Vickey Weathers the Storm - by Swordfish (~BBW, Self-realiization, ~SWG)

[Observer]

~BBW, self-realization, ~SWG - A forecaster needs to determine her own best climate

VICKEY WEATHERS THE STORM
By Swordfish ​

His embrace almost pinned her to the wall. After eight months away, sent by his firm of investment brokers to their Tokyo office, he was eager to reclaim his girl, his trophy, and resume normal life.

He looked quizzical for a moment. “Your hair is different!”

“No it’s not.”

He scrutinised her face again, her shoulder-length auburn hair curling at the ends slightly as it always did, the brown eyes sparkling, the olive, almost Mediterranean complexion beaming back at him. Something was different. He couldn’t place what.

Vickey grinned. “Don’t say you’ve forgotten what I looked like!”

Bruno’s hands loosened their grip and began roaming over her body -- medium build, medium height -- renewing contact with her breasts and slipping underneath the bottom of her sweater.

“Course I haven’t. Hey, you’ve got a bit squashy!” He had touched her midriff, tight as a drum when last encountered, but now grown softer, lightly padded with fat.

“I have put on a few pounds.” She sounded only a touch remorseful.

He pulled away a few inches, hardness entering his voice. “Can’t have that, lovebird, can’t have that.” He looked at her slacks, more tightly fitting than he remembered.

He returned to her face, and realised what had thrown him: the fuller cheeks, the slightly blurred jawline, the suggestion of a double chin as his hug thrust her backwards towards the wall. “I bought you some chocolates shaped like Santa Claus at the airport, but maybe you shouldn’t have them.”

“You swine!”

He smiled. She laughed herself. But as she watched him unpack his suitcase on the bed, she could feel the temperature in her heart dropping a few degrees. His movements were so precise and orderly, the clothes so neatly folded. Out came the toilet bag -- his preening box, she called it. The shaving cream. The deodorant. The after-shave. She looked at his hair, short as bristles, and the eyes -- small, pale blue, fierce. Everything about him was kept under such control.

She looked round their shared apartment in a converted warehouse bordering the Thames: the bare pine floor, the spartan decoration, the stark lighting. Industrial chic. It was his place originally, not hers, and she never really liked it; with Bruno returned, and the rooms swept clear of her own clutter, she could already feel the walls moving in. Was this a home, or a prison?

Vickey had to admit it: she had enjoyed his absence. Or aspects of it. She had missed him in bed, but not round the dining room table. She had enjoyed going out more with friends, drinking and eating, indulging herself in the odd chocolate cake or other item bouncing with calories, freed from his disapproving eyes. Over six months, through the summer and autumn, more curious than seriously concerned, she had watched this small layer of fat creep on tiptoe onto her tummy, around and below her belly button, gathering into the suggestion of love handles at her side. Her weight had increased by just ten pounds, from 122 to 132: at five foot seven scarcely enough to change her shape, but enough to make her softer to the touch and also, just in the last few weeks, launch the start of a small pot belly that rubbed against some of her tighter clothes.

“You know TV puts pounds on you anyway. You’ve got to be careful.”

Vickey sighed. “Oh come on. I just stand in front of a weather chart and point at things. I don’t appear in a swimsuit.”

Bruno was hanging up his Armani. “You’re in the public eye, and I need you to look good.”

“I’m not your possession. I’m my own person.” She didn’t want to argue just now -- he had only just come through the door. But sometimes Bruno was too much, and this was one of them.

“OK, OK.” Bruno didn’t feel like arguing either. The long-haul flight was pulling him down. He was tired. He was hungry. He was thirsty. “Let’s not fight. Can you rustle up something to eat? Something real? Not served on a plastic tray?”

Vickey moved into the kitchen, and poked her head into the fridge. She saw the chocolate chip cookie bag eyeing her. Better not serve those. The salad container? That looked better. Rocket lettuce. Cherry tomatoes. Yellow and red peppers. Organic mushrooms. A salad, perhaps, with a modest bowl of pasta?

As she gathered the ingredients, she heard the sounds of Bruno showering, the water jet washing away the debris of hours in the stale cabin air, the thud of the soap as it slipped from his fingers (“Blast!” he yelled), the toneless, fragmentary humming of a tune that might have been identifiable to him but remained a mystery to the outside world.

