Fat Chance

By Malla Duncan

~His thumb moved gently across the top of each of my fingers, exploring the soft, plump lines.
I merged with the chair.
‘You would be a special customer,’ he whispered.
My eyes felt large and soft, staring into his. ‘Really?’
His kissed my tingling hand, and then looked up at me as though asking for forgiveness.
‘I am a chocolate maker.’~
When best friends Marsha and Milly embark on a short holiday to the Amalfi coast in Italy, their chief concern is sunburn not murder. On arrival they find Marsha’s friend Betty has been kidnapped by a serial killer who specifically targets fat women. In trying to solve the mystery herself, Marsha meets a reluctant policeman, an unhappy forensic anthropologist and a frustrated psychiatrist – and the mix is set for more than a little chaos and confusion.
‘Fat Chance’ is a spoof on the usual formula thriller but is also a social comment on discrimination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Malla Duncan
• Release date: Feb 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9780987005267

Malla Duncan

Malla Duncan lives in Cape Town and writes across a variety of genres from 'women-in-jeopardy' to romantic adventure, children's fantasy and humorous books for African children. Her suspense novels are fast-paced, contemporary full-length stand-alone reads which introduce ordinary, flawed women characters caught in extraordinary circumstances.

Book preview

Prologue

He knew timing was important.

He hurried to the vantage point, found his place against the crook of an old pine tree. A spring dawn was already throwing sundial pointers across the hillside.

From where he sat, he could follow the shadows as they slowly retreated from a cobble of white stones fringed by yellow flowers and crooked lines of wild geranium. The stones were a collection of small boulders diminishing in size as they trickled away to eventually form a river of pebbles in the cleft of the hillside. Far below, he glimpsed a grey skein of coastal road as it drew a line between mountain and sea.

The sun rose, clearing a spotlight place on the stones. Ah…and there…in the stone jigsaw was the evidence he sought; a claw-like object that could have been an old root or the remnants of a dead plant whittled to dry contortion.

But he knew it was neither. In the strengthening light he could pick out knuckled bones as the emaciated hand seemed to search for something to grasp, looking to pull its owner from the makeshift grave and into the warmth of this glorious Mediterranean day.

For one poignant moment, he remembered her smile, so beautiful in the plump cheeks, and that look of delight when she saw him. Momentarily, he was lost in regret, remembering also the respect.

For a long while, as the sun climbed, he contemplated that grisly remnant and all it represented. He imagined the body lying in delicate angles, clothes falling to folds, a new, high-cheeked face emerging from mud; a fashion model dancing in the gloom, poised in airy display, her smile now much too wide. Bone thin.

Chapter 1

If you’re larger than average (note I avoided the term, fat), there are two things that never allow comfortable access – an airplane seat and a coffin.

I know you’re wondering about the coffin. You’re thinking…well, I’d be dead and hardly worried about a neat fit. But life can be unexpected. As can death.

I went to Italy for a holiday and found myself embroiled in a kidnapping, the recovery of an ancient corpse, a donkey chase, the evil clutches of a psychotic serial killer whose knife (in my particular case) was not long enough to reach any vital organ, a fifty foot plunge from a cliff into the sea, a fruitcake competition, and a desperate search to save a terrified victim chained in a dark cellar. Oh, and did I mention the bit about being stuffed into a coffin?

I also had to deal with a policeman, a forensic anthropologist and a psychiatrist – all of whom dwelt on personal dilemmas rather than the discomfit of the prisoner in the dark cellar. (You see! It’s not only in books!)

Not everything that happened was my fault. But I will admit that events might well have been shaped by my mindset. And to understand that, I need to begin with my visit to Dr Shelton one summer afternoon at 3pm.

(Note: Before literary nitpickers fling up their hands in exasperation because Dr Shelton does not appear in the rest of the book (and no, he is not found murdered shortly afterwards with ancient scrolls of mysterious hieroglyphics stolen from his safe), let me assure you that the topic of our discussion has relevance for events thereafter. Okay?)

Dr Shelton peered at me across the expanse of his desk. He was a small, wiry man with a large, balding head. Above a putty-coloured face lay a ribbon of dark hair no wider than a length of licorice. It shifted slightly as he glanced up from the folder in which my medical details lay itemized, his expression that of regret.

‘I’m sorry, Marsha, but there’s nothing I can do.’

This must rate as one of life’s most excruciating moments: that irrevocable moment when you know you will never go back to that blissful state of ignorance and anticipation of a few seconds before.

‘Are you saying you can’t operate?’

