The frown remained.

‘When you said “bogof”, I mean,’ I floundered on. ‘I thought you were – oh never mind.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Right.’

‘And I do remember,’ she went on, taking the butter from my hand and scanning it. ‘I’m not stupid, you know. I remember all the customers.’

‘Do you really?’ I asked, genuinely interested in whether this were true. It seemed unlikely that she could really recall this very ordinary man in whose direction she had hardly glanced for more than a couple of seconds at most, let alone the hundreds of others who must pass in front of her till each week. ‘How extremely clever of you.’

‘MR CHIPSTEAD!’

Her shout made me jump.

‘What? What’s the problem?’

‘Mr Chipstead’s my manager. I’m calling him, aren’t I?’

‘Yes, but –’ I had a horrible vision of being dragged by the collar from the store, accused by Mr Chipstead of overfamiliarity with the checkout girl. ‘Is there a –’

‘No bar code.’

She held the packet of chicken breasts towards me.

‘Ah, no. I see. Won’t beep, eh? I can’t remember how much they are, I’m afraid. I think they were about –’

‘Don’t matter. I need the stock code.’

‘Of course, yes. The stock code.’

‘MR CHIPSTEAD!’ she shouted again, and then looked back at me. ‘Bell’s gone.’

‘Sorry?’

‘My bell’s gone. That’s why I’m shouting.’

‘I see. Well, I’m sure he won’t be long.’

I suppose I deserved the withering look she gave me in return, my remark having been based as it was on a complete lack of evidence of any kind. In a second’s glance she managed to imply that my pronouncement on the timing of Mr Chipstead’s arrival was so entirely awry as to be laughable. I wondered if perhaps his slowness of movement about the store was legendary. His non-appearance surely couldn’t be blamed on a lack of awareness: the volume of the girl’s shouts had been phenomenal, and there could be few customers or staff ignorant of the fact that his presence was required.

‘Couldn’t we carry on with the other things while we wait?’

But the girl had disappeared behind her glasses, and, with one hand still grasping the uncoded chicken, her body seemed to settle down into itself like a collapsing balloon, her head sinking a good two inches lower than before and telescoping onto the rolls of fat at her neck. She floated, as if on a rubber ring in a calm sea, suspended only by the neck, drifting gently out of sight. I felt challenged to bring her back to the conscious world and wondered if the forceful use of her name would return her to shore.

I decided to be bold, and took a quick look at the badge on her chest, semi-buried in the depths of the green-checked bosom. I could just make out the first few words of cheery greeting: ‘Hi – Happy to Help You! I’m St –’ but beyond that it was tucked out of sight. I couldn’t immediately think of many names that would fit – she didn’t look like a Stephanie, which was the only one that leapt to mind – but a second later she shifted in her chair and the remaining letters were revealed.

I leant forward and said, quite firmly, ‘Stacey.’

The reaction was, surprisingly, instant. ‘Yeah?’

‘Um – why don’t we carry on with the other things, meanwhile?’

‘If you want.’

She put the chicken down on the metal side of the till and reached forward for a large iceberg lettuce, grunting as she untelescoped herself and made the effort to negotiate the distance imposed by her own body. Her expression was completely unchanged: releasing her from whatever place she had disappeared to hadn’t brought her attention any closer to the job in hand. She appeared to be able to function physically on automatic pilot while her brain still floated in some vapid limbo.

She dealt with the lettuce without glancing at it, but then I jumped as she suddenly sat up straight – or as straight as the strictures of her trapped figure allowed – and, unnervingly, what I can only describe as interest flickered across her face. Not, unsurprisingly, directed at me, but at someone or something behind me.

I turned to see a young man of thirty or so, with extremely neat, short black hair, striding towards our till. The hair was, indeed, so short, particularly about the ears, as to make his head look too small for his rather gangly body, and the ears themselves curled outwards towards their reddened tips, gnome-like. These, together with his Adam’s apple, were his most outstanding features, in the literal sense of the word. As he approached I could read on the badge pinned to his navy double-breasted jacket that, on this occasion, it was ‘Warren Chipstead’ offering his assistance to all within reach.

He made a sort of smooth, confident swirl of the hips as he manoeuvred himself round the end of the checkout and came to rest beside me in one swooping movement. ‘Yesssss, Stacey,’ he said with his lower lip pulled away from his teeth, followed by a sort of clicking of the tongue against the roof of the mouth, effectively conveying in the brief words just what a busy man he was. It certainly seemed to impress Stacey, who was looking at the young man now with far more than simply interest. She was gazing at him with something approaching animated approval – even her voice seemed to have acquired a new vivacity as she addressed him.

‘Oh, Mr Chipstead. Sorry to bother you: no code.’

‘Another one, eh, Stacey? Rightio, let’s take a look. Yessss, chicken fillets…’ A little more clicking, then a swift scoop of the packet out of Stacey’s hand and a further smooth swivel out of the checkout area. ‘Won’t keep you a moment, sir,’ he threw back over his shoulder as he went, then, louder in the other direction: ‘Denisha! Find me a six-pack chick. fill. and take it to checkout three please.’

