‘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,