Chapter 11 - An Unplanned Sabbatical (Part 3)

_You could get fatter._

Multiple times per day, Rebecca would replay those words in her head, threading them together, pulling them apart, running them through her head like silk ribbon between her fingers. She still wasn’t quite able to believe that they were real. Had she just imagined it? Dreamed it? Was _Robert_ even real, or just some fantasy come to life?

Then she would just go to his Instagram. See his smiling face. Click through the handful of likes from his handful of followers—Shana, glowing in portraits expertly shot by her photographer wife; Alan and George, selfies taken at unflattering angles; Willow and her militant veganism. Even Willow’s unappetising, grey-tinged photos were getting a confusingly large number of likes, especially from her former fellow contestants, until Rebecca remembered that Vegan Week was coming, and they were probably scouring her feed for advice on what—or what not—to do to win it.

She even spotted his sister. At first, the glimpse of Robert cheek-to-cheek with a young woman made her gasp, then she looked harder: at the eyes, the set of the chin and the width of the mouth. Obviously related. No reason to panic. On the contrary, Robert hadn’t been lying when he’d said that he and his sister were close. Jono’s sister had hated him, which, in the end, was really rather telling.

So Robert was real. She wasn’t imagining things. More cheese shops had popped up on his feed. She wasn’t imagining that, either. He gave no explanation for those artful little snaps--shot almost like street photography—other than one emoji: a winking face.

_You could get fatter._

The weather turned. Rebecca dabbled with a bit of freelance work: remote consultancy for a YouTuber specialising in theatre makeup tutorials. She watched the rain out her window and snacked on Babybels. Finished two sharing bags of crisps over the weekend. Read a book—pulp Sci-Fi, brainless and enjoyable--with an 850g bar of Dairy Milk, rubbing milk chocolate-kissed fingers into the flesh of her stomach where her vest top was riding up. Visited the kebab shop two doors down thrice in one week. Graduated to her comfiest, largest tracksuit bottoms when she knew she wasn’t going to leave the house.

It was mindless--a sort of pleasurable, half-awake dreamland of cheese and chocolate and chips with curry sauce. It was a little lonely, though, too, and a bit directionless. She missed work. She needed a goal in mind. Something to concentrate on.

_You could get fatter._

_How to get fat_, she typed into Google, having looked both ways to make sure no one was watching (of course no one was watching; she was sat on her sofa with her hand in the waistband of her trousers).

Did you mean “How to lose fat?” suggested Google.

“No,” Rebecca said aloud. “No, I did not.”

It was mostly articles—sarcastic little jabs at the obesity epidemic, which Rebecca had strong feelings about. (_Are you treating the symptom or the disease?_ she thought bitterly, picking another Babybel from the red net bag). She clicked back to the results, then saw a website she thought Rachel may have been referring to when she sneered at the glasses-wearing, heavy-breathing, masturbating men of the internet. Curious, she clicked through.

She frowned as she landed on a splash page that showed a larger-than-average woman’s silhouette. It seemed objectifying, and a little bit icky.

_I wonder if Robert’s on here_, she thought. _I hope not, she thought._

(Though she also hoped he was, a little).

She could peruse the images and the forums without signing up, and what she saw was fascinating. She’d taken Sociology at A-level alongside Art and Photography, and a familiar fascination was flaring as she studied a selection of candid photos of fat bellies and smiling, double-chinned faces. The comments were…not what she expected. She was used to underwear adverts on Facebook inviting streams of abuse for models who dared to be bigger than a size six. She did not expect this…_effusive praise_ of the larger form.

The forums were quieter than the image gallery, with some threads spanning back years. Blushing, still terrified that some intruder may have broken into her flat and was watching her silently through a cupboard keyhole, she bent low over her laptop and clicked Feeders.

The thread was recently necro-posted, and she didn’t have to scroll back far until she saw a familiar face: black and white, tongue lolling, adorable.

Panda.

It could have been any collie, truly, but for the fact that a similar photo, taken only a few seconds either side, was on Robert’s Instagram feed: the same flowering cherry tree took up the bulk of the background, alongside a winding grey path. The same collar, though the tag was tucked against the dog’s fur.

The username: Pandamonium.

Rebecca stared at the photo. She looked at the text without reading it. She couldn’t decide whether she was disappointed.

Or turned on.

She scrolled back, concentrated. The thread was about helping girlfriends gain weight. Pandamonium’s post was frank, and exactly what he’d told her when she’d first made him up: his girlfriend had gained weight as a side effect of his baking, and completely under her own volition, then had left him. He confided to the thread that he hoped to find someone in the future who shared his interest, though he’d take a skinny lass as long as she didn’t blame him and leave him for making her own self fat. He then block-quoted and cursed-out--in typical creative Scottish fashion--someone who was threatening to slip weight gain powder into his wife’s breakfast smoothies.

So Rachel was wrong, then, Rebecca though. Robert may have had a _preference_, but there was no creepiness for his good looks to forgive.

Though if he had been the one threatening to slip powder into his girlfriend’s drink, would she feel that same rage without some secret, ashamed arousal bubbling away beneath the surface? She…wasn’t sure.

_You could get fatter._

Rebecca clicked through to his profile. She couldn’t see any more than the total of five posts he had made over the past six years, and his profile photo. Not active, then. She was disappointed, until she spotted Last online: yesterday.

Rebecca’s pointer hovered above the sign up button.

Can I? she thought. Could she? She knew it was him, but would anyone else? She doubted it. They weren’t allowed to be friends for six weeks yet (thank you, norovirus, for prolonging that), but he didn’t even have to know it was her. And if he did, he didn’t have to say so.

She didn’t have to say she knew it was him, either. And if he didn’t recognise her (though she had the strangest feeling that he might have been looking for her, waiting for her to appear), she could help him. She could post a photo—no face, neck down. Perhaps an outfit she wore once to work, slightly outgrown. The thought of pulling on her old slacks made her squeeze her thighs together in strange pleasure.

She clicked.

She signed up.

She closed the window with a sense of both excitement and relief.

Her search results reappeared: “how to get fat.”

She took her lip betwen her teeth and grabbed her mobile for taking notes.

That evening, she went to the supermarket. She stood in front of the row of chocolate as though she were David facing Goliath, or a lone, chubby elf readying for the incoming orc horde.

_You could get fatter._

_Yes,_ she thought. She reached for the top shelf, her shirt slipping up to her navel. _Yes, I certainly could._