Youve got sagging skin!the words rang out, accompanied by a forceful pinch to my side. My sixty-year-old husband, George, was at it again, and of course, he waited to do it in front of guests. I simply fetched our old mirror and showed him exactly whose skin was sagging.
Emily, whats this, then? George asked, with a self-satisfied smirk, his cheeks five shades redder after his third glass of homemade sloe gin. He reached out and pinched my side, right above my skirt waistband, in the very spot where the fabric always felt a bit snug whenever I sat down.
He did it right there at the table, in full view and with not a sliver of shame.
George! What on earth? I tried to swat his hand away like a persistent bluebottle, but he was not to be deterred. His sausage-like fingers, pink and swollen from years of roast dinners and pints, found their way back to my waist, inflicting not so much pain as a deep, stinging humiliation.
Take a look, Henry! he called out to our neighbour, who was busy spearing a forkful of coronation chicken. I keep telling Emily, Enough of the scones at bedtime, but all she says is, Its my agehormones.
George roared, and his belly bounced along in time, threatening to pop the poor buttons off his best shirt.
What hormones? Its laziness, plain and simple, he declared, glancing triumphantly around the table.
George, thats enough, I muttered through gritted teeth, feeling the flush of embarrassment spread hot over my cheeks and down my neck.
Henry gave a strained chuckle, eyes glued to his plate, as if the dollop of mayonnaise had suddenly become the most fascinating sight in the house. His wife, Margaret, busied herself with a napkin and pretended not to hear a thing.
What do you mean, enough? George was well into his stride now, loving every bit of the attention. A man cant speak the truth? Youve got sagging skin!
He prodded again, as if checking the doneness of a passing sponge cake.
Right herelook, it hangs like a roll. He made a show of it, lecturing as if he were some authority. Just like a basset hound. Not a pretty sight, Em.
The room fell quiet, sticky with the awkwardness, save for the whirr of the fridge in the kitchen.
Im only trying to help, he added, suddenly adopting the tone of a headmaster. A wife ought to look after herselfmakes life more pleasant for her husband. Thats just nature, isnt it?
I looked at him closely, as if seeing the man for the first time after thirty years of marriage.
Sixty-two years old. That belly of his hung over his trousers like a cumulonimbus cloud over the Kentish horizon. A wobbly chin merged with his neck and sloped straight into sagging shoulders, with any hint of muscle long vanished. His dome of a head gleamed beneath the chandelier, shining like a pancake fresh out of the frying pan.
Pleasant to look at, is it? I asked, my voice level and strange to my own ears, as though clarity had finally floated to the top.
Suddenly, there was no more embarrassment, no urge to smooth things over, no patience left. Just an uncompromising honesty.
Of course! George thumped his chest. Look at me! I keep in shape!
What sort of shape? I asked, my eyes fixed on his.
A mans shape! He sat upright, as straight as his back would allow. Every morning, I do my stretcheswave those dumbbells about for five minutes. Im in good nick.
He tried to suck in his belly as proof but only succeeded in making it wiggle before settling right back over his belt.
A man ought to be as proud as a peacock, not a saggy old sack, he concluded.
A peacock, you say? I rose slowly from the table, careful not to make a fuss.
Where are you off to? he called after me, pouring himself more gin. Cant take a bit of truth, Ems! If the shoe fits, best start slimming rather than sulking!
In the hallway, the old smell of leather polish and coats greeted me. There on the wall hung the grand, battered mirror from my parents housea heavy, oval thing in its carved wooden frame, older than our marriage and heavier than it looked. I took it down, its weight digging into my palms, but somehow I felt light and determined.
Returning to the dining room, I held the mirror before me like a knights shieldor more like a judgment no one could appeal.
The guests froze, cutlery suspended mid-air; Margaret even forgot to close her mouth, the tip of a pickled onion visible between her teeth.
George, get up, I said, quietly but with such firmness no one dared challenge me.
What for? he muttered, but upon seeing my expression, he obeyed. Rightnow what, a quick waltz?
No. I moved close, smelling onion, gin and aftershave. Were here to admire our peacock.
I pressed the heavy mirror under his nose, making him take a step back.
Hold this.
He gripped the framethe unexpected weight made his hands tremble.
What are you playing at, Emily? For the first time there was a tremor in his voice.
Look, I ordered, as if scolding the cat for knocking over a vase. Proper look.
He peered at his reflection, which wobbled slightly, matching his hands.
Well, I see myselfwhat of it?
Now look a bit lower. I prodded the glass, right at his sweat-stained shirt where his stomach bulged. See that?