It felt strange having the apartment filled again with another person’s noise, another life being lived. She thought back to their early days in a basement flat, small and dark, constantly rubbing together as they moved about the kitchen, squeezing into the bathtub, sharing a wardrobe, every inconvenience a source of fun. At the time, for these two, friends from the same health club, there seemed nothing like cramped quarters for getting to love and know each other. Now that she did know him, four years later, she wanted more space. A lot more space.

“Do you want some bread?” she asked. He sat at the dining table, hair still damp, feeling clean and pink.

“Ah-ha,” he muttered, shaking his head. That was a no.

As Vickey cut herself a piece from the granary loaf she imagined his eyes following the knife, clocking the slice size, watching with disapproval as it entered her mouth.

“These are squirty things!” Bruno was gingerly trying to spear a tomato. He hadn’t been watching at all.

When she cut a second slice a few minutes later, she still expected some reprisal, a barbed comment perhaps, something about food and weight. It didn’t follow.

“I’m bushed,” he said, pushing aside the pasta, half-eaten. “More tired than hungry, I guess.” He let out a great yawn, and rubbed what little stomach he had, polished and toned in gyms worldwide. “Good to be back. Good to have me back?”

“A-ha.” That was a yes. She kissed him perfunctorily on the forehead, and began clearing away the plates. Bruno’s uneaten rigatoni was spooned into a plastic container, and parked in the fridge. It might be just the thing, she thought, for a snack when she returned from her night shift at the TV station.

“We’ll have sex tomorrow, right?” Bruno called out as he disappeared into the bathroom. Vickey cringed. Why did he have to be so blunt?

“Do you have to announce it to the neighbours?”

“A-ha-ha.” He was cleaning his teeth.

Sighing, Vickey moved into the bedroom and gathered her things together ready for the night’s work tracking weather systems on the computers, preparing a forecast for the day ahead and presenting it during the TV breakfast shows, bright and bushy-tailed in one of the smart dresses her job demanded. Even without checking the charts she could predict bad weather ahead: storms, possibly violent, and cold, cold winds.

A brief hug, another perfunctory kiss, toothpaste-flavoured, and she was out the door.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

When she returned from the night shift at nine the next day, Bruno was still in bed, dead to the world, chest undulating from his slow breaths, mouth formed into what looked like a smirk.

Vickey slipped out of the bedroom, kicked off her shoes, and sank into the living room sofa. It looked so bare without her mess -- the magazines, the TV guide, the tissue box, the chocolate cookies. She picked up the phone.

“Hi, it’s me.” She was talking to Alannah, best friend since university. The words tumbled out in a torrent. “He’s back. Just in time for Christmas. I don’t know if I can take it. I mean, he’s so controlling, and even when he isn’t controlling he looks like he is. It’s like I could feel the walls closing towards me...It’s like living in a box, Alannah, a box. And his eyes, I felt them on me the entire time. Soon as he saw me he noticed I’d gained a few pounds ....Well I have actually -- around ten. Can’t have that, he said. Bloody cheek ..... I know .... Exactly. Exactly. He thinks I’m some trophy to put on his shelf ....What? I can’t talk too loudly, Alann, he’s in the bedroom getting his beauty sleep .... Getting his ugly sleep, then .... Habit I guess, that’s why I stay, and companionship .... Sweet of you to say I deserve better. True friend, that’s what you are .... Oh no!, you’re going to psychoanalyse me. Not before my coffee, please. Uh-oh, is he stirring? Hang on a sec...”

She peered into the bedroom, heard faint snoring, and tiptoed out.

“False alarm.” Silence as Alannah put her on the couch. “You think better of me than I do myself. I must say, though, if he’s a father figure he’s a pretty funny one. I suppose the bottom line is that you know who you are -- I’ve always admired and envied that. I don’t quite yet....Well I know I’m a weather girl. I stand with a stick and point at low fronts advancing across the Atlantic. But beyond that, Alannah, who I am? You trust yourself, you’re sure of yourself. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going .... I can’t go now, Alannah, he’s just come back. And that’s a big step.