‘To a degree,’ he responded reluctantly. ‘But it’s not an operation I would recommend at your age.’

‘My age?’ I repeated, feeling that familiar sense of alarm when confronted with this word. ‘What does that have to do with it?’

He shifted. ‘Well, unfortunately your skin has lost elasticity and the result could be a fair amount of puckering and that would require further surgery to repair and scarring is possible. People have not always been happy with the results.’

‘But clothes would hide all that,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘But most people want to wear a swimsuit.’

‘I never swim.’

He straightened my folder. ‘I want you to think about it.’

‘I’m sorry, but I have no intention of swimming.’

‘I’m referring to the operation.’

Pause.

I had to ask, ‘What age would have been the right age?’

‘Preferably before thirty-five.’

I gazed at him as though both he and the number had retreated to a distant hill.

‘I would suggest,’ he said cautiously into this silence, ‘that you try a good diet and exercise. A lot of people have found fair effect with this.’

‘But not a cure.’

His eyes dropped. ‘Well, no. The problem is no doubt hereditary. Things bred in the blood do require more than the usual procedures.’

‘Exactly,’ I said acidly.

He sighed. ‘The truth of the matter, Marsha, is that you are presently carrying too much weight for the operation to be effective. In order to facilitate our way, you would need to lose weight on an overall count, before we could reconsider.’

At the words ‘lose weight’ the room darkened. I swear a cloud passed across the window. As though bolstered by his little surge of courage, Dr Shelton added, ‘Your bottom is rather big and we would have to consider balance.’

There was a horrible silence. The words big and bottom seemed to hang emblazoned over his desk. Suddenly the cushiony volume of my buttocks became acutely uncomfortable. I was in a midget’s chair.

I looked at him. He was a quarter my size. His large head seemed in imminent danger of toppling from the narrow appendage of his body. I imagined his bottom. Probably the size of a walnut. He would be able to slide bent over and bottom-first through a keyhole. Although what the purpose of such an exercise would be, I wasn’t sure. His head would have the most difficulty getting through. I began to wonder how somebody shaped like a dessertspoon could possibly make any empathic pronouncement on my condition.

But it got worse.

‘Once you have lost around eighty pounds, we can reassess.’ He looked down at my file. ‘But even after dieting, the pear-shaped problem of the saddlebags will remain. They’re composed of deep fat, close to the muscle. To re-align the body, we first have to eliminate at least some of the surface fat.’ He offered the gesture of a comforting smile.

Fat. To my unwilling ears, the word had a squat, lethargic sound, squishy and obstructive. It was something you trimmed off red meat and pork. It was so dangerous it was rigorously removed from something as innocuous as yogurt. It was condemned in butter. Whales were killed for possessing it. It was eradicated from every food stuff possible. Low-fat. Low-fat. Low-fat.

Fat-free.

How could I be carrying this stuff around? What dark, nasty trail had my ancestors followed to ensure this legacy of lard, as feared in our first world as tap water in the third, would be served up to me, Marsha Angela Linton of 29 Gerrison Road, London?

Dr Shelton opened a drawer, scrabbled around. He proffered a piece of paper.

I put out a trembling hand. ‘What’s this?’

At last expression came to Dr Shelton’s eyes – encouragement disturbingly mixed with sympathy.

‘It’s a healthy eating plan.’

‘I can’t believe he said that!’ The permanent shade of red in Milly’s plump cheeks deepened. ‘Can’t you sue him?’

‘Of course not. He didn’t intend to be insulting.’

‘Saddlebags!’ Milly exclaimed, annoyingly for the fifth time, her bright blue eyes flickering about the restaurant, afraid to look me in the eye. ‘It’s just a very feminine shape.’ This was kind coming from a woman who was taking up the whole of a bunker seat designed for two. She peered at the menu then slapped it to one side. ‘Is it dangerous?’

‘The operation?’

‘This liposuction.’

‘Not if it’s done properly. They suck out the fat with a tube.’

Milly’s eyes lit up.

I said quickly, ‘They can’t do it with general fat. They would tell you to lose weight.’

At the words ‘lose weight’ Milly’s eyes glazed. ‘I think I need to have my jaw wired.’

‘That’s drastic.’

‘It works, you know. I heard about this woman who – ’

Our order arrived.

Milly fished around with her straw. ‘This woman lost one hundred and ninety pounds.’

‘Good grief! Was she still there afterwards?’

‘Yes, but she had to learn to walk again.’

‘Why?’