A man with a surname on his badge was clearly one to be reckoned with, and an aura of self-imposed superiority wafted after him as he moved briskly away from the till. Poor Stacey. The light faded from those pretty eyes as quickly as Chipstead’s back shimmied its way over towards the frozen peas. At least I could see now that life as we know it did exist somewhere in the depths of the girl’s vast frame, even if it took the presence of Warren Chipstead to allow one a glimpse of it. I wondered if I could use this insight to achieve a little communication.

‘Seems a nice sort of chap,’ I tried. ‘Efficient, I expect.’

‘S’all right.’

‘Have you been here long?’

‘Eleven.’

‘What? Eleven years do you mean?’

It didn’t seem possible: I couldn’t believe even SavaMart, while allowing for its clearly demonstrated profits-before-quality ethos, could find the benefits of employing child labour worth the risks of prosecution.

‘I begun at eleven, didn’t I? My shift. Eleven till seven.’

‘Oh, I see. No, I meant, have you worked here for long? In this shop?’

‘Yeah.’

I could see I wasn’t going to get much further, and I was quite relieved when a pretty Asian girl appeared with a pack of chicken fillets and handed them to Stacey.

‘Y’are.’

Stacey took them without a word, and I had to stop myself telling her to say thank you, as if I were talking to one of the children. I could understand Judy’s objections to her manner, which seemed purposefully designed to be as unfriendly as possible. Denisha – as I assumed it was – didn’t seem to notice though, and had already disappeared by the time Stacey had successfully scanned the pack and dropped it into my open carrier bag.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘All successfully stock-coded, then?’

‘Eighteen pounds forty.’

‘Right.’

Was there a thin girl inside this one, trying to get out? It was hard to equate a word as active as ‘trying’ with this passive creature. And was it possible that, linked to the thin inner girl, there was a happy, positive personality also just biding its time until the opportunity came along to burst out in a surge of joie de vivre? I put a twenty-pound note into her hand and watched her as she listlessly punched in ‘20’, opened her till and looked up at the ‘1.60’ displayed in green on the tiny electronic screen. Even the small mental effort of calculating the change was denied her; everything that surrounded her conspired to deprive her body and soul of exercise and stimulation.

I felt quite frustrated to be leaving the store with my crusade to evoke a response in my fat checkout girl no further advanced than when I had gone in, and was, again, almost reluctant to go. I pictured myself grabbing her by those huge, rounded shoulders in a desperate attempt to get through, to make her look me straight in the eye, as I shouted: ‘Is there anyone in there?’ or some such. What was she feeling, this apparently indifferent human being with whom I had briefly shared the same small place on the planet? Perhaps she, too, was shy: perhaps the total lack of interest in her surroundings was merely a cover. I had, after all, seen it crack a little at the approach of the manager.

I would describe all this to Judy when I got home, perhaps make her laugh at my description of the girl’s words and expressions, and of her semi-awakening in the presence of Warren thingy.

Warren. Yes, now there was a challenge. Surely, he couldn’t be the only person capable of provoking a reaction. I felt – not jealousy, surely? – more a small challenge to my male pride. No, I thought, it can’t be just you, young man, who can make that tiny light come on in her eyes.

I smiled to myself as I fantasised briefly about how one might go about searching for the switch.

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, I meant – is there anything I can do to help, Stacey? I mean, if Mr Chipstead is worrying you about your speed. Perhaps I’ve been a bit slow in unpacking my basket or something. I always find you very efficient – would you like me to put in a word?’

I felt like telling him to mind his own fucking business, but I knew he was just the sort to complain about things and get me into trouble so I kept quiet. I finished off his basket and waited for him to pay.

‘Here you are, Stacey,’ he said. ‘Sorry to interfere – I was only trying to help, you know.’

I took a quick look up at him as he give me the money and I have to say I felt a bit mean then for not answering and all that. He was watching me with ever such a worried expression, and it didn’t seem so creepy after all – more like my mum looks when she knows I’m hurting and stuff. Maybe he really was just a friendly old guy who was a bit lonely.

‘S’all right,’ I said, and I smiled at him. Not so’s I was encouraging him or nothing – I wasn’t gonna thank him ’cos I never asked for his help, did I? – but the least he deserved was to be let off the hook. In any case, I thought I’d better keep on the right side of him – I didn’t want him going home and plotting something nasty. You never know with customers – they can be a dodgy lot if you ain’t careful.