I’m not sure I’m ready .... We’ve grown apart, that’s for sure. Well I have. Not sure he’s noticed, he’s so self-absorbed .... It’s not just that he’s been away. Even when he’s here, we haven’t been seeing each other that much. He works late at his bloody office. I work the night shift sometimes. Often we just see each other for a hurried meal, or a session at the health club .... No, I haven’t been lately. I need to go .... Well that’s so nice, Alann, but you would say that wouldn’t you .... Beautiful? I don’t think so. You haven’t seen my midriff lately .... Well the fat kind of sits there, winking at me .... What? You want to come over and see it?”

Vickey heard a yawn, and the sounds of the bedside radio. “Look I’ve got to go. Bruno is stirring. Talk to you later? .... You’re a pal. Love you.”

Through the door she heard the voice of a financial analyst droning on about stock market reports, gilts, and futures. She let out a short sigh, put on the morning coffee, filled a cereal bowl with muesli, and dragged out the cookies from the fridge.

“Bugger it,” she said, “I’m hungry.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Christmas was bearable: visits from Bruno’s mother, Vickey’s sister, everyone on good behaviour. But it was not an easy winter. Through January and February the British Isles had been besieged by one low pressure area after another wheeling in from the north or the west with clouds, rain, general unpleasantness. There was so little good news to forecast. Difficult even to rejoice in the mild temperatures. Had it been colder, the rain might have fallen as snow. Skies might have cleared. Everyone could have enjoyed feeling crisp. No such luck.

At work, Vickey tried to look understanding in front of the camera, but her farewell smiles were getting more desperate as the gloom dragged on. “We know it’s not your fault, Vickey,” one viewer had written to her. “We understand. Spring will come.”

To Bruno, eyes fixed on one computer screen or another, the sky’s colour was immaterial. What mattered was the volume of trading, stock exchange movements. Hard work. Exercise. Competition. Success. The feel of his head as he rubbed a hand over his hair, cut to a black fuzz after his tri-monthly scalp at his favourite salon, “It Will Always Grow Back”. Not that he let it. Hard to imagine now that this sleek male machine had once been a boy who’d worn short trousers, believed in Santa Claus, grazed a knee and ran to his mother for comfort.

“How’s that Vickey Pryce-Jones?” Angus called from the neighbouring booth. “Caught her looking cute on the box last night.”

“Oh we’re -- rubbing along.” It seemed the best way to describe things.

“She’s especially nice when she bends down to point out low pressure areas coming up from the south-west.”

Bruno wasn’t listening. His mind had frozen, as his computer did when bombarded with too many commands. He was fixed on the image of the two of them avoiding each others’ eyes in their apartment. Nothing had been working since his return. She was distant and secretive. Sex was perfunctory or non-existent. Had her needs changed or his? Both, maybe. He used to get a charge from her company. He used to think she was someone special. Now she’d become a disappointment, sometimes even an annoyance.

“You’re a lucky dog. Does she wear those clothes around the flat?”

Bruno’s mind jumped back to the open-plan maze around him. He looked at Angus, who was grinning vigorously, a nudge and a wink in his eyes. “Nope. Jeans and t-shirt. She needs to go to the gym,” Bruno added, gratuitously.

Vickey heard the same sentiment every day. Sometimes she paid attention. Other times the words brushed past her. With Bruno she had grown silent and sullen, resentful of the critical look that now seemed permanently stamped on his face. In his company, she ate little. Out of sight, she veered between meals small enough for a mouse and defiant bingeing on high-calorie goodies bought for the purpose behind his back.

She knew winter weight gain was normal, but now she found herself regarding her body warily, almost as though she were seeing it with Bruno’s eyes. She was reluctant to stand on the bathroom scales, but that morning she bit the bullet. 138 pounds.

“I knew it,” she groaned. Slipping on her clothes after her shower, she noticed how much the top of her panties dug into the flesh building up round her midriff: how her navel was sinking further within her: how her flesh now bulged into a little roll above the belt on a pair of jeans that were starting to leave her little room to manoeuvre round the hips, rear and front.

She moved to the kitchen and stood, fridge wide open, hand poised to fetch out the milk -- low-fat, on Bruno’s orders -- and the other breakfast supplies. Then she stopped. She stared. She seemed to hear voices, inside the fridge. The food, she could swear, was talking to her. This had first happened several weeks ago; and it was happening now.

