Love Is A Thief

‘Didn’t you hear me, Kate? You need to go to the boardroom. We are having an Early Morning Focused Focus Meeting. Go! Now!’

the boardroom | true love

As I nervously slipped into the back of the boardroom Chad was a partial blur, silently spinning himself in fast circles on his special velvet heart-shaped chair. Federico was attached to the Nespresso machine and frantically waved as I walked in. Jenny Sullivan was sitting straight-backed and straight-faced at the blood-drawing tip of the glass heart. It looked as if the heart were literally growing out from between her perfect breasts. The rest of the office were skim-reading a Time Magazine article that Loosie was silently handing out but with a noisy sense of self-importance.

The 2009 article claimed there was a link between obesity and love. It stated that within a few years of getting married women were twice as likely to become obese compared to women who were merely dating. The research had monitored over 7,000 women and found that unmarried women living with partners for up to five years had a 63% increased risk of obesity. One of the researchers wrote that, ‘The longer a woman lives with a romantic partner, the more likely she is to keep putting on weight.’ This was by no means the first piece of research to highlight this link, or the more general negative effects relationships can have on women, but it was the only piece of research Chad could get his hands on before our ironically named Early Morning Focused Focus Meeting—a meeting that has never once been focused, never once (before today) been held early in the morning and has occasionally involved several members of staff crying. Afternoon Mothers Meeting would have been a more appropriate name, or Let’s all listen to one of Chad’s never-ending monologues and try to guess how many expletives he will use.

‘I’ve decided I want to take True Love in a new direction,’ Chad said, mid spin, the words flying from his mouth as if from a spinning top; the sounds of the beginning and end of his sentence whizzing off in different directions. ‘Now, I know I didn’t run it past you lot first, but why the fuck would I? So keep up. I’m introducing a new section to the magazine and I’m calling it Love-Stolen Dreams.’ He locked eyes with me for a split second of every spin. ‘LSD for short.’ He grabbed the edge of the glass heart and came to a violent stop. ‘I want True Love to start having a more balanced view of love and I’ve decided to start with the twatting fat people.’ He got up to start pacing around the boardroom, but his legs buckled under him like a puppet with no master—too many spins—so from the boardroom floor he began his focus meeting speech. ‘Now, before any of you get all squeaky and high-pitched I’m not judging the fat, OK, so let’s just get that out there for any of you liberalists who are pro the obese and all that. My mum had a lifelong battle with the bulge so I know first-hand how a larger lady can feel. But our readers fessed up, OK. They put it out there. They wrote in, in twatting sackfuls, to say they blamed men for getting fat. Obviously it’s not true. I have about as much effect on a woman’s weight as a plastic satsuma but we are going to write about it anyway because apparently they give a crap. Marketing guy, put up advertising rates by 15% and call out all the diet-pill companies. In fact call anything weight-loss related: step machines, personal trainers, Paul-twatting-McKenna and his I Can Make You a Skinny Fuck book. We want it all. Yellow WEE Pod, I want a selection of short articles about celebrities whose weight has been affected by love, maybe something about the amount of calories sex burns, but how they got fat afterwards, otherwise we’ll lose the fat readers. Blue, black and silver WEES, I want to know about readers who lost material possessions because of love: houses, iPads, cars and so on. Pink WEE, I want you to write about people who cancelled travel plans for love. And I want something about how love killed someone, preferably through starvation, or through having an actual broken heart. We want the readers to go on a roller coaster of twatting emotions. Jenny, read up on queens or princesses, find one who gave up something for love, the right to the throne or something.’ Jenny rolled her eyes and huffed so heavily she could have blown herself, on her chair, across the room. ‘And, Kate—’ I went cold as he said my name ‘—let’s not forget little Kate Winters.’ I could feel everyone in the room bristling with delight at the prospect of seeing me publicly fired. ‘Kate, you have illegally published something in my magazine. You are therefore responsible for all these twatting letters.’ He pointed to the far corner of the room and I turned to look. ‘It was the ultimate breach of trust, not only that you found a way to access my copy, ergo millions of our readers, but that you then used that open channel to involve them in your own quest. Give me one magnificent twatting reason why I shouldn’t fire you then call the police and have you arrested?’

I didn’t know what to say. All I could see were the letters: thousands upon thousands of them on tables in the corner, towers of letters bigger than any paper forest Peter and I had ran around as kids. And each one was a woman, a living breathing woman wanting to share, wanting to speak, wanting to reach out and connect; every letter a different voice, a different soul. Women did want to take back their love-stolen dreams. They were like paper towers of hope. I felt my eyes twinkle at the prospect. This would keep me busy forever.