Ben

Sometimes I can see life in the simplest possible terms, and I feel as if I’ve discovered the answer to everything, and then at other times I’m completely at sea and out of control. It’s scary, and I’m not sure which is true. It started with all the stuff we had at school about the uncertainty principle – at first I didn’t bother to take it in much, just wrote it all down so I could learn it for the exams, but when I really started thinking about it I could see that it made life impossible. If nothing really exists – or at least not in a decided form, kind of thing – until you observe it, then surely nothing exists at all? Or at least it’s as good as if it didn’t. And if things change just through you looking at them, then nothing I see, hear or feel has any reality, because it’s reacting to me observing it. So what I see is unreal, and what I don’t see doesn’t exist. It makes me feel quite frightened at times, and it’s not easy for me to talk to anyone about it, because when I’m in the really bad moods then I have to be by myself so that I don’t change anything by communicating with it.

Even on a mundane level it affects the way I look at things. It’s like Mum and Dad getting so brittle with each other: I’m never sure how much of that is due to my watching them. Were they easier with each other when Sally and I were little, or was it just that I wasn’t consciously judging them then? A while ago I’d have talked to Mum about feeling so strange, but she always seems so busy with her work now, and when she isn’t she’s either lying down in her bedroom or rushing about the house being tense. Or she gets into those weird moods when she’s really hyper. Does things like hovering about downstairs for the post in the mornings as if she’s waiting for something. She always says it’s just a magazine or a catalogue she’s expecting, but she goes all girly and happy for a bit and buys us things and gives us treats. Sally and I used to wonder if she was having an affair, but it doesn’t seem like that, somehow. Anyway, I can’t see it.

Trouble is, thinking about what objectively exists makes me want to stop working, because in a way everything I’m doing is a waste of time. When I’m sitting there at school it all feels really pointless because I’m observing it and changing it. And all the books and theories and mathematical formulae and religions and portents are worthless. I’m not sure if it makes me want to commit suicide or live for ever. Who was it said there was only one real philosophical question – whether to kill yourself or not?

It’s not that I’m always gloomy – more confused. Sometimes it’s like I’ve discovered the key to everything and it feels really good, because if nothing has any true reality then nothing matters, so there’s no need to get upset about anything or to hurt about the way things are. But I still don’t know what I’m going to do about these thoughts. I feel rather like I’ve been given a very important message to deliver but they’ve forgotten to address the envelope.

I started to talk to Holly about it today in the dining hall, but I didn’t get very far. I thought it might help if I could explain it to someone else and get it out of my head for a bit, but I could see she didn’t understand how important all this was. She was looking really cute, with her hair up in one of those grippy things – and she kept smiling back at me as I tried to explain.

‘When you measure something,’ I said, having decided I should start from basics – Holly’s doing languages for her A-levels, and science has never been one of her strong points – ‘you’re never sure if your answer is right. Never. That’s why it’s called the uncertainty principle.’

‘Well, obviously you can never predict things,’ she said, dipping her head to look down at her hot chocolate. She tipped a sachet of sugar into the plastic cup and stirred it. ‘It doesn’t take a scientist to tell me that.’

‘No, it’s not exactly that,’ I went on. ‘It’s more that – oh, Holly, for God’s sake, that stuffs already sweetened: it’ll be disgusting – no, it’s not so much that we don’t know how atoms and particles and things are going to behave when we look at them, it’s more that we don’t even know the rules. I mean, even if we could measure things without affecting them, we’re probably judging them by all the wrong rules. Common sense doesn’t really work any more, at least not once you try to look at both quantum and macroscopic physics at once. They just don’t gel, you see. And it makes my life – all of our lives – pointless.’

She had that sweet, patient smile on her face again, and the weird thing was that it made her look as if she understood far more about all this stuff than I did, while at the same time I knew perfectly well that she hadn’t got a clue what I was on about. Holly always does that to me – whatever I’m trying to tell her she always seems to be one jump ahead, even though she doesn’t really know a thing about quantum mechanics.

She put one elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. ‘I don’t see that at all,’ she said, still smiling and pretending to be interested. ‘Of course your life isn’t pointless, Ben. Try and explain.’

‘I’m trying to tell you something really important here, and you’ve got that “let’s humour Ben” look on your face. Forget it, Hol.’

‘No, go on. Don’t be so touchy. I will try to understand, I promise.’

‘It’s really simple – but it frightens me. I just feel sometimes that everything round me is unreal because I can’t look at it without changing it. I suppose that’s what I’m trying to say.’

‘How’s your dad, by the way?’

‘My dad?’

‘Yes. You haven’t talked about him much, lately. You used to all the time. I just wondered if he was OK?’

It really made me think, when she said that. It was true – I did used to tell her about Dad’s cases and things. They were always pretty interesting when he was dealing with divorces and stuff: he was cool about telling me some of the really strange things people get up to and how he had to question them about all the intimate bedroom things that went on. But he hadn’t been telling me much recently, and I hadn’t realised until Holly asked.

‘I think he’s OK,’ I said, ‘but he is a bit quiet, now you mention it. Just working hard, I suppose.’