“Why don’t you eat me?” said a pack of chocolate eclairs, peeved and querulous, wrapping undisturbed after ten days on the shelf. “You bought me to eat. Eat me. Do you know what my sell-by date is?”

“I can’t,” Vickey said, eyes rolling upwards at the absurdity of it all. She was talking to a chocolate eclair. “You’ll make me put on weight.”

“But I’ve a crisp chocolate top with a soft chewy middle. You don’t want me?”

“Give me a break! Can’t I get my milk in peace?”

“And what about me?” A tub of ice-cream had joined in. “You haven’t had a scoop all week. Is it something I said?”

“It’s something you do,” she shouted back. Then she slammed the fridge shut, pulled out her tongue at the white enamel and the silly fridge magnets -- animals, Niagara Falls, a smiley face -- and retreated clutching milk and a cinnamon bagel.

The voices continued behind the fridge door, pained, but muffled. “Hey, lady, only trying to help.”

Then silence. And exasperation.

She ran her hands through her hair. “What’s happening to me?” she said. As she chewed, the cinnamon bagel -- plain, without jelly or cream cheese -- offered no answers and little comfort. But at least it kept quiet.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

“What’s taking you so long to leave him?”

“I don’t know. Lack of will power. Fear.” Several weeks later, Vickey was circling the rim of her hot chocolate mug with a finger, eyes hollowed, mouth drawn tight.

Alannah stroked Vickey’s spare hand, limp on the coffee shop table. “You know you can stay with me until you get somewhere else.”

“I know.” She tried to sound grateful, but the words still came mixed with a sigh. “Somehow I just can’t make a move. I feel stuck. You know he’s got me counting calories?” She stared at the iceberg of cream bobbing on the top of her drink. “Instead of tasting the food, I taste the calories. This” -- she pointed to her mug -- “is really upsetting the apple cart.”

Alannah bristled. “If you want to gain weight that’s your business.”

“I don’t want to gain weight. I just am gaining weight. Or was. I got up to 139 pounds, and he kept bugging me, dragging me to the gym. I tell you, I fill out my gym clothes.”

Alannah -- permanently clothed in earth colours, tall, frizzy hair flecked with grey -- regarded her friend with loving. Longing, too. With part of her brain she tried to imagine the body in front of her without its clothing, the flesh honey-coloured, breasts and tummy pushing perhaps against black lycra. Then she cursed herself for her secret desires, suppressed for so long, even to herself, and doused them with cold water.

“It doesn’t show, Vickey, if it’s worrying you.” She half-eyed the girl brushing past carrying two cappuccinos, as though testing her audience and expecting to be found out in a lie.

Then it was back to her main topic. Bruno. The male pig. The robot. The yuppie dinosaur. So many terms came to hand. Far harder to find words to explain why he and Vickey had come together, and stuck together. A few rays of winter sunlight streaked onto their table.

“Do you remember what first attracted you to him?” Alannah said, fingering the shaft of light playing between the cups.

Vickey took a long breath. “He was -- ”. She picked up a cube from the sugar bowl and toyed with it. It didn’t help. “He was -- oh, I don't know -- he was --”. The seconds stretched. “Brisk. That’s it, he was brisk.”

“Brisk?” Alannah almost shrieked.

“I don’t know how to describe it.”

“An electric egg whisk is brisk. A pentium 4 computer is brisk. That doesn’t mean you go to bed with them.”

“He had this brisk manner. It was kind of sexy.” She looked defeated. Even as she said the words, Vickey knew what the comeback would be.

“Surely deep down that’s camouflage for saying he was domineering, and you liked the feeling. Master and slave. That’s what you really wanted. Back then. But not now, surely.” Her hand sought out Vickey’s once more.

After a few seconds, Vickey stiffened and pulled it away. She was finding this discussion uncomfortable. The finger had been pointed too accurately; the sun was too fierce. She wanted cloud cover.

The sugar cube was dropped back into the bowl. “I don’t know what I want. I only know what I don’t want. Be careful with me, Alannah.” She looked at her warily.

“I’m sorry. Session over.” Alannah eased back into her chair, eyes tender again. Vickey loosened up as well and sat back, revealing, as Alannah noticed, the hint of a double chin.