What? he protested, still trying to sound unbothered.
Youve got sagging skin! I announced, mimicking his earlier tone right down to the accent. Not just sagging, Georgeits draped!
Emily! He tried to lower the mirror, face reddening spectacularly.
No, hold it! I pressed on the frame, forcing him to keep looking. That there, above your beltis that your sculpted six-pack?
Henry let out a choking snort, coughing into his fist to contain his laughter.
No, dear, thats your life-ringfor floating if you ever drown in your own fat.
Georges ears went crimson; he looked about to explode.
And as for those love handles? I jabbed at the mirror. Are those the peacocks wings, or more like porkers? Fancy yourself ready for Boxing Day?
Stop it! he hissed, glancing desperately at the guests. Youre making a show of me!
Let them watch! My voice rose over his. You wanted honesty, didnt you? Youre the great critic, fighting for high standards here, arent you!
I took a step back to take in the full picture.
Lets have your aesthetic ideals out in the open, I insisted. Turn to the light.
I wont he began, but trailed off beneath my glare.
Turn! I snapped, and the silverware rattled.
Like a hypnotized schoolboy, he shuffled sideways. The mirror revealed a profile very far from any Grecian statue.
And there, at the back of your neck? My tone was calm, like a doctor during an exam. See that triple fold? Thats your basset, George, pure pedigree.
Margaret by then had given up pretending; her shoulders shook, face buried in her napkin.
And under the chin? I pressed on. Your pelican pouchyou keeping fish in there for winter?
Im a man! George finally squeaked, but the words were weak, unconvincing.
Oh, youre allowed, are you? I laughedbrief, cold. After two children and thirty years at the hob, my one folds a scandal, but your lot is all part and parcel of being a real man?
I drew closer, staring straight into his eyes.
And youwho couldnt lift anything heavier than the telly remote for ten yearsnow a trembling blancmange, but still the expert? A man in his prime?
I yanked the mirror from him, his arms sagging with exhaustion.
He remained there: dishevelled, wilted, his best shirts top button finally pinged off and vanished under the table. His airs and graces evaporated, like the steam from a boiled kettle.
Standing there, he was no proud peacock, just an ageing, portly gent who at last realised the emperor wears no clothes. And that hes stuffed the suit to bursting.
Sit down, I said calmly, propping the mirror facing the sideboard. And eat.
He collapsed onto the chair, which creaked in protest.
And if I so much as hear a word about my figure again, I said, straightening my hair in the glass, Ill hang this right opposite your seat, so you have to watch your pelican eat every meal.
Henry, now unconcerned with the possibility of offending his host, was roaring, tears rolling down his cheeks. George quietly speared a tiny pickled mushroom and chewed, eyes glued to his plate, trying to appear smaller.
The thick tension that follows most rows was gone. It was as though someone had opened a window and let a breath of fresh English air blow through.
Sitting in my rightful place as mistress of the house, I grabbed the serving knife and plated myself a grand, indecently large slice of homemade Victoria sponge. The very cake Id baked yesterday and fully intended to avoid for the sake of my figure.
The buttercream oozed; the sponge crumbled under my fork.
Em, pass me a proper slice too, will you? Margaret asked, plate in hand. Sod the dietyou only live once.
And me! Henry joined in, pouring himself more blackcurrant cordial. Seems Ive got wings sproutingneed the fuel.
George lifted his gaze for just a momenthis eyes held something new, a wary respect. He glanced at the cake, then at the mirror leaning against the wall, silent witness to his downfall.
The bottom of the mirror showed his socked feet beneath the tableone black, one navy, nearly purple.
A right old family peacock, I thought.
Sorry, Em, he mumbled at last, staring down. Spoke out of turn. Foolish of me.
Eat up, George, I sang, devouring my cake, tasting every bit of cream. Youll need the energy.
He looked up, question in his eyes.
For your dumbbells, of course. I grinned. Got to keep the athlete in tip-top shape.
The evening carried on with its weather and price talk, but something had changed for good. My perfect home critic had shrunk to ordinary sizejust a man, with ordinary weaknesses and, yes, plenty of folds.
And you know what? That was the best Victoria sponge Id tasted in twenty years.
The mirrors still there, right in the living room. George cant walk by now without puffing out his chest and straightening his back.
And not once has he brought up my sagging skin again.
I suppose he doesnt want to wake the pelican.
I learned that sometimes, the only way to restore your own dignity is simply to hold up the mirrorno judgment needed, just the honest, unvarnished truth. And cake helps, too.