‘She’d been so fat, she hadn’t been able to walk for five years.’

‘Dear God.’

Aggrievedly, I looked down at our chocolate sundae shakes with the flake sprinkles. ‘There’s supposed to be chocolate on top of the ice-cream.’

Milly swilled her drink. ‘I think yours has sunk to the bottom.’

And there it was – that moment of clear relevance that shapes much of this story. Dr Shelton was right. Pear-shaped. I was like a cork stopper. But upside down.

Everything had sunk to the bottom.

Chapter 2

My colleague, Shirley, thought I was disgusting.

Shirley was as thin as a needle and wore enormous blue-rimmed glasses designed to highlight her long blonde hair. Her cheeks bore a rough lumpiness I’d noticed in most advertising people – an early side effect of the pressure that sent many creative people out of the industry before they were forty. Shirley hardly ever smiled and was often vague, her mind rooted in her next idea. Sometimes, when she did focus, her attention was less than polite.

‘What on earth are you wearing?’

My reply was practiced. ‘A design by Paolo.’

Shirley would snort mirthlessly. ‘Honestly, Marsha, you should get yourself something more fitting.’

‘Pour myself into designer jeans?’

‘No, I mean something sharper, more snappy. Colourful, for God’s sake. You look like an undertaker in the rain.’

Those were the good days. On a bad day when a client had changed her copy, she would look to snipe.

‘You’re obsessed,’ she said.

‘With what?’

‘With your weight. It’s disgusting. People are starving in the Sudan and you’re worried about your shape. It’s disgusting.’

I looked at her as she stood angled in an elegant collection of thinly fleshed bone against my desk, and thought that on any good day, Shirley would have given those Sudanese a run for their money.

I pushed the remains of a cream donut behind some files. ‘You really need to take our industry to task. They advertise a yardstick of femininity that is unobtainable for most women. People spend more on diets than just about anything else. When people are starving in this world, that is actually disgusting.’

She shot back, ‘Have you been on a diet?’

‘Four this year.’

‘It’s only March.’

‘They take about a year to kick in.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘And the gym?’

Silence.

Her look became nasty. ‘People think that if they drink some strawberry flavoured concoction, they will wake up in the morning looking like a sylph.’ She sighed, shook her head. ‘Honest to God, vanity obscures reality.’

‘On the contrary,’ I murmured. ‘I think it is reality. We all want to be beautiful.’

She was quiet a moment, her gaze sharpening. ‘You are beautiful, Marsha. You have lovely green eyes, a flawless complexion and shiny dark hair. Very dramatic. I don’t think it’s your weight you should be worrying about.’ She paused, mulling her next comment. ‘I think you just need some help with shopping.’

(Note: This is just for back story, okay? I had to put in the bit about Shirley saying she thought me beautiful. I think that’s important, don’t you?)

Lester was my husband because he had never criticized my weight.

Lester was one of those lanky people who eat with gusto at mealtimes and rarely nibble in-between. He had dark hair, a swarthy complexion and wore forbidding horn-rimmed glasses (purely for effect – his eyesight was quite good). He liked swimming and tennis – and gave up the former because I wouldn’t go anywhere near a place where people might disrobe for any reason. In return, I supported his tennis afternoons, often acting as referee. Lester looked rather fetching in his whites, his long tanned legs pumping across the court, his peaked cap tilted rakishly as he took on the aura of a Latin millionaire testing the measure of his private court. My sweet, kindly Lester who worked hard for his money as an accountant, and who adored me as if I were thin.

Only once had Lester made a serious gaff – and that was about three months into our marriage when, unwisely, I mentioned that the lumps on my thighs bothered me. Lester was either half-asleep or he thought mistakenly in this nuzzling, post-coital moment, that marriage of a few months would allow him some leeway on a topic hitherto taboo. He grabbed the lumps, one in each hand and most offensively, squeezed them. ‘I love all of you,’ he murmured happily. ‘Especially your love handles.’

I have never seen a man leave a bed in such haste. He paused desperately at the door. ‘My pyjama bottom – ’ he asked hopelessly.

‘Fuck your bottom!’ I screeched.

He made a dash and to my fury, grabbed the duvet off the bed. Then he fled.

I spent three cold nights before he came back, as much on his conditions as mine. I was never allowed to mention the words fat, weight or shape when we were in bed. He agreed to never mention them when we were out of it. And Lester was a man of his word.

But I was a woman of mine – so these words were constantly burning in my mind, if not sizzling on my tongue. Milly became the only person I could really talk to.