‘Oi! Pirate Kate! Give me one twatting reason why I shouldn’t fire you!’

Everyone in the room expected me to crumble, or beg or just pack up my desk and leave. But not now, not with all these love-stolen dreams laid out in front of me. Chad would have to drag me from the building by my ankles if he thought I was going to give up that easily.

‘I can give you two,’ I said dramatically, turning to face the room, who gasped. ‘Actually I can only give you one, but it consists of two words—’

‘This isn’t twatting charades!’

‘How about an interview with the media-shy Delaware O’Hunt?’ The room gasped again.

‘Actually that’s quite a lot more than two words …’ Federico muttered. ‘Even Delaware O’Hunt is three words, if you think about it, and then there was the rest of the sentence, which takes us closer to ten, although I don’t actually know if the O apostrophe gets counted with the Hunt. Does anyone know that?’ He looked around the room. ‘Anyone?’

‘I twatting love Delaware O’Hunt and you know it,’ Chad barked, sitting heavily in his heart-shaped chair. ‘Kate Winters, I swear to you now, if that interview doesn’t materialise, or you piss her off like you’ve pissed me off, then you will be thrown from the building.’ And he meant from the roof. ‘You are officially on probation. If you submit anything else to my magazine unauthorised you will be fired. If you come into the office late you will be fired. If you wear a pair of shoes I find offensive you will be fired.’ I looked down at my shoes to find they already offended me. ‘You are here because of the promise of Delaware and because a certain someone believes you are talented.’ Federico pointed at his own head. ‘I’m not so sure, so let’s see how your Love-Stolen Dreams idea pans out. But you will no longer write anything under your own name.’ I didn’t anyway. ‘You will go nowhere near the copy for next month’s edition, and as a special treat you can read every single one of the letters you helped generate. I am going to work you so twatting hard you won’t know what’s hit you. So dive in, go wild, pick your favourites then rewrite them for the magazine, in first person, obviously. And when the Delaware copy is ready email it to Jenny. Obviously it will run under her name. We can’t have a nobody writing our main twatting feature, otherwise what do I need Jenny for?’ Jenny went a bit pale and locked eyes with Chad, just for a second, before they both smiled sycophantically at each other. ‘So!’ Chad said, clapping his hands together. ‘I will be checking the copy for this edition and I read slow so everyone’s deadline is two days early.’ There was a communal groan. ‘Button it, you lot, and let’s take a moment. Close your eyes, take a breath and let’s say it together. “Thank twat for the twatting fat people.”’ He threw his unfinished apple over his shoulder and marched out of the room, Loosie in tow. Then everyone turned to glare at me. I say everyone turned; Federico didn’t. He sat in the corner giving me a mini round of applause before getting distracted by something invisible on his sleeve.

‘Well, look at you,’ he said as everyone left the boardroom. ‘True Love magazine chasing down Love-Stolen Dreams; a new direction; a new era; an extra-heavy workload for the rest of the office as a result. Well done you!’ He squeaked the word ‘Yeah!’ and shook his fist in the air.

Federico was right. It was worth a fist shake and a silent Yeah. I had a virtual conveyor belt of love-stolen dreams to busy myself with, taking back what love had stolen; helping women reconnect with themselves; spreading happiness and joy and hoping it was contagious like an extra-virulent strain of Pig Flu. And after a few of the postal sacks had been sorted through and skim-read we found Chad had most definitely been right. There did seem to be an awful lot of women who felt their bodies had changed since they’d fallen in love. So Federico and I decided to invite 20 of them to join a Fat Camp. We wanted to get back their pre-love bodies. We wanted to make them feel pre-love happy and light. Maybe we could learn why they gained the weight in the first place, because everyone wants to feel beautiful and, excuse the pun, worth it, so why did so many of us feel the exact opposite, and why was love bringing about this change?

As I packed up my belongings that morning, on the first official day of Love-Stolen Dreams, I felt a glimmer of excitement, a spark of hope, a hint of happiness, which were all feelings that had been absent in my life for some time. But they were quickly replaced by fear and apprehension as Jenny Sullivan breezed past me in a gust of perfection and skinny hatred, and although I never saw her lips move I swear blind I heard her whisper, ‘You’ll pay for this, Winters,’ as she marched into Chad’s office, slamming the glass door behind her.

the story of peter parker—the boy who never smiles

I grew up living next door to a boy named Peter Parker. Not the emotionally burdened alter ego of Spiderman, but the emotionally burdened son of parents unfamiliar with the world of Marvel. Peter is my oldest friend. He was my best friend. And between you and me he was probably my first crush.

our official timeline

Age 2¼ – Peter and I met at our local preschool. Actually I’m not sure you can really meet someone at 2¼, more accurate to say we were placed next to each other and shared the use of a black and white Etch-A-Sketch.