Judy

Charlie’s been a bit strange lately. All this volunteering to do the shopping is most out of character: I know he says he’s interested in the fat checkout girl and seeing if he can cheer her up, but I find it very hard to believe that’s really what he’s up to. It must be six or seven times he’s gone back there now, over the last couple of weeks. Maybe he feels guilty about me: I know I’ve been working too hard and it worries him. Rather sweet really, the way he’s trying to take the pressure off me. But I do wish he’d go back to Sainsbury’s or Waitrose, even if it would spoil his experiment with the girl. I think we’re all getting rather tired of the small selection he finds at SavaMart. I’ll have to put my foot down and insist I do the shopping again for a while.

Meanwhile, I think it’s time I did something about the way I look: I caught sight of myself in a mirror on the wall of the gym at the school I’m inspecting and I was quite shocked. I thought I knew exactly how I looked – after all, I stare into that mirror in the bathroom every morning and evening. But there was something about the way I was standing or – I don’t know; I looked more like sixty than forty-eight. And yet, when I’m at the school, I feel far more in tune with the children than I do with the staff, almost as if I’m pretending to be grown-up when I’m discussing things with the head. She’s probably feeling exactly the same. I know when I was teaching I felt utterly different from the way I used to think teachers felt when I was a girl; they looked so secure and smug and certain about everything they said or did. How I longed to be like them. They didn’t look as if they could ever feel frightened of going to the dentist, or being late with giving work in or wearing the wrong thing. All the things I was so scared of. I could see it would all be fine once I was past the age of twenty or so.

Now I know you feel exactly the same, of course, but you pretend that you don’t. So why should I go round looking like a mature woman of sixty-something when I feel the same as I did at fourteen? There has to be a happy compromise, surely. I know I can’t go round in a short, tight skirt and strappy top like Sally does, for heaven’s sake, but there has to be something in between that and these sensible suits I seem to have crept into wearing. And there must be a way of doing my hair and make-up that’s a bit more – well, a bit prettier. My figure’s not too bad, and although my hair’s thinner than it was, it’s still –

Oh, for God’s sake – listen to me! I sound like something off the pages of a women’s magazine. Is this it? Am I going through a mid-life crisis, just when I thought I was skimming over the surface of the menopause so successfully? A confident, modern, professional woman, that’s what I am – how bizarre to find myself worrying about all this stuff, like a teenager. I haven’t got time for all this.

I wish I hadn’t gone off sex. Not just for all the obvious reasons – that I enjoyed it and it kept Charlie and me close and made me feel wanted and all that – but also because it spoils so many other things. I was Christmas shopping today, for example, in Oxford Street, and it struck me how many aspects of life are geared to the business of physical attraction. When I buy clothes and the odd bit of make-up now it’s just like stocking up on anything else, and I know it’s since sex has gone out of it that it’s stopped being fun. Well, it was – terrific fun, to sit in front of the mirror and dress and paint my body to make it attractive. Now I dress simply to look neat and tidy for its own sake, not to be actively attractive to the opposite sex. Clothes, make-up, shoes, hair and all the other nonsense become far less interesting when they don’t give you that little frisson of feeling potentially desirable – it may be unfashionable to admit to thinking that, but I do.

Charlie has never minded that I’m less proactive in our love-making – it’s not as if I can’t get any pleasure out of it. I can – it’s just that if I were honest I’d probably rather be reading a good book. I miss so much that wonderfully desperate need that I had in my youth: it was so energising and animal to be dominated by my physical urges. Probably the only time in my life I’ve really enjoyed being out of control.

I remember how Charlie used to stay at my parents’ house when we were going out together. We lived in one of those tall Victorian houses in Highgate, and he’d just got himself attached to chambers as a junior of some sort. He had rooms, of course, but half the time he’d come and live with us. For my mother’s food, he used to say, and she’d beam with pride and my father would shake his head in mock despair and mutter about being eaten out of house and home. They loved it really, not having had a boy of their own, and it suited Charlie and me very well to have him treated as a surrogate son. Made him my surrogate brother, I suppose, but – my God, he certainly didn’t treat me as any self-respecting brother would. It wasn’t the food he was hungry for in those days – and he wasn’t the only one who was starving either.

We had a very simple system. His bedroom was on the top floor, in what would have been the servants’ rooms when the house was first built, I suppose, and my room was on the floor below, just above where my parents slept. There was no bathroom at the very top and Charlie used to have to come down to use the one next to my bedroom. It would have been far too risky to creep into my room, so he used to leave a little note or drawing in the bathroom when he felt like a bit of hanky-panky, as my father would have put it. The notes were never rude, naturally: in fact they were devised to be as innocuous as possible and if discovered would simply have looked like scraps of paper dropped accidentally and inscribed with odd jottings about law books or train times. But when I went to brush my teeth the sight of one of those bits of paper would set me on fire and I’d be up those stairs in a flash – or, at least, in as near to a flash as I could manage while avoiding the creakier stair treads. It wasn’t only one way, either – there were many times I’d make sure I got to the bathroom first, and left notes of my own, signalling my impending visits.

