My Pear-Shaped Life. Carmel Harrington
sunshine made its presence felt and a bright rainbow appeared. Could it melt her troubles away like lemon drops? Greta walked back home, watching the rainbow move further from her with every step.
‘That you, love?’ Emily called out when she heard the key in the door.
‘The one and only,’ Greta said. She took a deep breath, then plastered a smile on her face.
‘You’re looking fierce tired today, G. Peaky, in fact. Now, don’t get annoyed with me, but I read an article online earlier. And, to be honest with you, you fit the bill of an addict. To a T.’
‘Ah Mam! I’m hardly shooting up drugs on the side of the street!’
‘No, you’re not doing that,’ Emily agreed.
Please let this be the end of this discussion. The gods ignored Greta.
‘But you’ve had blackouts quite a few times. You’ve driven a car and nearly killed both of us.’ Emily blessed herself again. ‘And you look wrecked.’
‘I’ll go to bed early tonight. You won’t know me tomorrow.’
‘Well, they do say that the best eraser in the world is a good night’s sleep,’ Emily said. ‘Tell you what, I’ll run you a bath. Nothing like a nice long relaxing soak to set you up for bed. Your dad will be home soon to make his curry. By the time you come down, dinner will be ready.’
‘You know I hate baths. I don’t like to lie in my own filth.’
‘How dirty are you? Go away out of that!’ Emily said. ‘Follow me up in five minutes and I’ll have it ready for you.’
Greta watched her mam walk out of the kitchen, then sank into one of the dining-room chairs. She was so tired. Every bone in her body cried out in protest. But once her mam got a bee in her bonnet, there was no stopping her. She’d have the bath and go straight to bed, skipping her dad’s dinner. And, hopefully, her body would have no choice but to cooperate and sleep.
Her stomach flipped and fluttered as Greta’s mind spiralled. She walked over to the larder press and stood on her tippy toes to reach the good tin, which her mam had hidden behind a double pack of kitchen towels. Greta opened the lid and pulled out a treat-size bar of Crunchie. She unwrapped it and stuffed it whole in her mouth, feeling the chocolate melt on her tongue, followed by a hit of the sugary fizz of the honeycomb centre. But it wasn’t enough. So she grabbed a Cadbury’s Caramel too. But no matter how much she stuffed into her mouth, her heart continued to pound and her belly ached. The caramel bar hadn’t made life easy. The bunny was full of shit.
‘I’ve put the good stuff in.’ Upstairs in the bathroom, Emily held up her Jo Malone birthday gift set to Greta. She had also put tea-light candles onto every available surface, which were few and far between in the small family bathroom. But they did look pretty as they flickered in the dusky evening, throwing shapes and shadows on the wall. There was a large glass of red wine for Greta, which sat on the ledge beside the bath. Emily was prepared to do anything to get her daughter to relax and fall asleep without the need for any tablets. How could she have let it go on for so long?
‘I think I’ll skip dinner, Mam. Once I get out of the bath I’ll just go straight to bed,’ Greta said.
‘Are you not hungry?’ Emily asked.
‘I’m trying to cut down,’ Greta said, trying not to think about the chocolate bars from the tin. There was a time when Greta and her mam had no secrets. Emily was always on her side. She used to say, ‘Us women have to stick together! Stand united against your dad and the boys!’ It had been a while since Greta had heard that or felt it either.
‘Oh love, that’s great. I think this is your time to shine, do you know that? Just try to forget about everything and relax in the bath. Have a total switch-off and let all your worries disappear. Tomorrow is another day.’
‘To mess it all up again?’ Greta joked, but it landed wrong and just made her mam frown.
‘Ah no, love.’
‘Ah yes, Mam.’
‘You don’t mean that?’ Emily asked.
‘Course I don’t. I’m joking. Now scoot. Let me get the full benefit of your Jo Malone!’
Greta slipped out of her dressing gown and hung it on the back of the door. The mirror above the sink had clouded over with steam. She ran her hand across it and revealed her naked body. Her breasts were OK, she supposed. And her waist had always been small. But her stomach protruded so much that people thought she was pregnant. In fact, one day a guy had stood up to give her his seat on the bus. She had been too embarrassed to say she wasn’t pregnant, so Greta had patted her tummy and smiled her thanks. She’d cried herself to sleep that night.
Now, she sank into the tub and felt the sting of the too-hot water as it covered her body. This was one of the main problems she had with baths. Greta was always bored by the time the water reached optimum temperature. She preferred showers; there was less pressure to relax. The other issue with baths was that no matter which way she manoeuvred her body in the tub, parts of her white, flabby flesh were exposed through the bubbles. It wasn’t like this in the movie, where the heroine always looked so petite as she frolicked in a large bathtub. Mind you, the way her career was going right now, Greta would never have to worry about a bath scene in anything.
She looked up to the ceiling and became distracted by a crack. How long had that been there? The more she tried to relax, the more her body tensed. She should never have let her mam talk her into this. It was different when they were kids. They used to call it Splash Time. Her mam would squeeze the suds out of a yellow sponge, letting them run down Greta’s back, while she sang nursery rhymes to her. Greta blinked away tears and gulped down a mouthful of the Cabernet Sauvignon.
A fly appeared out of nowhere. There weren’t any open windows in the bathroom, yet somehow it had done a Houdini on it and was buzzing around like it owned the joint. It paused to take a rest and joined in Greta’s fascination of the ceiling above her and its new crack.
Rest. If only. Her body and mind were stretched so taut that she could feel cracks splintering through her just like the one above her. She imagined the ceiling collapsing on top of her, splashing water onto the floor. Her mam would hate that. And she loved her mam, even if she bugged the life out of her sometimes. She closed her mind to the worried frown that had been etched across Emily’s forehead as she closed the bathroom door a few minutes ago. And instead, she watched the fly, which watched the crack in the ceiling.
I’m cracking up. She grabbed her phone and saw a new text message had come in from her agent Michelle. With a shaking hand she pressed open.
Michelle: I’ve just heard from Louise. It was down to you and one other actress but unfortunately they went in a different direction for Clara. Give me a call and we’ll arrange a time for you to call in. I think it’s time we had a chat.
The disappointment was crushing. Greta was so tired of playing this game, but never winning. How was she supposed to tell her family that once again she was close but no cigar. She flicked through her feed, until she found her balm.
Dr Gale was looking directly into the camera, with tears in her eyes.
Drgretagale We’re all damaged, some of us are better at hiding it than others, that’s all. Can I get a hell yeah?
#timetoletgo #wellness #drgretagale #whatsinyourcupboard #mindfulness #inspire #drgretagale #positivethoughts #findyourtribe
Once again it was as if Dr Gale was speaking directly to Greta’s pain. The pain of rejection, the pain of being ‘Big G’. She put the phone back in her toiletry bag, her fingers brushing against a pack of cotton-wool pads.
Greta had another swig of wine as the fly landed with a tickle on her right shoulder.