Youve got flabby skin! My husband, now sixty, pinched my side for all to see, so I brought in a mirror to show him what was hanging from his own.
Claire, whats this then? Arthur, feeling rather pleased with himself after his third generous helping of sloe gin, reached over and gave my side a firm pinch, right above the waistband of my skirt, where the fabric pulled a touch as I sat.
He did it right there at the dinner table in front of our guests, loudly and absolutely shameless.
Arthur, do stop, I tried sliding his hand away, brushing it off like a persistent autumn fly, but he was relentless.
His chubby little fingers, not unlike overcooked chipolatas, squeezed again at my waistnot so much painful as acutely humiliating.
Just look at this! he boomed at our neighbour across the table, Harold, who was already angling his fork towards the pickled herring. I tell her: Claire, stop nibbling bread at night. And she tells me: Its my age, hormones.
Arthur laughed, and his belly jiggled along with his mirth, the buttons on his best shirt stretched to the brink.
Hormones? Its just plain old laziness, thats what it is! he declared, surveying the spread with pride.
Arthur, thats enough, I hissed through gritted teeth, my face and neck catching fire with betraying blush.
Harold gave an awkward snigger, eyes riveted to his plate, as though the squiggle of mayonnaise was the Sistine Chapel.
His wife, Sarah, politely looked away, fiddling with her napkin as if nothing out of order was taking place.
What dyou mean, enough? Arthur, thoroughly on a roll now, had no intention of stopping, revelling in every ounce of attention. Whatam I not allowed to tell the truth? Your skins hanging, Claire!
He prodded me again, as if testing whether a bit of dough had risen enough.
Right here, you see? Hanging like rolls, just like a Shar Peis folds. Not a pretty sight, love.
An awkward, sticky silence filled the room, broken only by the distant hum of the fridge.
Im only looking out for you, he added with an air of wise authority, leaning back with his arms folded. A woman should keep herself well, so her husbands pleased to look at herthats natures law.
I looked at him then.
Truly looked, as though seeing my husband afresh after nearly thirty years of marriage.
Sixty-two years old.
His belly, billowing over his trousers like storm clouds over the moor.
The second chin blending into his neck and sloping shoulders, bypassing any hint of definition.
His bald head shone in the chandeliers stuffy glow, reminiscent of a buttered teacake.
A pleasure for the eye, is it? I asked, oddly calm even to myself.
Something inside me clicked into place, like an old lock finally clicking home.
No more shame, no more smoothing over the awkwardness, no more patient smiles.
What remained was crystal clarity.
Of course! Arthur thumped his chest; a deep, hollow sound. Look at me! I keep in shape!
In what shape, precisely? I pressed, not dropping my gaze.
A mans shape! he sat up straighter, or as straight as his back allowed. Every morningbit of a stretch, five minutes with the dumbbells, I keep myself toned.
He sucked his belly in by way of demonstration.
The effect was laughable. His belly twitched a little, shuddered, then settled back, drooping over his belt once more.
A chap should be an eagle, not a sack of potatoes, he concluded his lecture.
An eagle, is it? I rose slowly, careful not to make sudden movements.
Oy! What, you upset now? he called after me as he poured another round of sloe gin. No need to take offense, love! Just need to give slimming a go, not sulking!
I stepped out to the hallway, where the air was thick with old coats and boot polish.
On the wall hung our old family mirror, its heavy oval frame of dark English oak, a legacy from my parents. That mirror had seen us as newlyweds, slim and bright-eyed.
With resolve, I lifted it from its hook. Heavy thing, nearly five kilogramsits frame dug into my palms, but somehow, at that moment, I barely felt its weight.
Back in the sitting room, I walked in with the mirror held before melike a medieval shield, or a verdict that could not be contested.
The guests froze, forks mid-air, Sarahs jaw agapethe glint of a gherkin flash visible behind her lips.
Arthur, get up, I said quietly, but forcefully enough that no one dared protest.
Whys that? He looked bemused for a moment, then, seeing my expression, thought better of arguing. Up. Now what? Shall we dance?
No, I closed in on him, taking in the aroma of onions and spirits. Lets have a look at our eagle, shall we?
I brandished the heavy mirror right under his nose.
Hold this.
He took the frame reflexively, arms wobbling with the unexpected heft.
Claire, whats all this nonsense? The first quiver of unease slipped into his confident voice.
Look, I commanded, the tone one might reserve for scolding cats. Properly look.
He stared, bewildered, at his own reflection, which trembled a little in his hands.
Yes, I see myself, andso what?
Now lower your gaze, I jabbed at the glass, right where his sweat-damp shirt clung to his torso. See that?
What? Still feigning outrage.
Youve got flabby skin! I pronounced, loud and clear, copying his inflection from just five minutes before. Not just hanging, Arthur, its practically resting.