The habit continued as a silly part of our foreplay for several years after we got married. A note inscribed with something like ‘Gaston’s Matrimonial Property Law Book IV’ or ‘6.40 Waterloo to Haslemere’ left on my pillow would send me into smug swoons of delight and straight into his arms. What fun I had choosing nighties or underwear that I knew he would enjoy, dressing myself up like a present for him to unwrap slowly in the soft light of our bedroom. How I miss it.

Ben shut himself in his room after school today, and when I knocked he said not to come in because he was working. That’s not like him – I hope he’s OK. I always used to think he was the tough one when they were little, but – it’s funny – he’s grown up to be the one I worry about the most. I just wish he didn’t have to pretend to be all right, all the time – I’m sure it’s the mixture of trying to look cool and in charge with being so unsure underneath that’s getting to him. I’ve never felt that with Sally. Maybe Holly can talk to him about it – perhaps I’ll ask her.

I hate it though. Having to give my little boy over to the care of another woman when it really counts. It’s not the empty-nest syndrome they should warn us all about – it’s the empty heart. Sounds ridiculously soppy but it’s true: it’s so hard to have Ben still here in his physical presence, but gone from me in so many other ways. I felt like screaming outside his door today: ‘Don’t you realise I wiped your bottom and fed you at the breast and washed your snot and vomit and tears off the shoulders of all my clothes for years? I was the centre of your universe, the most perfect, necessary being; now I’m an embarrassment.’ But of course I just said, ‘Oh, OK, darling’ or something feeble like that and went back downstairs.

Crystal

Dear Stacey,

Hiya! Guess what!!! I finally gotta date!! So I’ll be going on to the other side soon after you read this – or maybe I’m even there already. I guess your British post takes forever, huh?

Anyway, pray for me, Stacey. I know you will, and I know the Lord is gonna take good care of me and I’ve got the cute little teddy you sent and he’s gonna go in there right alongside me and I’ve got my angels praying for me too, so it’s like – hey! – it’s all gonna be just cool. No – I am NOT gonna send you a picture – you’ll just have to wait until after, when I’m thin and gorgeous (and pigs will fly, huh?)

You remember I’d seen my PCP beginning September? Ooops, sorry, I forget you don’t call them that over there – you’d say your general doctor, I think. Is that right?? Anyway – you know what I mean. And – whaddaya know?? – I got a referral. So I saw the WLS guy early October – hey, maybe I told you all this, but I’m just so excited!! – look, here’s one of my real smiley faces to show you how happy I am – cute, or what, huh???? Anyways, I had real high BP so I had to have medication for that and then a pap smear and all kinds of stuff, and he told me to come back in a month, so I did and he was real pleased with me and said my BP was down and now I’VE GOT A DATE FOR THE OTHER SIDE!

I got my approval from the insurance real easy, too. Some people have all kinds of trouble, but when they heard my weight and my history and I told them who my surgeon was they were real sweet and I got approval right there and then over the phone. I feel kinda scared, too, but I just know everything’s gonna be fine. I was real surprised it was so easy, ’cos I’m not like their usual – well, it’s hard to explain, but let’s just say I’m a little different. And no – I’m not gonna tell ya ’cos I like my little mysteries!

Pray for me, Stacey, and I’ll pray the Lord will find a way to help you over to the other side too, sweetie.

Yours with the peace of the Angels to watch over you

Crystal

Charlie

I can pinpoint almost to the second the moment everything changed. I was feeling so fatherly, caring and – I don’t know – sort of smug about my relationship with the checkout girl until then. I’d been back many times to SavaMart, making sure I chose Stacey’s till of course, and getting her to open up to me that little bit more each visit. I’d get home and describe progress to Judy, enjoying the fact that I now knew more than she did about the whereabouts of various goods in the store. I knew it was irritating her that I insisted on doing the shopping at SavaMart rather than Waitrose or Sainsbury’s, which, admittedly, do have a far better class of produce, not to mention service and choice. But Jude can be very understanding when she wants to be, and when I explained that this wretched checkout girl had become a bit of a project, if not challenge, she put up with the unexciting selection of goods I invariably returned with, and relaxed into the unusual luxury of not having to shop.

Meanwhile, I determined to help Stacey – as to why, I find that very hard to answer. Looking back on it, it’s difficult to rid myself of the way I now inevitably see things, and to try to remember what originally prompted my innocent and uncomplicated interest in the girl is almost impossible. I know I had become fond of her: making genuine contact with her had become a bit of an obsession, I can see that – it was certainly more than an amusing challenge, which was how I presented it to Judy and Ben. I keep coming back to the word fatherly. Yes – paternal, quite definitely. I think, in spite of the gross physical differences between the two of them, Stacey somehow reminded me of Sally, or, at least, of Sally when she was still at an age to need her dad in a real, physical way. Stacey’s disguised but – to me – quite apparent vulnerability stemmed from her size and Sally’s was simply because of her youth and inexperience, but the protective response they both produced in me was the same.