Age 3½ – Peter and I discovered the duck pond. There I made him eat 24 tadpoles telling him they were a new kind of Cola Bottle. For the next 11 years he ate almost anything I gave him and I followed him almost everywhere he went.

Age 4 – Grandma tried to make us kiss at my birthday pool party. Peter refused and burst into a volcano of girl-hating tears. So did I, but for profoundly different reasons.

Age 5 – Peter kissed a different girl at a different pool party, this time voluntarily. Her name was Annabel, she carried a Care Bear and she always smelt of strawberries. This time I was the only person crying.

Age 6 – The local kids started violently flicking their wrists in Peter’s face and making strange saliva-infused whooshing noises. It was one of the toughest years for Peter at school and culminated in a hysterical outburst when our teacher tried to make him wear a Spiderman costume for Halloween.

Age 7¼ – Peter Parker’s mum died, quite suddenly, and I was never really told how.

By age 8 I realised Peter Parker no longer smiled. I only saw his front teeth exposed when he played with his pet dog, Jake. Then he would laugh and giggle and occasionally, if he didn’t think anyone was watching, he’d do a sort of high-pitched excited scream. We lived next door to each other so I was always watching.

Age 8¾ – I made it my official life mission to make Peter Parker smile again because when he did, even for a second, he could light up a room. I etched my promise onto the bark of a tree and pricked my finger with a needle until it bled. As an 8-year-old that was the official way to make a life’s promise to oneself. The tree is still standing and I still have a tiny scar.

I was more or less constantly preoccupied by Peter until age 14. He was the man in my life, or at least the unsmiling boy in it. Then, just before my 15th birthday, his father sent him to an international school in Switzerland; the kind of school with no formal curriculum and a lofty focus on developing the individual. Peter didn’t say goodbye, he didn’t leave a note and I never heard from him again.

peter parker the adult is a handsome, expressionless man. He has thick dark hair, dark blue eyes and sports the complexion of an A-list Hollywood actress. His clothes are always ironed, he smells just the way you’d want your boyfriend to smell and has the ability to retain inordinate amounts of information. Grandma tells me that he completed a Physics degree in Switzerland, a Master’s degree in Paris and a PhD in America. He now specialises in the development of renewable sources of energy, and in handsome frowning.

peter parker’s favourite thing—dogs and any kind of physical challenge, including sit-ups.

peter parker’s favourite activity—running at high speed with a dog and any kind of physical challenge, including sit-ups.

mary the cleaner—68 years old

Mary the cleaner worked for my family for over 30 years. She was plump but not fat, rosy, but not red, jolly, but not funny. When drinking tea, in between sips, Mary always held her mug in both hands against her chest, as if warming her own breastbone.

‘Little Kate Winters! Look at you,’ she said as she opened the front door of her terraced house. ‘My goodness, don’t you look lovely? Just lovely,’ she said, pulling me inside. ‘You know it was just the other day your grandma told me you were back. I am so sorry things didn’t work out with Gabriel.’ She hung my coat over the banisters and turned to face me. ‘I remember the two of you at your grandma’s birthday. You were quite the smitten kittens. I was sure the next time I’d see you you’d have a trail of beautiful children running along behind you. How are you feeling about it all?’ she said, looking deep into my eyes. Now, even though I thought I was fine, and had turned up like a proper journalist with a Dictaphone and giant pack of chewing gum, a childlike lump appeared in my throat and my voice all but disappeared. Because adult women have the ability to reduce me to tears by uttering one simple harmless sentence … ‘How are you feeling?’ Mary looked startled as tears spurted unexpectedly from my eyes.

‘Oh dear, oh dear, you know it was just the same for our Laura,’ she said, patting me on the back. ‘She used to be with a lovely lass called Carly, who we all adored. Carly was into aromatherapy. Have you heard of it? Well, we were sure there’d be wedding bells and civil ceremonies any day. I bought a hat. But Laura messed it up as only Laura can and ran off with a fitness instructor called Tessa, who, excuse me, is terribly masculine and terribly rude. Well, what’s the point of being a bloody lesbian then setting up home with a woman who is the spits of a ruddy great man?’ And now Mary needed a hanky and a hug. Eventually we steered the conversation back onto Mary and my idea about Love-Stolen Dreams.

