Page 20 of Festive Flings

~ Lauren ~

I am a mess. My granny passed away and I had to travel to her native Northern Ireland for the funeral. There wasn't a lot of time for me to prepare as it is customary for funerals to be planned and executed within two days of a person dying there. With the travelling and the obligatory family time I have completely lost five days. There is absolutely nothing to show for them at all. My work is behind and the diet I started on Monday has completely hit the wall.

When I arrive back in London on Friday evening, I am so exhausted that I just crawl straight into my bed and fall asleep. Every part of me aches, and I found it overwhelming constantly being in someone else’s company for the past few days.

My mother milked this for all it was worth, and as usual she took any opportunity she could to ridicule and belittle me in front of her family in Ballymena. The comments about my weight and size, I am used to. Her criticism of me and my weight are constant, and I therefore would have been more surprised if she had been pleasant to me.

“Stand up straight, Lauren. Suck in your stomach, Lauren. As you can see, Lauren likes cake too much. What do you weigh now, Lauren? Have you considered a gastric band?” She pointedly made these comments and others loudly in front of whoever would listen, making me feel even more embarrassed and ashamed than I already do.

Unfortunately, that was her being pleasant. Once she was filled with liquor, everything deteriorated even more. “You are such an embarrassment. Why didn’t I get a pretty, petite daughter? I would have loved a daughter like your cousin, Niamh. She is so beautiful and slender. Aren’t Auntie Kathryn and Auntie Christine’s daughters beautiful, Lauren? Just look at their attractive figures. I bet they don’t stuff their fat faces with biscuits.”

Once she was through with her critical analysis of me and my shortcomings, I honestly felt like I had gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. At least now she has returned to the coast with my father, and I won’t have to see her until Christmas. I am trying my best to get out of that too. I just don’t think my self-esteem can take another searing scolding from her and her vicious tongue.

When I wake up on Saturday morning, I decide to hit the ground running. I resume my weight loss programme by jumping straight back on my weight loss shakes, I exercise on my cross trainer for thirty minutes and then jump in the shower. My mother made no secret of the fact that she despised my shocking red hair and forced me to dye it back to a dark chestnut brown before we went to Northern Ireland. She told me it would be seen as sinful to attend a funeral looking like a common whore.

Later on, when her mocking turned cruel and vicious towards me, she said, “you looked like a pig in a wig with that red hair all curled out and your makeup on trying to look attractive. You looked ridiculous.” Which had really stung because I know exactly who and what I am. I have tried to find my peace and accept that is who I am, and once I apply a bit of makeup and have my hair done, I don’t see myself as such a loser.

Doing normal average things allows me to feel like a normal average woman who likes pretty things and likes to wear nice clothes, perfume and makeup. I tried to be a lot more reserved for the rest of the time I had to be with her after that particular comment. No matter how much I told myself I didn't care, the aching abyss right inside my chest assured me that not only did I care what she said but that I also craved her approval.

Now that I’m back home, after I dress casually and dry my boring brown hair, I make my way to my most favourite place in the world.

I love it in Greenwich; it is a little piece of heaven hidden in London. There are pubs, bars and restaurants, a brilliant market as well as other shops and outlets. However, the hidden gem, the piece de resistance if you like, is the Tables & Fables Book Café. This is where I like to spend most of my time, and where I like to put in the hours for my work.

Today, the little café is bustling with other readers, writers, and hungry Christmas shoppers in need of a rest and refreshments. It has changed in here since last week. The Christmas decorations are now up; there are beautiful and tasteful lights and ornaments about. The place looks wonderful, both festive and fun. It won’t be hard to get into the Christmas spirit and draw inspiration here today.

When I get to the front of the line to place my order, Dana, the Barista, greets me. “Hey, Lol, we haven’t seen you all week. Where have you been hiding?” I like Dana and the other girls at the café. They are kind and chatty and genuinely interested in me and my work. Billie, the owner, is one of my biggest fans and advocates. She always pushes and encourages me to display my work, to push myself and be proud of what I have achieved. I can’t see Billie today, which is unusual. She and her children are usually the standard features of a weekend.