So, a middle-aged attempt to replace a beloved daughter? No, not replace: Sally, however changed and grown-up, will always keep that particular place in my heart that a first child has. But my feelings – and I use the word lightly in the context of those early days – for Stacey rekindled the caring, nurturing part of my character, if you will, that had previously been reserved for my offspring. One reads so much about the unhappiness of today’s youth – and, indeed, I come across its manifestations only too often in court – but it’s rare for me to come slap bang up against it in real life, so to speak, and I was determined to do my little bit to change the fortunes of at least this one unfortunate creature. I was also aware that since I had begun to take an interest in her, the bouts of depression, or boredom, that I had been experiencing increasingly often over the last few years had entirely ceased. Something about the girl fascinated me, and took me out of myself so much that I noticed I was worrying about her rather than about my own problems.

Each time I saw her I wondered whether her size bothered her in any way – she seemed so bored by everthing around her, apart from the brief flicker of life I’d seen in her eyes at the appearance of the store manager, the smooth Warren thingummy, that I really wasn’t quite sure if there could be any sensitivity to her own condition buried deep within the parcel of flesh. But, having seen Judy and, more markedly, Sally worry obsessively about their figures over the years, I knew that Stacey’s apparent indifference was almost certainly hiding a miserable awareness of her own unattractiveness. I thought a compliment couldn’t go amiss, and might just chip away at the defensiveness she wore around her like an impenetrable shawl.

‘What a pretty ring!’ I said to her on about my tenth visit to the store. On the middle finger of her right hand she wore a small gold ring, sporting a swirling design of filigree work and tiny blue stones. Inevitably it was partly submerged in the fleshy roundness of what still tended to remind me of a sausage, but it was true that the little points of blue against the gold, nestling into the cushions of pale, smooth skin, as in folds of cream satin in a jewellery box, made a sweet and surprisingly touching sight. I wondered briefly if the adored Warren had perhaps had a moment of madness and presented it to her as a birthday gift, or, more likely perhaps, if it came from a doting mother or father.

‘QVC,’ said Stacey, mysteriously.

It never ceased to surprise me just how often this girl came out with words or phrases that made no sense to me whatever. My brain, in a desperate attempt to cobble some sort of meaning out of the apparently random and disconnected three letters, struggled for a moment with the mad idea that the girl had said ‘QED’. Could Latin have acquired street cred without my being aware of it? It hardly seemed likely; close proximity to Ben and Sally kept me reasonably up to date with modern parlance, and, in any case, it would have made no sort of sense as a reply to my compliment. I hesitated, loth to admit I had no idea what she was talking about. I felt like one of the mothballed judges I sometimes encounter in court (‘Tell me, learned counsel, just what is this BOGOF?’).

‘Sorry?’

‘I bought it on QVC.’

‘Ah!’ I was none the wiser, of course, but nodded briefly as if in approval. Clearly, to buy a ring ‘on QVC’ was something positive – nothing to be ashamed of, at the least – so that an acknowledgement of her wisdom could do no harm. I assumed that it was some sort of hire-purchase agreement. It was clear, however, I didn’t fool the girl for a second with my pretence at understanding.

‘Shopping channel,’ she said flatly, looking up at me with a mixture of boredom and sympathy in her expression.

It all suddenly fell into place. ‘Of course!’ I laughed. ‘QVC shopping channel. Yes, yes, indeed, my wife and daughter have shown me that on Sky. Fascinating. Strangely addictive, my wife tells me. Do you know, Stacey, I thought you meant you’d bought it on some sort of hire purchase: I mean that QVC was a type of credit loan or something.’

Did I see a hint of a smile? Yes, I did – I was sure of it. The dimpled folds either side of her mouth deepened a fraction, and the toffee-coloured eyes, as she looked back up at me, definitely twinkled.

‘So did you buy it for yourself? Or was it a birthday present or something?’

‘I bought it myself. Off QVC.’

‘Yes, I see. So tell me,’ I went on, as I packed a net of sprouts into the plastic carrier, ‘how does it work? Do you phone them up or what? I mean, how do you order what you want?’

‘Yeah, you just phone them up with the credit card.’

‘Amazing.’

‘No – s’easy.’

And then she smiled. Genuinely, wholeheartedly smiled. And all the clichés in the book couldn’t describe the change that smile made to the girl’s face: yes, the clouds parted; the sun came out – it all happened, and more. It made her look quite extraordinarily pretty – the softness of her round, plump face was, in an instant, made charming rather than podgy, and the eyes, brightened with the touch of warmth, were more startlingly golden than ever.

I was desperate to capitalise on this moment of breakthrough, and, on impulse, leant over the checkout belt and picked up her soft, warm hand to take a closer look at the ring. She didn’t appear to mind; she looked down at her own hand in a detached, vaguely interested way and then back up at me, still smiling.

