“Oh God!” he said, sitting up. “I didn’t mean to stay.”
He sprang to his feet, looking at his watch. She sat up too, thinking: Nothing really serious happened. We didn’t make love. But she felt appalled by what had occurred, as if she had done something unforgivable.
“You can go out the back door,” she said. “My father will probably be in the kitchen. Then you can go round to the front and get your …”
“He will have seen the pick-up,” he said slowly. “He’ll know I spent the night here.”
She lay back on the bed, her hands over her eyes. And then she felt the bed sag as he sat down beside her.
“I’ll speak to him,” he said. “I’ll go and speak to him right now.”
“And tell him what? That we slept in?”
He shook his head. “I’ll ask him if we can get engaged.”
She kept her hands where they were.
“And what about me? Don’t I …”
She thought of her father. How could she face him after this? How could she tell him – and be believed – that nothing had happened? He had said to her, embarrassed, on more than one occasion: One thing your mother believed in is keeping yourself for the man you’re going to marry. Remember that.
He got up off the bed and she opened her eyes. She saw him cross to the door, hesitate a moment, and then turn the handle. Outside, the noise of the radio drifted from the kitchen. Her father was up. He would know.
The following Saturday they went to the cinema. He had bought her the ring, as he had said he would, and he slipped it on to her finger as they sat in the pick-up before leaving. Then he kissed her on the cheek, chastely, and started the engine.
They drove down the farm road, past the fence that he had spent all week repairing. It was almost dusk, and the last rays of the sun were soft fire on the fields. The road to Calwarra would be empty, as it always was, both on the way into town, and on the way home.
Fat Date
He stood before the door, peering at the small brass plate above the bell. It was undoubtedly the right place, but he had expected something more than this somewhat anonymous sign. Still, that was an indication of good taste and discretion, which was exactly what one wanted from such a concern. It was a question of tact, really; the last thing one would want of people like this was flashiness or vulgarity.
He rang the bell and waited, examining a small notice that somebody had pasted to the wall: STAIR CLEANING. IF IT IS YOUR TURN, PLEASE REMEMBER TO MAKE SURE THAT YOU …
“Mr Macdonald?”
“Yes.”
She smiled at him, not too enthusiastically, but just enough to set him at his ease.
“Do come in. We were expecting you.”
He followed her along a small corridor to an office which overlooked the square. It was full summer, and there were trees outside the window, a shifting curtain of deep green. He took in the surroundings immediately. An office, but a personal office. There was a vase of flowers on the top of the filing cabinet, filled with a spray of carnations. Carnations: exactly right. You might have expected roses in a place like this, but that would have been too obvious.
“Please sit down.”
She was behind her desk now, and she had opened a file in front of her.
“You haven’t said very much about yourself on your form,” she said.
He glanced at the piece of paper in her hand, recognising his rather spidery writing.
“I feel a little bit embarrassed writing about myself,” he said. “You know how it is.”
She nodded, gesturing with her right hand as if to say: of course we understand; everybody here is in the same boat.
“You see,” she said, “we like to get things just right. It’s really no good introducing people if they have radically different views of the world. Even a slight difference in musical taste may have a dramatic effect on the way in which people get on.”
“Jack Spratt and his wife,” he said, and then stopped. The words had come out without his thinking, but he realised immediately that the reference was ill-chosen. Jack Spratt could eat no fat, and his wife could eat no lean.
But she did not notice. “Yet in our case,” she went on, “we have a good starting point. By catering specially for larger people, we manage to get round what some people see as a difficulty. If people have the same general conformation, then they start off with at least one thing in common.”
He nodded. Yes. That was why he had chosen them. Perhaps he should not mince his words, at least when thinking. This was an agency for fat people. Dating for fatties! There, he had thought it! What would she have said if he had dared to say it? She would have written him off, no doubt, as a person with an attitude difficulty or a negative self-image problem.
“Now, I do have a few possible introductions for you,” she went on, looking at him over her half-moon glasses. “There is one lady, in particular, an extremely charming person. I know her well. She and you share an interest in opera, I believe. She was married, some years ago, but sadly she is now divorced. It was really not her fault at all.”
“It never is,” he said. “It never is the stout person’s fault.”
A frown crossed her brow quickly, but then she smiled.
“There are awful injustices committed against more generously proportioned people,” she agreed. “This was certainly so in this case.”
They talked for a few more minutes. She served him coffee, poured from a tall white coffee percolator, and offered him a delicate chocolate biscuit. He took two and immediately apologised.
“I seem to have picked up two,” he said.
She waved her hand. “Please. Think nothing of it. I have a weakness for chocolate too. Our shared little vice.”
Now he stood outside the theatre, glancing nervously at his watch. She had said on the telephone that she might be a little late, but he had not expected to wait for fifteen minutes. If they were not careful, they would miss the beginning of the opera, and would not be admitted until the first interval. The possibility worried him. How would he entertain her in those awkward first few minutes. At least going to the opera gave them something to do.