Suddenly Vickey changed tack. “What about you? Have you ever been in this position with boyfriends?”

Alannah, tasting her own medicine, hoped her blush wasn’t noticeable. Through her mind rushed all the past years and months of self-deception, lies, evasions, stretching up to this very moment. She was someone Vickey thought of as a rock, granite next to her jelly. Could she admit her own quiverings? Not now. Not yet. “I’ve never got so far, Vickey, you know that. Just never had any success.” She was scouring the room as she said it, seeking out their waitress. It was time, she felt suddenly, to pay the bill.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Sixty seconds, Vickey.”

She nodded to the TV cameraman, whose lens seemed to be staring her down. She felt a combatant in a battle of wills, which the camera, she knew, was going to win.

She’d felt rattled all day. Coming back from the night shift she’d found a note pinned to the fridge in Bruno’s hand: “No more cookies.” The elegant penmanship somehow made it worse. In her mind during the morning she’d had a furious row with him and roasted him over the coals.

“I’m fed up to the back teeth,” she’d snorted, “with your obsession with pounds and calories. If you love someone, Bruno --” she’d spat out his name as though it were poison -- “you respect them. And you take them as a whole. You love them for their insides.”

She’d kicked him to the floor, pinning him down with her foot. “So I’ve been gaining a bit of weight. So what? I’m still the person you’re supposed to be in love with. Maybe you’d be happier with a Barbie doll? One-inch waist. Plastic. Never changing.”

She’d won this imaginary boxing bout hands down. Then reality had wormed its way back. What was the point of knocking out Bruno in her head? When he was flesh and blood, standing before her, she froze. She did everything to avoid confrontation. They weren’t a loving couple any more, she had decided. They were the living dead.

And then there was her wardrobe. For the upcoming shift at the TV studio, she’d decided to wear her red suit, the collars trimmed with black, very trim and chic. Even though it was almost April, winter was dragging on: the flash of bright colour, she’d thought, would help take the edge off the doom and gloom she was bound to forecast.

But fter almost a year on the hanger the suit was too small. Even after Bruno’s calorie-watching, the waistband remained impossible to clasp. The jacket no longer hung properly either. If she buttoned the jacket, she felt too constricted; if she wore it loose, the camera would pick up the loose clasp on her pants. She felt doomed.

“Blast my fat,” she’d cried that morning. “Blast Bruno. Blast everything.”

“Thirty seconds,” the cameraman said.

So here she was with her frazzled mind, wearing a commodious black outfit that she called “my funeral suit”, preparing to give the nation bad news.

“Well,” she said, trying to smile, “spring just doesn’t want to come, does it?” Then she launched upon her prepared forecast, the words memorised, her hands free to click the autocue that changed the image flung by the miracles of technology onto the blue screen before her.

But the words stumbled. “In the morning,” she warned Scotland, “look out for frog and fost.” She stared blankly for a moment, then tried again. “Fost and frog.” The cameraman, Dirk, shot her a look. “Fog and frost. It will clear by late morning, but temperatures will still be slow to rise, all because of this little fellow here --” she gestured inaccurately to an empty space in the North Sea.

She heard herself drone on, promising temperatures no higher than 38 Fahrenheit. (“At least I said Fahrenheit right,” she thought.) Then she swept on. “Further south” -- hand swooping down to the south-east of England -- “there’s less chance of frog, but even here it’s not going to be a day for the sun cream”. She’d rather liked that little jest writing it down beforehand, but now, she decided, it was just stupid. And did she say frog? Dirk was eyeing her, she could tell.

“Over here --” She turned towards Wales and Ireland and became aware of a clatter. She had dropped her autocue. Dirk’s eyes widened. On camera, before the viewing millions, she had to stoop down and pick it up. She needed that little button, to click the symbols into life, the map of Europe, the long-range forecast, the temperature chart. “Thank God I’m not wearing my red suit!” she heard herself say as she straightened up. She stared again. She’d said it out loud.

Click. The map of Europe showed up, lassooed with weather systems, none of them benign. She was on the home stretch. “And that’s the forecast,” Vickey sputtered. “Good night.” Transmission over, she stood transfixed before the camera like a rabbit in a car’s headlights.