‘Nice, innit? You just phone, you see. Even you could do it.’

I laughed out loud. ‘Yes, I deserved that, Stacey. I didn’t mean to be patronising, I assure you. It really is a bit of a mystery to me, all this TV ordering and stuff. Buying over the internet and so on. My wife does it frequently, but I’m afraid I’m a bit out of date when it comes to all that.’

This was real progress. I even got a grudging ‘Bye’ out of her as she handed me my receipt, and I carried my shopping home, if not with a song in my heart, at least with a few random crotchets.

Over supper later I told Ben and Jude of the breakthrough of the day and made them laugh at my pathetic attempts at communicating with the poor girl.

‘But don’t you see?’ I said, made enthusiastic by the wine. ‘I got a smile! That’s the first one. You have no idea just what a triumph that is – until now only Warren the smooth has elicited any response at all – let alone a smile.’

‘Oh, come on, Dad – that’s not true. She’s been speaking to you loads – you never stop telling us.’

‘Well, yes, Ben. She has been speaking to me. I can’t deny it. But if you knew this girl – Judy, back me up on this, she really is the most unfortunate creature, isn’t she? – if you knew her, Ben, if you actually had to go and do the shopping as I do –’

‘Charlie, you don’t have to do it,’ Judy interrupted. ‘You know perfectly well you don’t. That just isn’t fair: it’s been you and this bizarre project of yours that’s led to this current shopping craze. I’ve never known you do so much. It’s quite marvellous, in fact.’

‘That may well be right, my dear,’ I went on, aware that Ben was looking at me with that slightly jaded expression he wears when I’m a little drunk. ‘That may well be true. But that is entirely beside the point. The crux of the case, I submit, is that I was challenged to make contact with this fantastically large and non-communicative person, and I have succeeded beyond all my wildest dreams.’

‘Who challenged you?’ Judy asked with a smile, helping herself to another glass of the Burgundy.

This stumped me for a moment, but I rallied quickly. ‘I did. I did’ – and I jabbed a finger in her direction – ‘and I may tell you, my dear wife, that to be challenged by yourself is perhaps the toughest assignment of all.’

There was a short silence, and then Judy suddenly snorted into her wine and giggled. ‘What are you talking about, Charlie?’

‘I really don’t know,’ I said, starting to laugh myself. My mind flashed back over the conversation and it seemed terribly funny all of a sudden. ‘I guess I’m just thrilled that I made fatty smile.’

This made Judy giggle even more, and Ben joined in too.

‘You’re really weird, Dad,’ he said, grinning at me across the table. ‘It’s like some Pygmalion trip or something. What the hell are you hoping to get out of it?’

‘I am aiming to communicate with someone less privileged than your good self, my dear son. My challenge,’ I went on, as we all laughed louder than ever, ‘is to create a little happiness within that – how shall I put it? – extraordinarily overadequate physical specimen.’

When I think how I used to speak about her it makes me shiver. May God – and she – forgive me.

Sally

I always thought I’d leave home as soon as I finished school, but somehow I seem still to be here. It’s partly for economic reasons, of course, and although I’ve taken enough part-time jobs over the past three or four months to pay for clothes and going out, it would be quite different if I had to find the rent and food and all that. But it really is time I started planning what I’m going to do with the rest of the year before I go up to Leeds. I know I want to travel, but I don’t want to stop my music, and lugging a cello round Europe would be a nightmare. It’ll work out.

Funnily enough, I think I’d miss Ben quite a bit as well if I was to move out. Although we used to row like hell when we were little, we get on OK now, and he’s actually quite a cool guy. He’s always been off his head, though, and lately he’s been even more strange than usual – shutting himself in his room instead of watching TV with the rest of us after supper for instance, and not really laughing when I do the silly jokes that used to make him giggle. I worry about him a bit.

As for Mum and Dad – it’s getting quite heavy the way they constantly needle each other. They’ve never been the sort to have arguments, and they still don’t, but Mum’s sarcasm and Dad’s annoying way of talking as if he’s in court all the time are getting on my nerves, and I can just see how they irritate each other. I used to envy my friends at school when they told me how their parents yelled and shouted and even threw things – it sounded so dramatic and kind of Italian, when my home was so quiet and boring. Sometimes I’d make things up about Mum and Dad fighting just to make them sound more interesting – I really wanted them to be divorced so’s I could be sent from one to another like Annabel. She used to get amazing presents from her father.

But now that it’s not quite so sunny at home I feel differently. I wish it could be just the way it used to be.

Charlie

It was to be another couple of weeks before it happened – before it all changed, I mean.

I was in court – a long and rather dull case that had been dragging on for days. I was examining my own client: a woman who, if I am honest with myself, I knew quite clearly deserved never to see her children again. I was attempting to secure her some sort of limited access.