But she had arrived now, leaping lithely out of a taxi in a shimmer of light blue voile.
“Edgar?”
He reached out and shook her hand.
“Nina?”
She held his hand for a few seconds longer than was necessary. “I knew it was you,” she said, adding: “I’m so sorry for being late.”
He thought for a moment. How did she know it was him? There could have been other men waiting – the street was by no means empty – but then he realised what it was. He was the only person in front of the theatre who could possibly have come from the introduction agency for fat people. He found the simple explanation unutterably depressing.
They went into the theatre. There was the usual opera crowd, some of whom he knew. He found this reassuring, and helpful. She noticed that people nodded to him and waved. I’m not a nobody, he thought. People know me about town.
“There’s Fatty Macdonald,” whispered one man to his wife. “Nice chap. Bit of an uphill battle, though.”
“How do you know him?” the wife whispered back. “Work?”
“No, school. He was a year above me. We used to call him names and torment him too – you know how boys are. He had a terrible time, poor chap. Perhaps we could have him round for dinner some day and make up for it.”
“I can’t, I just can’t. I’ve got so much to do. Look at next week, for example …”
They found no difficulty in making conversation during the interval. He was pleased to find that there was no awkwardness, as one might well expect on an occasion such as this. It all seemed wonderfully natural.
“I must confess I felt some trepidation,” she said. “I’ve only had one or two introductions through them before. I’m not used to it.”
He looked at her. “I’ve never been before. Ever.”
?
??Well, you must have been feeling very nervous.” She dug him playfully in the ribs. “Go on, confess!”
He laughed. “Well, I suppose I did. You never know how things are going to work out.”
“Well, there you are,” she said. “It really isn’t awkward at all.”
After the final curtain, they left by the side exit and walked briskly down the street to the Italian restaurant where he had booked a table. He explained to her that the place had been recommended by friends and that they specialised in after-theatre suppers.
“What a treat!” she said. “A wonderful way to spend a Tuesday evening!”
“Monday,” he corrected.
They both laughed.
“Well, Tuesday as well, if you’d like …” He stopped. No. It was far too early to invite her out again. There should be a cooling-off period of a few days before he telephoned her and issued an invitation. That was what he had been told at the agency.
“Don’t rush matters,” he had been warned. “You’ve plenty of time to think things over. And women don’t like being rushed either. Just wait until you’ve both had a certain amount of time to think about how you feel about one another.”
In the restaurant, the proprietor led them to their table and drew her seat back with a flourish. She ordered a glass of sherry and he asked for a gin and tonic. Then they sat and looked at one another.
“I love Italy,” she said. “I can’t wait to go back there again. Florence. Siena. Verona.”
“Rome,” he said. “Venice. Bologna.”
“Ah, Perugia. Urbino.”
They were silent for a moment, while they both thought of something to say.
“I rented a house there once,” he said. “I took it for two months and did nothing but sit on the terrace and read. I read and read.”
“Ah.”
“And then in the evenings I’d walk down to the piazza and watch everybody else watching everybody else.”
“They’re quite amazing,” she said. “The Italians. They amaze me. They literally amaze me.”
The silence returned.
“Do you like Italian food?” he asked. “I do.”
“Oh, I do too,” she said. “The herbs!”
“And olive oil,” he added. “There is no substitute for olive oil, there really isn’t.”
“Edgar, I quite agree with you. There really is no getting round it. You have to use first pressing olive oil. You simply have to.”
They ate well. She laughed as he struggled with his pasta; she had no trouble with it on her own fork.
“I just can’t do this,” he said. “I’m hopeless.”
“I’ll teach you one day,” she said. “It is a bit of an art.”
They raised their glasses to one another and sipped at the chilled Orvieto, sharp, straw-coloured. He imagined that he saw the colour of the wine go straight into her eyes, and she liked the idea.
“Perhaps it does,” she said. “Anyway, what a nice thought!”
They drank more wine, and the proprietor brought a fresh bottle, tucked into its damp envelope of ice. Then, over coffee, he said:
“I must say that I was quite relieved to discover the agency. It really isn’t easy if you’re on the larger side. People seem not to want to know.”
She nodded: “It’s so unfair.”
He warmed to his theme. “You know, thin people sometimes don’t realise how cruel they’re being. They laugh at us. They call us names.”
“Yes,” she said. “When I hear a child calling somebody Fatty, I say to him: Just you think how you’d like to be called that! Just you think! But most of the time they just can’t imagine how other people feel.”
He reached for the rest of the bottle of wine and filled their glasses.
“I was called names at school,” he said.
“How awful,” she said. “What were they?”
He glanced away.
“I forget now,” he said. “It was a long time ago. But if you think about it, you can’t really blame children. They just take their cue from adults. Adults had it instilled in them when they were children, and so the vicious circle is perpetuated.”