I met Milly at the local hairdresser. When I spied her under the drier I was prompted to speak to her because she had a packet of donuts in her lap.

‘Those are very good,’ I said, pointing at the packet. ‘Quite the best.’

She looked up, her face bright red from the heat of the dryer. I was mesmerized by a pair of crystal blue eyes.

‘Very good for shock.’

I was taken aback. ‘Oh! I’m sorry. Has something happened?’

She nodded. ‘Haven’t had one since yesterday.’

It was a connection, like the donuts, made in heaven. Milly was tall, her china blue eyes perfectly offset by gold-spun blonde hair framing her delicately featured face which was supported by a dome-like body tapering to tiny hands and feet. The red cheeks I would learn, were a constant.

Milly at thirty-seven was ten years my junior and unmarried. She worked at the call centre of a large engineering company, dealing with cranky people who had spare part problems – probably the crankiest customers of all. She was a patient, kindly person suited to finding solutions for people whose first line of attack was to try and magically strangle her through her headset.

Considering that Milly sometimes (well, nearly always) missed the point in any key debate, I secretly assumed that some of her irate callers may have partially achieved this purpose. Nevertheless, there was no more comfortable person to be with than Milly. And not just because she was fatter than me, but because she rarely flapped. She just never saw a problem – either distant or close enough to splinter bone. Sometimes I thought it was a gift. It allowed her to pass through life in a haze of contentment and gentle inertia – like a single cow in a field of daisies.

Milly and I spent time fantasizing about what we would look like if we were thin. We did imaginary shopping trips.

‘Something clingy,’ said Milly with relish. ‘That elasticky stuff.’

‘A décolletage,’ I said.

‘Stockings,’ she mouthed.

We stopped there. The decadent imaginings of silky whisperings as lissome thighs swung smoothly past each other in a willowy, seductive lope, was a bridge too far.

As soon as reality kicked in, we would talk about food instead. We were good at food. We could cook. We often lamented the fact we had never written a recipe book. On Saturday afternoons we would gather in her kitchen for an afternoon of blissful experimentation and tasting.

(Note: I know there were only two of us, but Milly and I together in one space seemed like a gathering.)

(Second Note: I know at this point you are beginning to fidget and wonder what all this has to do with a prisoner chained in a dark cellar. Be patient. Our cooking expertise was to feature dramatically in this story – especially with regard to the fruitcake. Just wait, okay?)

Chapter 3

I suppose if I must make a proper beginning, I must begin with Betty’s invitation for Lester and me to spend ten days vacation at her sumptuous villa on the Amalfi coast of Italy.

(Note: I’m detecting a ripple of interest. The words vacation, villa and Italy in the same sentence are appetizing to say the least. But before you curl up on the couch with your little piece of chocolate (oh, c’mon!) I must tell you about Betty and Guido. Actually, Betty and Guido should have been noted as one of the great love stories of the twentieth century – along with such greats as Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy. That type of thing.)

Betty and I went to school together, right from first grade. They called us the Thumpalina twins because we were both overweight and similarly proportioned, except Betty was a redhead while I was dark. After school, she went to university to study languages and got a job teaching English at a night school. She hated the job but for some reason saw fit to hang onto it as though she had no other option.

One evening she had one of those I am all alone and nobody cares moments and bought a cup of hot chocolate to cheer herself up before going to class. As she walked into the lecture room, a man stood up to take off his jacket and elbowed her cup skyward. They both looked up as the cup flew through the air. Then, on perfect cue, the cup lost its cap and dropped its hot, sugary load on Betty’s upturned face.

Et voila! Betty met Guido.

Guido was Italian (not tall, dark and handsome – rather think short, grey and stocky), and stinking rich, available and immediately smitten with Betty. Within a few months they were married and living in Guido’s luxurious villa on the Italian coast. There. I’ve said those words again.

But the most remarkable thing about this union was that Betty was three times Guido’s size; it was rather like watching a Panda cuddled up to a Jack Russell. But ultimately, that wasn’t what caught everybody’s attention. It was their absolute devotion that held friends and family in thrall. Betty and Guido loved each other in a way that went far beyond mere cinematic passion; they shared the kind of love that most people yearn for and can often only imitate, fabricate and complicate to hell.

Lester and I regularly took a leaf out of their book.

‘Look at Betty and Guido,’ Lester would say.

‘I’m looking and looking.’

‘I bet they’ve never had a fight.’

‘Oh, I’m sure they’ve had fights. They’re not abnormal.’

‘You think it’s abnormal to get along?’

‘I