‘Well, it made me laugh when your grandma called the other morning, wanting to know about my deepest desires.’ Mary took a sip from a mug commemorating the marriage of Prince Charles to Princess Diana. ‘I felt like I was on one of those TV phone-ins!’ she said, pushing herself further back into her 1980s floral sofa. ‘And it’s not that I’m unhappy, Kate. I am very content. And I would never want Len to think otherwise, poor old bugger! It’s just your grandma’s such a pushy what-not. She wouldn’t get off the phone until I told her at least one unfulfilled dream or interest.’ Mary tutted good-naturedly before offering me a strawberry Quality Street. ‘And it’s silly that I even think about it. I don’t think about it. It’s nothing. Well, now I’ve gone and made it sound like something! Bloody Josephine! For the record I am happy watching a bit of Top Gear and sitting with Len while he fiddles with his cars, but, if I was going to spend the rest of my life “alone” as your grandma rather dramatically told me, then I suppose learning about cars would make me quite happy.’ She offered me another Quality Street. I took another Strawberry Cream.

‘What do you mean you want to learn about cars? Like, you’d want to understand the different makes and models?’

‘Oh no dear, I’d want to learn how to take apart and put back together a combustion engine,’ she said, straightening out her flannel dress and cardi combo. ‘I’d want to train to be a mechanic.’ My half-chewed Strawberry Cream nearly fell from my mouth.

‘OK,’ I said, nodding my head. ‘Cool.’ Lots more head-nodding. ‘So, er, have you had any mechanical, combustion-type experiences so far …?’

‘Well, I’ll tell you, Kate,’ she said, tapping my knee, ‘I did do a little something about six months ago. There was an old part from one of Len’s cars and he was going to throw it out, but I knew it wasn’t broken. I was sure of it. So when Len went to work I took the part out the bin, took it apart, cleaned it up and put it back together. I gave it back to him and told him I’d got it from Jim at the scrapyard. Well, I never tell lies, Kate, but I was desperate to know if it worked. And it did! He put it in the car and it worked!’ Mary was squeezing her podgy hands together in her lap as if shaking her own hand with praise.

‘Wow! Mary, that’s amazing! You must be so proud!’

‘I felt on top of the world about it, Kate! Still do! It worked because I had fixed it. Can you imagine that? You see something broken and you put it back together, you fix it, with your own bare hands.’

For some reason the image of my own heart popped into my head, bright red, shattered on a stone floor. I saw hands picking up all the pieces, squeezing them back into shape like a plasticine toy. But all the pieces wouldn’t stick; they kept falling off and tumbling back to the floor, like overly floured pastry. I shoved another Quality Street in my mouth to fill the void.

‘So, Mary, how did you feel when you were actually working on the part?’

‘Well, I’m not sure if it’s like this for you, Kate, but normally I have a hundred things going on in my head. While I’m ironing the sheets I’m scanning the room looking for my next job, thinking about what’s in the fridge for dinner, wondering what time Len will be back from work. But when I sat at the kitchen table fixing that part I was completely into what I was doing. And that felt … peaceful. When I finished I felt this warmth, right here.’ She placed the palm of her hand against her breastbone and left it there for a few seconds. Then she picked up her mug of tea and rested it on the exact same spot. We both fell silent. My red plasticine heart was still in pieces on the imaginary floor in my mind’s eye.

‘Mary, do you think you might be interested in doing some kind of mechanics course with me? I could organise it all through work. And what goal do you think we should aim for? Would your dream be realised the first time someone pays you to fix a car or—?’

‘Well, I never!’ Mary flushed bright red. ‘Someone paying me to fix an engine!’ She shook her head. ‘It’s not possible, Little Kate. It’s a silly idea.’

‘Mary, if you find it hard to imagine yourself as a mechanic, why don’t you try visualising a version of yourself in a parallel universe, a Power Mary, who isn’t worried about what Len might think, or the kids, who only has herself to please? What would that Mary be doing with her days? I bet she’d work on cars! Try it,’ I urged. ‘Close your eyes and imagine a Power Mary in an alternate universe.’ Mary looked at me suspiciously before good-naturedly closing her eyes. ‘What would Power Mary’s perfect car-related day be? How would it start?’

‘Well, I can’t do a thing before I have a cuppa so Power Mary would need to start her day the same way. Do they have tea in this universe?’

‘I think so.’