Chapter 9 - An Unplanned Sabbatical (Part 1)

It turned out it would be longer than six weeks.



At first it was the Stilton that got the blame, though Rebecca thought that was unfair. She’d taste-tested every single dish that came out of the oven during Cheese Week and hadn’t felt one grumble of complaint from her stomach; she sincerely doubted that it was a bout of food poisoning that had taken out the entire camera crew, a producer, and both Alan and George. Distantly, she remembered one of the sound guys looking a bit pale the previous Sunday, and how he’d mentioned his wife had been staying home with a sick six-year-old. _Norovirus_, Rebecca thought grumpily as she got the email pushing production back two weekends, clicking through with one hand—the other covered in bright orange cheese dust. _Looks like I have a bit of time to spare_.



She didn’t want time to spare. She’d been looking forward to that weekend all week. She’d been eating for that weekend all week. She still wasn’t quite sure why, except for the strange sense of urgency she felt on regarding the cheese aisle at Tesco, and that ghost of a feeling—the graze of thick, strong fingers finding their way into the waistband of her leggings.



This is weird, Rebecca felt as she shopped, dumping a 500g block of West Country cheddar into her basket, followed by a wedge of Gouda and a brick of Emmental. What am I doing?



What was she doing? She almost wanted to put a name to it, but it nearly felt like a label…or a diagnosis. And that was unfair. Wasn’t it better this way? Not thinking too hard, eating what and when she wanted, wearing her most comfortable clothes and obsessively clicking through Robert’s new Instagram? (Baking, hiking, a tongue-lolling Panda, a cheese shop in Perth—like a secret message just for her).



Did she need to decide anything other than that she liked him?



_A lot?_



And not just him.



The food.



Food wasn’t sexy. She knew that. Gravy spooned over potatoes wasn’t erogenous, a thick spread of butter wasn’t alluring, crowded and over-warm cafes weren’t romantic. And yet something was happening. Food wasn’t sexy but it did something—awakened something that was there, had been there since before she met Robert. Something that made her press her thighs together beneath the table when she took a first bite of cheesecake. Something that made her utter a soft sigh when she unbuttoned her jeans.



It was all strange and unsettling and it didn’t make venturing out into town any easier. Rebecca was being hassled on the shopping street—hawkers outside Holland and Barret were shaking bottles of pills at her, pawning off weight loss supplements. She supressed the urge to flip them two fingers and simply patted the little pooch of her belly before flip-flopping into the nearest Krazy Kake Kafe – an unfortunately named local chain, which with what they lacked in critical analysis made up for with their lemon Madeira.



She pushed through the glass door, the bell rung, the scent of butter and oranges filled the air. The queue was full of slim, prim stay-at-home-mums with pushchairs and skinny teenagers skiving third period. The display case was full of cakes so large they tested the integrity of the elegant glass stands. Rebecca suddenly felt like the fattest person there.



She adjusted her waistband. _What am I doing?_ she asked herself. She adjusted her waistband again. The button of her jeans - her baggiest pair – was leaving an indent in the upper roll of her stomach and digging in (though not unpleasantly) between her legs. _Upper roll. I worked hard to get rid of this, and here I am, all because of some…guy._



She thought of Robert in her makeup chair, looking up at her through his lashes. The deep roll of his voice. His laugh, his text messages—the ones she’d had to delete, though she was fighting the urge to logon to the Cloud and see if they’d been stored away somewhere safe. The way, in the past few weeks week, he’d been brave enough to settle eyes on her middle and, instead of sneering and threatening to clear her fridge of Red Leicester and Tiramisu, had…liked it.



‘Hey,’ Rebecca’s sister said, appearing beside her with a pale slice of polenta and a skinny late. She looked pinched and a sweaty sort of unwell, but the sort that a wedding photographer would describe as ‘glowing’.



‘Hey,’ Rebecca said. Rachel turned her cheek for a kiss—very middle class for someone who swore like Malcolm Tucker and shopped at ASDA. Wedding planning had changed her. ‘How’s it going?’



‘Stressful,’ Rachel said. Her eyes swept an obvious path to Rebecca’s toes. ‘You look…well.’



‘Hm,’ Rebecca hummed.



‘Fucking fat, I mean,’ Rachel said.



‘They’ve not been teaching you charm in your pre-marriage classes?’



‘I told you that you shouldn’t have signed up for that baking show.’



‘You told me to do it so you could get the judges to sign your cookbook.’



‘Yes, but…’ Twin creases formed between Rachel’s brows. The quirky brass light fixtures sent shards of glimmering light across her fresh blond highlights. ‘I got you a gym membership for Christmas, remember? I feel like you’re literally eating my wages.’



Rebecca blushed and didn’t meet her eyes, instead giving her full attention to the display case. The back of her neck burned. She could feel eyes on her…imaginary or real, she wasn’t sure. She missed the confidence she’d had as a teenager, when her fat body was comfortable, lived in. This new pudge—and it was only that, pudge, despite Rachel’s pronouncements--was still a stranger, however strangely sexy she was finding it.



‘It got you a discount on yours later, so it evens out,’ Rebecca said. She advanced two steps toward the register, crouching to observe the cakes. She held her breath lest she pop the button of her jeans. ‘Ooh, they have buttery cheesecake-swirl blueberry.’

(cont.)