Chapter 14 - Week Five: Vegan Week (Part 2a)

Later that night, Rebecca reclined on the bed back at the Airbnb, so full she could hardly move. A half-empty cup of Pick N Mix from the corner shop was nestled into her side, threatening to tip and spill chocolate buttons and Giant Strawbs onto the duvet if she breathed too deeply in.

It had been a…night. Maybe having two mains just to goad Will had been immature, but she did not care. For once, production had actually ponied up for a quality restaurant, one of those gastropubs that dabbled in proper international cuisine. Everything had looked so good that she couldn’t decide between the beef panang or the fish and chips, so she got both. At least the fish and chips had been the pensioner’s plate, so about half the normal size (which was still actually relatively large, looking back).

And then there were the spring rolls, the garlic bread, and the Eton Mess for pudding (and Will har-haring, ‘Oh look, it’s our government!’ when it arrived at the table).
When Rebecca scraped the last spoonful of cream from her glass, she set the spoon down and the table burst into applause.

She should have been insulted, or perhaps hurt, but she chose not to be. Instead, she was pleased. Clutching her distended stomach, she gave the shallowest of bows with a grunted, ‘Urgh.’

Oh God, she had never been so full.
Perhaps she had been too determined; that cup of Pick N Mix had definitely been designed to wind up her colleagues. She’d been checking her mobile all night for any notifications from the website. Patrice asked her if she was ordering a pizza to be delivered to the Airbnb later (which had tempted her at the time, though she was grateful for her restraint now). Eduardo flattered her by saying he wasn’t sure where she put it all, only to earn several incredulous looks from the rest of the crew.

No sign of Robert.

Now, with still no sign of Robert, Rebecca felt like the cliched beached whale, her stomach rising in a steady mound like those big historic lumps in fields, the ones where the ancient Celts or whatever used to bury their dead. Robert would like that comparison, she thought idly. He’d probably laugh and tell her he’d always found those strangely sexy.

She grunted as she swung her feet around the side of the bed and padded to the bathroom to brush the Giant Strawbs from her teeth. As she extracted a precise, pea-sized blob of toothpaste onto her toothbrush, she felt her arm jiggle.

She bent closer to her reflection.

God, she looked fat. Like, properly fat. It was probably all the salt in the beef panang, and actually, wasn’t she supposed to be starting her period soon? Still, though. She wasn’t sure how much she weighed—she deliberately hadn’t checked—and she hadn’t yet graduated to the biggest clothes in her wardrobe at home (the ones she’d kept just in case from the last Jono-months), but she certainly looked the fattest she’d been since university. Maybe it was the lack of tone, or the rapid gain, that made her look puffy, swollen, huge.

Maybe it was the fact that she was doing it on purpose.

The thought of which gave her an electric thrill between her legs.

She finished brushing and ran (still jiggling) back to the bed to check her mobile. There was a foreign-looking notification in the toolbar. She immediately opened it.

It was a message.

From Pandamonium.

Pandamonium: Hi.

There was quite a bit of happy flailing on the bed after this—accompanied by more jiggling—as Rebecca engaged in more vigorous exercise than she had in weeks, alternately gripping the phone to her chest and gazing at it from arm’s length, cycling her legs in the air as though she was on one of those ineffectual little desk bikes. Finally, she composed herself, and she breathlessly flopped belly down onto the bed (urgh) and began to think.

She tapped her fingernail to her lips, wondering how best to play this. She looked at his message with incriminating eyes, trying to find fault in it, trying to assess whether it would be obvious that they did, actually, know each other.

Sorry, she typed back. But ‘hi’? You’re going to have to try a bit harder than that.

A moment passed. A light flashed green. He was online.

Pandamonium: …Good evening, madam?

Rebecca grinned. Her hands went a bit sweaty, leaving a fog on her phone screen.

Brie_anna: A bit better.

Pandamonium: So.

Brie_anna: So.

Brie_anna: You ever talk to anyone on this website before?

Pandamonium: No.

Pandamonium: Something about your photo caught my eye.

Brie_anna: I like your dog.

Brie_anna: Assuming it’s your actual dog and not a stock-dog designed to lure in ladies.

Pandamonium: She’s mine, though she’d be flattered that you think she models professionally.

Rebecca grinned again, biting down on a nail. This was almost too much. Almost too much like them. She believed there was no way he would talk like this to someone he’d just randomly met on the internet—this was reserved for her. She hoped that he, too, knew to toe the line. They had to keep this clean—so to speak—if they wanted to keep this line of communication open. It was difficult to tell if their opening conversation was over-familiar because they were familiar, or if they were both just quite talented and well-matched flirts.

Brie_anna: I just realised I’m treating this like a normal dating site. Shouldn’t I be talking about my stretch marks and flaunting the size of my tits?

Pandamonium: I mean, I won’t say no.

Pandamonium: But I’m up for pretending this is a normal dating site, too.

Pandamonium: Hi. I won’t give my name yet, but feel free to call me Damon.

Brie_anna: Hi. I’m Brie.

I love him, Rebecca thought. I am head-over-heels in love with him.

Pandamonium: So. About these tits…