‘I have ten kilos of extra skin. Excess. It covered the fat. The fat is gone. The skin isn’t.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah,’ he says. He bites his lip. ‘I’m trying to get on the list for the NHS removal but my weight needs to be constant for two years before they’ll consider me.’
‘Why?’
‘In case I put it on again.’
‘Could you?’
‘I have an addiction. It’s like being a heroin addict. Or a smoker. You can quit but can you be sure you’re never going to relapse? You’re never going to be tempted to take that shot of H, smoke that cigarette? I mean, I don’t think I will. But there’s always that tiny glimmer of danger. That I could blow out. They have to be careful with who they offer the surgery to. It’s an extreme operation.’
I nod slowly.
‘It’s pricey too, if I want to go private. Costs thousands. That’s why I’m here. I’m giving a talk at a health conference. Keynote speaker. It’s about weight and bingeing.’
‘You’re trying to help others.’
‘Maybe I’ll have to go private. If I can get the money saved up, from these talks.’
‘Do you have any pictures?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Of when you were bigger?’ I’m thinking of the typical someone in one leg of their jeans diet photo.
‘Yeah.’
‘Can I see them?’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah.’
He gets his tablet, logs in. I go to the minibar and take out a wee bottle of vodka and a can of 7 Up. ‘Will you have a vodka and white?’
‘Hold the lemonade for me,’ he says.
He shows his camera roll.
‘Holy shit,’ I say.
‘Yeah. The thing that makes me go, whoa, is that when I was that big, I was invisible. I felt like nobody could see me. Maybe people didn’t want to see me. I repulsed them. Maybe I was projecting.’
I squirm and admit, ‘I look away sometimes. I’m not disgusted – I’m afraid. Not of the person but of my reaction, that my curiosity is going to offend them, upset them.’
‘That’s empathy, not cruelty. Do you want to go, now you know the truth?’
‘No,’ I say and shake my head. ‘Sure I’ve poured us a nightcap. We can chat for a bit. No pressure. Do you want me to go?’
‘I don’t want you to go. Do you not think it’s weird, being a normative-bodied person?’
I hand him his straight vodka and take a drink of mine. ‘Look, Julian, I’ve had my own body shit too. Some people carry their baggage on the inside.’
He smiles and holds my gaze.
‘Do you have any music in this swanky hotel? Can we listen to that pop channel from last night again?’
He switches on the TV and finds the Classic Hits channel, which is playing disco tunes from the seventies and eighties. We talk about the music and I pull him off the bed to dance with me. We jump around the room and dance like crazy. We get close and look at each other. We kiss again. More passionate this time. I unbutton his shirt. He’s wearing a long-sleeved compression vest underneath. I try to lift that off but it’s too tight. His breath trembles. He looks like he’s about to cry.
‘Are you sure, Natalie?’
‘Yes.’
In the softly lit room, with disco music in the background, he strips off slowly, morosely. I sit and watch as he undoes his trousers, to reveal black compression shorts. He finds the edges of his vest and lifts it. He takes it off and is wearing a bandage around his stomach. Loose sections of skin under his arm get free, hang low, droop. He looks at me but I keep still. He pulls down his shorts; his extra skin droops down like an empty pouch below his thighs, covering his thighs. His penis is no longer erect. It’s flaccid and deserted against his leg. His ass has pouches of loose skin. His eyes are shining. He’s only wearing a bandage now, like a corset around his stomach. I stand in front of him. I undo the clasp on the bandage, begin to unwrap him, twirl him around, slowly releasing him from it.
Forty-one
There’s a reluctance to hire me in local gyms. I’m not what they’re expecting. Some of them say as much to me, if I get as far as the interview stage. I’m afraid to mention my spin class plans, in case they’ll be met with the same judgement and disregard. It’s okay to put me down, but I can’t let them murder my ideas.
In her office, the manager of a chain near the city centre ushers me to sit but she stays standing. Her slender frame is muscular under her navy suit and her hair is a bush of black. Hairspray scents the air every time she moves.
Policy folders are stacked on the shelves behind her in clip files. The floor has green carpeting. Fast paced music with a clear beat thumps in from the gym.
Her face lacks expression as she says, ‘It’s just we have enough “inspirational” staff, Natalie. We employ a woman who’s older, like old old. Far side of her fifties. And a man with, well, a leg thing.’ She does a flickering hand gesture to explain this. ‘There’s an Asian member of staff too. Sometimes she wears her hijab. Our brand loves diversity as you can see, but you know, there can be such a thing as too much diversity. We’d hate to cross that line into the unknown,’ she sucks her teeth, ‘and like, intimidate our core audience.’
I get up, thank her for her time. I know I don’t have to catch every ball that’s thrown anymore. I leave the office and walk across the bouncy gym floor in my dress boots. People run on treadmills, crosstrain, climb steps, jump rope, press dumbbells, crunch, pull-up and row around me. They propel themselves to nowhere.
Outside, the sky curdles with dirty grey clouds. I take a deep breath and check maps on my phone to see if there are other fitness centres about. The wind whistles. It’s a wintry summer’s day in Dublin. I follow directions to a place on the corner. This is one with an expensive membership fee but a promise to educate clients on fitness and nutrition. The white tiled reception area is air conditioned.
The receptionist orders me to take a seat as I try to hand her my CV. ‘Someone will be with you soon.’
She wears a headset and types furiously.
I sit on the white leather-cushioned hard-backed seats. Magazines strewn on the table have covers with strong men and women flexing. Paintings of fruit and vegetables hang on the bleach-white walls. In the corner, a TV shows headlines from around the world. A suicide bomber has killed people in a busy market, a child shot his classmates and teachers at a high school in the US before the police shot him, Kim Kardashian has been pictured in a blue bikini, unbeknownst to her, on a family beach holiday. A series of close-ups of her thighs and behind follow, to zoom in on any spots of suspected cellulite.
A man comes bounding through the reception area and puts his hand out to firmly shake mine. The veins on his arms pop out like tree roots.
‘Joel,’ he says and looks me up and down. ‘What are your whys for being here?’
‘I was hoping to drop in my CV but the receptionist said to wait.’
‘We have an array of membership packages and I can run through our testimonials. Success is guaranteed.’
I try to pass him the A4 sheets with my work experience details and aspirations, but he refuses to take them. He’s hyper and jittery.
‘Weight concerns?’
‘No, Joel. I’m not trying to join, I’m looking for work.’
‘You do have weight concerns, Missus. It’s okay. Even I’m concerned about your weight. No secrets here. I had weight concerns too in the past. Look at me now. We’re all friends.’ His face is pinched with a smile. ‘We have a three-day trial membership for only fifty-nine euro. All access. I can calculate your biometrics and create a full fitness and nutrition plan. Want a beach body in six weeks?’