' is going through the agonising process of editing in the hope of a late November release.
Drum roll please. Dim the lights, pour a drink, sit back and enjoy the first chapter.
Let me know if you'd want to read on.
The Blurb
All her life Persephone
has been branded a
‘Big Girl’.
Criticised by her
perfect mother,
dearly loved by her
father,
she’s the
‘Queen of Low Self Esteem’.
Finding herself
suddenly
immersed in a world
of
glitz and glamour,
where nothing is
quite as it seems,
will she finally
realise:
‘It’s what’s inside that counts’?
Chapter One
My
mother would have said it served me right - which in some ways, it did.
‘Go nosing around and you’ll be sure to find
stuff you don’t like, Persephone.’ I could almost hear her tinny voice ringing
in my ears and see her standing in her usual elegant pose, as I stared at the
photo on the mobile.
And, as
it wasn’t my mobile, I was indeed
nosing and being shocked by my findings.
‘Your punishment, darling.’ Again I could hear my mother almost goading
as I lost myself in the smiling face on the screen.
That punishment came in the form of
the most stunning girl I’d ever set eyes on.
Blonde, petite, dainty and everything I wasn’t. I would have laid my last tenner - which was
probably the sum total of my bank account at the time - that she was a size
zero, 32B bust and a neat 3 in her elegant leather ballet pumps. I just knew that when she walked in to a
room, silence fell and heads turned - and not because she’d got loo roll
sticking out of her trousers or her hairbrush forgotten in a tangle at the back
of her head. Yes, I’d been known to hush entire crowds on many occasions too - none
of them good.
I felt the familiar prickle of
tears start to gather - how cruel it was that the one feminine quality I’d been
blessed with was daft, girlie emotions.
And then I heard Adam cough behind me.
‘What you doing, Perce?’ He sounded tense as he subtly strained his
neck to see over my shoulder.
I snapped the mobile shut and
blinked the tears away. He’d made it
more than clear that he didn’t deserve me, so he didn’t warrant puffy
eyes. They were the one part of me I
actually liked, so I’d make damn sure I came out of this awkward encounter puff-free.
Back in control, I turned and
pulled myself up to my full height - all 6’ 2” of it - and fixed him with a
stare. ‘Who’s the girl on your mobile,
Adam? And please, no bullshit.’
He had the good grace to look
embarrassed which, in itself, told me everything I needed to know. She wasn’t
his sister, his aunt or a friend. He’d been playing away with a creature who
looked like she could live in a doll’s house - but unfortunately for him, his
Amazonian girlfriend had caught him out.
‘She’s called Cindy and I’ve …
well I’ve been seeing her for a couple of weeks. I meant to tell you, Perce, but the time just
never seemed right.’
My brain began to process his
words, slowly sorting out the sentences and turning them into logical
thought. I shook my head and blinked,
trying really hard to construct an
answer that would leave me with my dignity intact.
‘The time never seemed right? What, not when we were out having
a meal or in my bed making love? Not
when we were at that bar last week or when I was ironing your shirts last
night? None of those times seemed right?’
The tears were threatening again and I fought to keep them at bay.
Adam shuffled uncomfortably,
looking from his mobile to the front door, clearly wanting to be anywhere but
in my flat. ‘I’m sorry, Perce. What can I say? Cindy’s just everything you’re …’ He trailed off, not wanting to finish the
cruel sentence he’d started.
‘She’s everything I’m not.
That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it?’ It wasn’t difficult for me to fill in the
gaps. I’d heard the words so many times in
my life before but they never failed to hurt.
But I’d been really keen on Adam and this time it hurt quite a bit more.
I took one last look at the man
I’d shared the past six months with - taking in his floppy hair and his
chocolate brown eyes that turned me to mush - and then, with a heavy heart, I
gave him his ‘Get out of Jail Free’ card.
‘Probably best if you go now, eh?’
I’ve seen blokes shift quickly in
my time but this parting was a record.
He flew from jacket to mobile to car keys and door in under thirty
seconds.
And once again, I was alone.
*****
What can
I say?
I’m a
big girl. And I don’t mean a Jerry Hall,
statuesque type. I mean BIG in every
sense of the word. Oh, I’m not fat but
I’m taller than your average man, have large, heavy bones, gargantuan feet and
hands a scaffolder would be proud of.
‘Don’t exaggerate’, I hear you say. I’m not.
I can’t be. I’ve heard my mother
tell me so often it’s now ingrained in me.