I explain about my Granny and the funeral, and Dana murmurs all the usual condolences and tells me my favourite table, which is tucked away at the back, is vacant and waiting for me. She will bring my mocha to me when it is done.

When I am sitting at my table, I take out my laptop and turn it on. I have neglected my baby for almost a week, and I am anxious to get back to it.

“How is the book coming along, Lol?” Dana asks when she brings my drink to the table. She looks over my shoulder, and notices the number of readers I have and whistles. So there you have it, my biggest secret and the greatest love of my life is the one I create in my books. To my friends and family, I am Lauren, the girl with a weight problem and an overfondness of biscuits. To my online fans and readers, I am Lol Outloud, an award-winning romance novelist.

“My readers will be after my head for leaving them hanging for almost a week without an update. Hopefully I won’t have lost too many,” I reply and although I say it in jest, there is a part of me that sincerely fears this: that one day my readers will realise I am no good or that they prefer someone else.

“Your readers love you and will understand. Family comes first. Give me a shout if you need anything else. Ooh, is this a new book? I’ve not seen this one before.” She points to the book I have just placed on my table and I hold it up for her to see.

“It's not mine. It's a book by my writing hero, Melody Tyden, called Mismatched Mates. She recently had a new cover commissioned on it and I just had to get it, isn’t it beautiful? You should read it; the story is wonderful, and Melody is one of the best writers I’ve come across. I can only dream of being as good as her in the future.” I regard the new design of my old favourite story as I tell Dana about it. The pinks and blues really stand out. I will have to seek out her designer for my next book, too.

“I will be sure to order a copy. When will your new book be ready? Are you still aiming for the beginning of January?” I eagerly hold up my crossed fingers. Goodness, I hope so.

I open my Word document and re-read my last couple of chapters when I am instantly reminded of why I wrote this racy scene. It was because of Tim, the guy who was lumbered with me when my friend went home with his friend.

Tim, the guy with the beautiful kind eyes. Tall and lean with just a hint of muscle, who treated me with such care and gentleness. What could someone like him possibly see in someone like me?

He kissed me, the softest of kisses, and said that he really wanted to, but he didn’t take it any further. It didn’t take a genius to work out why. He could probably have his pick of the thin, beautiful girls with their confidence and self-assurance. I would be a fool to think I could hold his attention.

I just am not the type of girl men fall in love with. I am the fat, jolly friend, the bag holder, the taxi money keeper and the sensible one. My greatest loves are my books and writing, and that will probably be my only love affair.

No one will love and fancy me. I am hideous. A monster. A big, fat, ugly bloater. If my own mother can't love me, I have little chance of anyone else loving me. I hate that I don't know if this is me or my trauma talking. I always feel worse after spending time with my mother and her acid tongue. There are times when I am happy to be me and I can accept who and what I am but an hour with my mother shatters all my self-confidence and I’m left with self-loathing.

Tim sent a couple of texts to me, and at first, I could have been swept away by the romantic notion of it all, but the longer I left it, the more my doubts took over. He was just being kind; he was trying to prove a point that he wasn’t shallow. Could he be doing it as a dare or was he trying to complete some sort of sexual bucket list?

I just can't leave myself open in case I get hurt, and I know I could because Tim has something, something no other man has. He is special and I could fall for him, and then what would I do?

Even though I should be writing, I can’t stop myself from looking back over his texts. If only he would text again, and I could casually remark that I am back in London. Deep down, I know he won’t text again. Why would he? We shared one kiss; one amazing kiss that will be etched in my memory for a long time to come.

I could text him. I actually try. I write the message out several times, and then instantly delete it, shaking my head at myself. I don’t have the nerve. The doubts about myself and the whispers I had heard about myself at the funeral, strangers and cousins alike whispering about my large tummy and thundering thighs, have robbed me of every ounce of gumption I once had. I can’t, he won’t, we would never be. That’s all I can think of now.

---