I was trying to convince the judge that the woman’s prolonged absences abroad away from her children had been justified by the demands of her work or some such, and, as I questioned her, I had been watching her elegant, manicured hand playing with her expensively streaked hair, forcing her to tilt her head as she peered at me resignedly from behind the shining blonde curtain.

I was far from confident that my client, vague and uninterested as she had appeared to be in our briefings, would remember our policy of explaining by her work schedule the weeks and months at a time that she had spent away from her family over the course of the previous years, and I had been irritated by her lack of cooperation in a process that I myself was not at all sure was valid. As I waited for her to answer, her head still now, her hand fiddling with a string of pearls round her neck, I found myself watching the way the ring she was wearing glittered as it caught the light. It reminded me of something, and gave me an uneasy feeling I couldn’t fathom. As she began to speak – detailing some justification that we had conjured up between us for her extensive holidays – she thrust her hand back into the blonde tresses, arranging and rearranging the fall of hair, clearly a nervous habit that was helping her to cope with the stress of her court appearance. The ring moved in and out, twinkling sporadically and mesmerically. What memory, lurking at the back of my mind, was being triggered by the sight of this gold and sapphire piece of jewellery?

It was, of course, Stacey’s ring. Remarkable how the mind can make connections without letting you know, how it can carry on a private conversation between memory and the subconscious until the nagging irritation of the discussion can no longer be ignored. That I should be surreptitiously reminded of a shop girl’s cheap bit of vulgar jewellery by the obviously expensive sapphire ring of the woman I was examining in court was strange enough; what was inexplicable was that the connection should be so disturbing. What should have merely caused me to smile in recognition made me frown in dread.

I pictured Stacey’s hand, and the ring half buried in the flesh. And it was then – I’m sure of it – exactly then, as I recalled the soft, white skin and the twinkling of those cheap little blue stones against the ludicrous rococo swirls of gold, that I knew everything had changed. Gone in one microsecond of terrible knowledge was all vestige of the so-called fatherly feelings that I’d professed for the girl. Gone, to be replaced in the same instant by a searing stab of desire so intense that I had to dip my head in sudden dizziness for fear of fainting. The shock was total. How could I possibly trust the bizarre message that every nerve in my brain and body was screaming at me: that a girl whom I had met – no, not even met, encountered at most – a mere dozen or so times, and with whom I had had the briefest of conversations, was affecting my emotions so suddenly and drastically? It was a moment that needs poetry or music to attempt a description – no mere words can convey that kind of emotional attack. Not because of its beauty – far from it: the realisation was closer to horror than to delight – but because the force of such a moment, that takes one’s heart in its grip and squeezes it until life itself is threatened, is beyond account.

Stacey

‘What are you doing later, then?’ I asked Sheila.

Sheila’s always doing something, and sometimes she’ll let me go too. Denisha says it’s to make her feel smug, ’cos she knows I never go nowhere otherwise, and it makes her feel like she’s doing something good, like for charity, you know. But it ain’t that – I know that. She likes me going with her sometimes ’cos it makes her look better than she really is next to me. She dresses like she’s really something, does Sheila, but I know she knows she ain’t really. If she goes out with Janet you can see the difference. It’s all make-up and tarty clothes with Sheila – if you see her without all that you can see how horrible she is. No wonder she never keeps none of the boys more than once or twice of going out. Once she sleeps with them that’s it. I know she tries to keep her make-up on ’cos I’ve seen her in the morning when she’s come back from a night with one of her fellas and her eye make-up’s all smudgy. You can tell she’s tried to wipe it off from under her eyes when she’s woken up. But it don’t fool them none – they know what she really looks like. If you ask me they know that anyway, but they think she’s worth a quick fuck or two. But they ain’t never gonna give her their babies, I can tell you that.

So, anyway, I fancied a drink or two so I asked her what she was doing. I’m always hoping a bleeding miracle’ll happen and I’ll get myself laid, too, if I’m honest. I’ve had guys come on to me, mind, but it’s always in a freaky kind of way – they’re turned on ’cos I’m fat. I can always tell, even when that guy at the club that night I went with Sheila come out with all that about me being pretty.

Denisha always says they don’t mean nothing of what they say when their cocks are stiff and they’ll do anything just to get you to let them do it, or to get you to suck them off and that, and I knew what she meant when that little runt was telling me all that shit about being gorgeous or whatever he said. I could see he was just dying for it and he was all sweaty and disgusting and I knew he wanted to rub himself. I nearly let him do it to me, too, just ’cos it was so good to hear him say all that shit about my eyes being so pretty and that. And I wanted to do it once, in fact, ’cos I ain’t never done it proper. Not really proper fucking like in the films – there’s been a couple of times when I was smaller in the old days that boys got their thing half in but each time they both came so quick I never felt much. Anyway, what with this creep telling me my eyes was pretty I nearly let him just so’s I could say I done it but then he said about my mouth being – what was it? – not lovely – luscious! That’s it – luscious! That put me right off ’cos it was so stupid.

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