“You all right, Vickey?” Dick said, slipping off his perch. “You seemed distracted. And what was that about a red suit?”

“A joke,” Vickey muttered; “It didn’t quite work.” She apologised for her slip-ups; she was a bit tired, she said. Three night shifts in a row. As she gathered her belongings, said goodbye to Dirk, put on her jacket and signed out at the front desk she began wondering where she could buy a Barbie doll, and tried to recall which of the suitcases in the flat were hers.

--------------------------------------------------------------

There was a distinctive style to the way Bruno pressed an elevator button. Was imperious the word? The finger plunged in, executed a wiggle, then yanked itself away as though the button were on fire. The elevator had to come, the gesture said, because Bruno had summoned it. Arriving at a shaft to find a group waiting, instinct always told him to force to the front, jab, and smile smugly as the elevator arrived. He switched on computers in exactly the same way.

So there he was in the foyer of his building in the early evening, doing the jab, standing expectant. One elevator was out of service. The other one appeared stuck on the tenth floor. He shifted his feet. It had been a difficult day. His computer had crashed. Company trading figures for the last month were poor. Socks, they were told, had to be pulled up, more business generated. I can’t pull them up any higher, he’d moaned; they’re already up to my crotch. He wanted his sofa, a warm bath, a whisky, and Vickey ministering.

When the elevator doors opened the cause of the delay stepped out: elderly, genteel, somebody’s mother, no doubt visiting the pin-striped City type holding her arm. They smiled. Bruno attempted a smile back, but it was only a glare with wrinkles. Having taken possession, he jabbed the button for the twelfth floor, felt flush with youth, and ascended into his heaven, forgetful of where he’d come from in life, and where, inevitably, he was going.

It took time for him to notice the Barbie doll. Other things snagged his attention first. The apartment looked different. Tidier, was it? Less clutter on the shelves. He called out for Vickey and appropriated the sofa. The drinks cabinet beckoned. Whisky, straight, not even any ice. Then, putting away his coat in the bedroom closet, he noticed how unruffled the bed counterpane looked, as though a hotel maid had just visited.

Barbie was sitting propped against a pillow, ski clothes covering her long plastic limbs and one-inch waist, sun glasses and a vacuous smile perched on her pinched face. What crap is this? Bruno thought. Is she playing with toys now?

Then he saw the note, tucked under Barbie’s ski boots. It was brief but to the point. They were getting nowhere. He wasn’t allowing her to be herself. Since he wanted to be the puppetmaster, maybe Barbie was a better playmate. She was going to be at Alannah’s. See you on TV. Signed Vickey. No kisses. No love.

It took a minute for the message to sink in. Did this mean she had actually left him? He stared at the note, seeing the letters, not reading the words, then rattled through her rack in the closet. Clothes were gone. Shoes, too. Something was missing from the storage cupboards up above.

He felt disbelief and anger. Was this any way to leave? A note attached to a stupid doll? As he moved round the flat, checking her bedside table, the bathroom, noticing how the “No more cookies” note had obscenities scrawled on it, he worked hard casting himself as the injured party. He’d been left high and dry, he decided, denied the chance to say “We can work it out” or “But I love you”, or flare nicely with wounded pride.

The words that Vickey might have said in response -- “Why do you think we could talk about it now?”, “I don’t think you know what love means” -- never once entered his head. Seeing the letters. Not reading the words.

Checking for further evidence, he felt the weight of the empty spaces: the gaps in the bookshelves, the shelf swept clear of her family photos, the air hanging silent over floor, furniture, drapes.

In the bathroom, Bruno caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He tried to look defiantly handsome and cocky. But he couldn’t manage it. A shudder took hold, and he realised that the face in the mirror -- chiselled and scrubbed, teeth gleaming like white sand in the sun -- would be all he had for company. Picking up Vickey’s note, he sank into the sofa, crumpled up the paper, swigged the remains of his whisky, stared at his hands, and for the first time in a long while felt lost, small, and hollow. If he hadn’t forgotten how to do it, he might even have cried.

--------------------------------------------------------

 

[Observer]

 

[Observer]

 

[Observer]

 

[Heidi]

 

[anarcha]