“And books contribute to the problem,” she said. “Look at the way stout people are portrayed in fiction.”
He nodded enthusiastically. “They describe us in an uncomplimentary way. They use words like waddle when they want to describe how a stout person walks. And films too. Look at the ridiculous things that happen to stout people in films. Absurd, slapstick things – people falling over, getting stuck and so on. As if life were like that!”
“You must have had an awful time,” she said. “Imagine being called names at school.”
He felt puzzled and rather annoyed by her reverting to his childhood. And he thought that she shouldn’t have asked him what his nickname was. That was really rather intrusive.
“Why do you say I must have had a difficult time,” he said, rather peevishly. “You must have had a tough time too.”
“Me?” Her eyes opened wide with surprise.
“Yes. After all, you’re just as stout as I am.”
Her jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon,” she said, her voice suddenly icy. “I certainly am not.”
He put down his glass and stared at her, astonished.
“Oh yes you are. If you ask me, you’re possibly even fatter.”
“Oh! Oh!” She lifted her napkin to her mouth. “I don’t know why you should suddenly decide to insult me. I really don’t.”
She rose to her feet, her voluminous blue dress flickering static in the semi-darkness of the restaurant.
“I’m very sorry it should end like this, but I have no alternative but to leave.”
“It’s your fault,” he said. “You started it. And I am definitely not fatter than you. That’s very obvious, if I may say so.”
He got up to seek out the proprietor and pay the bill. The evening had suddenly become a complete disaster, and must be ended. But as he tried to get to his feet, the awful realisation hit him: he was stuck in his chair. He was completely wedged in.
He wiggled his hips, and then tried once more, but again with the same lack of result. He was stuck between the wooden arms of the chair and each movement only seemed to make the fit even tighter and less yielding.
She had noticed what had happened and was staring at him triumphantly from the other side of the table.
“There you are!” she said. “That proves it. I was right!”
He snorted angrily, and wriggled again. Now the proprietor had seen what was happening and had rushed to his side.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” he said. “I shall get you free. Do not worry.”
He bent down and began to tug at the wooden struts which held the top part of the chair together. He tugged sharply and there was a cracking sound. One of the struts came away.
“There we are,” he said. “If I get a few more of these out, then you’ll be able to release yourself. I am so sorry about this!”
She watched as the proprietor struggled. The real nature of the emergency had changed the situation somewhat, and she felt that she could not storm out now, as she had planned. She felt some sympathy for Edgar, even if he had insulted her. He did not deserve this embarrassment, this humiliation.
“I’m getting there,” said the proprietor, crouched down, tugging at a piece of wood. “Perhaps this is a good advertisement for my food! Perhaps if everybody saw fat people like you coming in here and eating so well that they got stuck, then they’d know how good the food is!”
She drew in her breath sharply.
“How dare you!” she hissed. “How dare you talk about us like that.”
Edgar was equally annoyed, and his heart gave a leap of pleasure when he saw her step forward and give the proprietor a sharp push. He was not expecting it, and he fell over, letting go of the strut of wood on which he had been tugging.
“Edgar,” she said. “Get up and try to walk with that chair. We shouldn
’t spend a further second in this place.”
He leant forward and pushed himself up, the chair still firmly wedged about him. Then bent double, he waddled out of the restaurant, with Nina close behind him.
The proprietor picked himself up off the floor and looked at the waiter.
“Ma, che cos’ho detto?” he said. “Che cos’ ho fatto? Che cos’e successo a quei grassoni?” (What did I say, I ask you! What am I meant to have done? What’s going on with these well-upholstered people?)
The waiter said nothing. He had not understood a vital part of the exchange and it seemed to him that the whole situation was utterly opaque.
Outside, it was a warm summer night. There were few people in the street to stare at him, and even those who were making their way home at that hour hardly noticed the sight of a large woman with an equally large, or possibly even larger man at her side, the man half-seated in a chair in which he appeared to be stuck.
“Sit down,” she said. “Sit down on the chair. You’ll be more comfortable. A taxi is bound to go past soon.”
So he sat down, relieved to get the weight of the chair off him.
He looked up at her.
“I’m terribly sorry I was inadvertently rude in there. I really wasn’t thinking.”
She smiled. “And I’m sorry too. It was thoughtless of me. I hope you’ll forget all about it.”
“Of course,” he said.
Then they waited in silence. Somewhere, in a flat in the narrow tenemental street, a record was being played; a fine tenor voice.
“Listen,” she said. “Just listen!”
“How wonderful,” he said. “How wonderful.”
Then he patted his knee. “Why don’t you sit down,” he said. “We can sit here listening to that gorgeous sound until a taxi comes.”
She smiled at him. Why not? It had been a fine romantic evening, apart from the one incident. She liked him. Perhaps they could face the indignities of the world together. Why not?
She adjusted her dress and lowered herself gently onto his knee.