Claire! he tried to lower the mirror; his cheeks flared crimson.
No, hold it! I pressed down the frames edge, keeping him focused. And there, above your beltwhats that, then? Rock-hard abs?
Harold made a strangled noise, barely stifling his laughter, coughing discreetly into his fist.
No, my dear, thats a lifebelt, I pressed on, ruthless. In case we start to drown in lard.
Arthurs colour deepened; he looked for all the world like an overripe tomato on the edge of bursting.
And these, here at the side? I pointed accusingly at the bulges escaping his waistband. Your eagles wings, are they? Or piglets ears before Michaelmas?
Enough! He hissed, twisting away. People are watching, whyre you humiliating me?
Let them watch! I raised my voice over his sibilance. You wanted truth, didnt you? You wanted to be the homes chief judge of aesthetics!
Stepping back, I took in the scene.
Lets examine your own aesthetic, then. Turn sideways into the light.
I shant he began, but fell silent at my glare.
Turn! With a command sharp enough to rattle the cutlery, he half-swiveled, awkward but obedient.
His profile in the mirror bore no resemblance to any Greek statue.
And his neckor rather, the marked absence thereof.
See that triple fold at your nape? I said evenly, with a clinicians detachment. Thats purebred Shar Pei, Arthur, without a doubt.
Sarah, abandoning any attempt at discretion, buried her face into her napkin, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
And here, beneath your chin? I pressed on mercilessly. Thats not a chin, thats a pelicans pouchstoring fish for later, are we?
Im a man! Arthur peeped, his protest sounding feeble and utterly unconvincing. Doesnt matter for me!
Oh, really? I gave a chill chuckle. So, when Iafter two children and thirty years at the stovedevelop one fold, thats disgraceful, lazy, and hanging skin?
I leaned close, eyes level with his.
But when you, whos barely lifted the television remote for a decade, morph into a trembling jellyits a man in his prime?
With a flourish, I yanked the mirror from his grasp; his tired arms dropped.
He stood there in the middle of the room, confused, dishevelled, the top button of his shirt finally surrendering and rolling under the sideboard.
His bombast and borrowed importance melted away like onion peel in water.
No eagle here now. Just an ordinary, rather chubby gentleman suddenly aware he was the Emperor with New Clothes. And very, very well-padded ones.
Sit, I told him calmly, setting the weighty mirror against the sideboard.
He sank heavily into his chair, which creaked beneath him.
And I dont want to hear another word about my figure, I said, smoothing my hair in the mirror.
Turning to him, I added quietly,
Or Ill hang this mirror up directly opposite your seat, and you can eat your dinner with your pelican every evening.
Harold, now wholly unconcerned about offending the host, howled with laughter, dabbing away tears.
Arthur silently scooped up a pickled mushroom, chewing slowly and staring hard into his plate, as if by doing so he might shrink in size.
Gone was that old, clinging tension that lingered after family spats.
Instead, there was an openness, an easy airas though someone had finally cracked the window in a smoky, stifling room and let in a breath of fresh English air.
I took my rightful place at the head of the table.
Picked up the serving ladle, and heaped myself a grand, utterly immodest slice of Victoria spongethe one Id spent half the day baking, rolling out the layers paper-thin, all the while vowing not to touch it for the sake of my waistline.
The custard oozed at the edge; the layers splintered under the fork delightfully.
Claire, pass me a slab as wella generous one, Sarah requested, shoving her plate over. Blow the diet, you only live once.
And me, Harold winked, pouring himself some ribena. Ive got a feeling my own wings are coming in, best feed them.
Arthur glanced up for half a second.
He gave me a look mixed with something like new respect, shading on wariness.
Then down to the cake. Then sideways to the unforgiving mirror still propped by the wall, silent witness to his undoing.
In the bottom of the glass, his legs were visible under the tableone sock black, the other navy, nearly purple.
Some eagle, that, homebound and slightly ridiculous.
Sorry, Claire, he muttered at last, not daring to lift his eyes from the tablecloth. Spoke out of turn, devil take me.
Eat up, Arthur, eat up, I replied, savoring the custardy sweetness on my tongue. Youll need your strength.
He raised an eyebrow in confusion.
For your morning dumbbells, I grinned. After all, youre the athlete around here.
The evening carried on as old friends evenings do, with gentle talk of expenses, the allotment, the weather.
But something had shifted for good in the balance at our table.
My perfect household critic had deflated, becoming an ordinary man at last, with his frailties, fears, and very visible folds.
And you know, that cake tasted bloody marvellous.
The best Id had in twenty years, Id swear.
Since then, the mirror has remained in the room; I never put it away.
Now, whenever Arthur passes by, he unconsciously straightens up and sucks his stomach in.
And not once since that evening has he dared mention my hanging skin again.
I suspect the pelican keeps him in check.
