Now it’s my turn to be horrified. I pull away from her as if she’d slapped me. “What are you talking about? What problem?”
“Well...” Genny simpers. She drags the word out as she toys with her long hair, twisting a silky strand around one perfectly polished finger. “Tad played a few rounds with your husband last week, and, well...the subject of your weight may have come up.” She smiles at me, her teeth sharp as a serpent’s.
Fire ignites my face, beginning at my neck and rising into my cheeks. It’s impossible to stop, so I pretend to be engrossed with arranging a price card in front of Gretchen Tildle’s shortbread. “Oh?” I try my best to sound unconcerned. The heat of the day, which was just tolerable before, has become unbearable. Sweat trickles down my chest to soak my unflattering nursing bra. My unrelieved breasts ache something awful. Shut up, Genny. Just shut up and go away, please.
She moves even closer, reminding me of a wasp in her yellow dress. I catch a whiff of alcohol on her breath, but I’m far too miserable to take any joy from it. When her lips almost touch my ear, she whispers two words. I’m so startled I have to ask her to repeat them. Her smile is smug, the triumphant grin of a kid who won the spelling bee. “Toilet paper,” she says again. It still doesn’t make sense.
Maybe she’s drunk. Flustered and reeling from the fact that my husband bemoans my weight gain to his golf buddies, I stumble over my words. “Is there a problem with the bathroom?” I paw through my purse. “I don’t have any toilet paper, but I have a pack of Kleenex somewhere.”
Genny’s laugh rivals her smile for smugness. It’s her tinkling aren’t-you-the-cutest-thing giggle. “It’s not for me, silly. It’s for you.”
I straighten, clasping my hands behind my back and digging my nails into the palms. I’m aware this pose strains the buttons of my dress even more, but the temptation to whack Genny in the face with the contents of my table is growing too strong to resist. Is she high?
“What are you talking about?” I focus on relaxing my jaw. I’ve been clenching my teeth so hard they ache.
“You eat it,” she says in a conspiratorial tone.
“Why would I eat toilet paper?” Maybe this is a nightmare I’ll soon wake up from. It’s making about as much sense.
“It’s an old dancer’s trick. You eat nothing but toilet paper and popcorn for a few weeks, and bam! Bye-bye, baby weight.” She giggles again, and this time there’s a maniacal edge to her laughter. I turn my shoulder toward her so my son is safely out of reach.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I stare at Genny like she’s insane, knowing I’m alienating her but unable to do anything but gawk. Fumbling for a better response, I say the only thing that comes to mind. “But I’m nursing.”
Rather than seem shamed, she shrugs. “So put him on a bottle for a while. Or don’t. It didn’t hurt the twins. It’s your choice, but you don’t hear Tad complaining about my weight, do you?”
That’s it. It’s time to treat my old friend to some dessert. My fingers unclasp and are reaching for a pie when a familiar voice cuts the tension.
“Genine, is that you? You’re looking stunning, my dear—absolutely stunning.”
My so-called friend spins around in time to be embraced by my mother-in-law. As put together as Genny is, it’s no contest. Eleanor has the kind of untouchable beauty you usually only find in history books. Her cornflower blue suit perfectly complements her eyes and pale blond hair. She looks like she’s emerged from an English garden party instead of the raucous village fair. Her clothing doesn’t dare wrinkle.
“As are you, Mrs. Taylor-Cox.” Genny returns the expected air kisses with the deference drones always show the Queen Bee.
“Please, darling.” Eleanor waves a hand in the air so her diamonds sparkle. “Call me Eleanor. You’re a grown woman now.” Pretending to notice me for the first time, her mouth forms a tiny O of surprise. “Whatever are you doing here?”
Certainly not enjoying myself.
“Manning the bake stand.”
The slightest hint of a frown creases her forehead. “This won’t do. This won’t do at all. You should be in charge of the flower stall, or in handicrafts. Somewhere with less temptation.”
Genny’s hand flies to her mouth but not fast enough to block her snigger. My face burns hotter. Before I can remind Eleanor that she was the one who assigned the tables, my mother-in-law makes a tsking noise.
“I swear I would lose my head if it weren’t attached. I forgot my coconut cake in the car.”
“Oh, you can’t forget that. It’s the most popular item at the fair,” Genny says, all but batting her eyelashes. “There’ll be a revolt when people see it’s not here. You’re such a wonderful baker, Eleanor.”
Yeah, right. As if Her Royal Highness would ever risk getting her hands dirty. Everyone knows Hannah, Eleanor’s Michelin pastry chef, is the baker of the house. I suspect no one cares enough about the woman to give her proper credit. She’s only a servant, after all.
“I’ll pop out and get it. No sampling while I’m gone, Sarah.”
Before I can so much as snarl in reply, my mother-in-law disappears in a drift of French perfume.
“I should go, too. It was great to see you. Remember what I said.” Genny winks at me as she walks away. “It’ll help.”
A scream begins in the pit of my stomach, bubbling toward my throat. Only one thing can stop it. Opening my Louis Vuitton diaper bag, I stuff it with the last of Tessie’s sweet buns. For good measure, I throw in some of the shortbread, too.
Andrea Waterton coos in delight when I roll Elliot’s stroller across the path that separates our stalls. Her expression changes to sympathy when I explain my predicament. “Are you all right? You’re a bit flushed.”
“I’m fine.” The smile feels frozen on my lips. “I just need to use the bathroom.”
“Well, of course I’ll watch him. We’re in this together, aren’t we? Take your time.” She grins. “It’ll only cost you a cookie.”
My smile is faltering. The facade is slipping. I can’t keep up appearances for much longer. “Help yourself,” I call over my shoulder as I hurry to the toilets.
Luckily the stalls are empty. I lock myself in the one farthest away from the entrance after checking to make sure the toilet is clean. Close enough. I crouch on the seat, hiking my dress around my thighs to ease the strain on the fabric. Popping the clasp on the diaper bag, I inhale the sultry scent of sugar. Heaven.
Genny’s voice whines in my brain like a mosquito I can’t escape. The subject of your weight may have come up...
Remembering the disapproval on Eleanor’s face makes my head ache.
No sampling while I’m gone, Sarah.
No sampling...
“Of course not, dearest Eleanor. Why sample when you can eat the whole thing?”
My control lasts until the first morsel of bread passes my lips, and then I stuff the caramel buns and cookies into my mouth, faster and faster. Crumbs shower my vintage dress, but I don’t care. When every last sweet is gone, my stomach lurches. I lift the lid of the toilet.
Hoping I’m still alone in the washroom, I vomit until my body shakes with dry heaves. Take your toilet paper and stuff it, Genny. I know a few tricks, too.
My hands tremble as I fix my makeup in the cloudy bathroom mirror. My color is too high, my eyes too bright. Eleanor will realize something’s up. Patting my French twist into place, I clean my face with a damp paper towel. My mascara is smudged and there’s nothing I can do about it—not even baby wipes