I once
heard her on the phone trying to set me up on a blind date with a friend’s son
and she actually said, ‘Think Miranda Hart combined with that woman in ‘The
Life and Loves of a She-Devil’ but slightly more attractive.’
She actually said that. My own mother.
But then
this was from the woman whose favourite dinner party story was how she was
ripped asunder by a ten pounder. It
usually ended with, ‘Can you imagine?
With a frame as delicate as mine to give birth to one so alien!
Of course, I blame Gordon!’
And it
was always poor Daddy who bore the brunt of all of mum’s anger. If the post was late - it was his fault. If her new shoes blistered her feet - she’d
bought them to look attractive for him.
The unnaturally large taboo of a daughter she’d been saddled with? All down to Daddy’s genes!
He once
told me, on one of our many secret drinking sessions in his beloved shed, that
my mum turned from ‘goddess’ to ‘cranky old bat’ on the day that I was
born. It was probably the single malt
making him talk but it made a lot of sense at the time.
You see
I was, and continue to be, a disappointment to her.
My
mother had spent nine months in floaty gowns with a beatific smile plastered to
her exquisitely made-up face, imagining the joy of dressing a tiny, perfectly
formed dolly - a Cindy! A boy had never
been on her agenda. And as for a large girl? The idea never entered her pretty little
auburn head.
But she
got me!
And as
much as I infuriated my mother, I swelled Dad’s heart with pride. He couldn’t have asked for a better daughter
- he told me often enough - and I couldn’t have wished for a more loving
dad. Which was just as well really because
for most of my life my mother had made me feel like a worthless excuse for the
female gender, purely because of my size.
You can’t be a lady if you’re big!
Had it
not been for my dad, her constant jibes could have bordered on mental child
abuse but I’d always felt loved and secure because of him. While she cocooned herself in her vanity and overt
femininity, we’d be laughing in the garage as we sanded down furniture or
chopped up fire-wood. Big hands were
good tools and my dad taught me how to use them well.
But
those same hands weren’t so great for the many talents my mother would have
liked me to perfect - embroidery, baking, make-up and manicures - I did them
all badly and accompanied by the sound of her tutting. The first time I attempted a hint of blusher
and mascara for a school disco, I could still hear her laughter ringing in my
ears as I set off down the road to meet best friend, Mia.
Of
course by the time I got to Mia’s house the mascara had been smeared by tears and
was making streaky trails into the blusher.
They sorted me out though, Mia and her lovely Mum, and by the time I hit
the disco I actually felt like a normal teenage girl and not the monster my
mother believed me to be.
In some
ways Mia was my saving grace, always there to pick me up and sort me out - the
sister I never had. But the downside was
… she was tiny. We’d spent most of our school lives saddled
with the nickname ‘Little and Large’ - even the teachers used it. ‘Little off sick today is she, Large?’ our
form tutor would ask me and I’d nod my head and smile, concealing the pain that
the name caused me. I didn’t want to be called ‘Large’ and I didn’t
want to be called ‘Persephone’ - another bloody stupid idea of my mother’s
which my dad gave in to.
I wanted
to be called Percy. The name suited me
and those that loved me respected my wishes.
My
mother refused. She’d chosen Persephone
so that’s what she’d continue to call me.
Because my feelings didn’t
come into the equation.
They
never did.
*****
I’d had
plenty of practice tending a broken heart. Nigh on twenty failed relationships had
provided great training - the problem wasn’t getting a man, it was keeping
him. Of course, my mother said it
was because of the novelty factor and men only dated me out of curiosity - a
bit like a circus freak.
So after
Adam left, I went through the familiar routine.
I made hot chocolate, grabbed the emergency biscuit tin, called Bogey
and flipped open my laptop.
Bogey
appeared from the bedroom, blinking and checking the coast was clear. He was the cat with the attitude of Humphrey
Bogart - a gangster cat - and the feline equivalent of me. Huge, lumbering and clumsy. Most cats could jump on shelves effortlessly,
dodging ornaments with skilful grace - Bogey would land with a thud, skidding
to a halt and shattering everything around him.
We were
two of a kind - kindred spirits.
But he
hated any man I’d ever brought into our world.
Oh, he wasn’t vicious. He
wouldn’t attack or scratch. He’d just
give them ‘his look’ and that said it all.
Roughly translated from cat-speak it would say, ‘WTF! Another loser. Excuse me while I go and take care of my
bottom’. And if he was really peed off, he’d simply flop on the
floor, open his back legs and start a thorough clean-up interspersed with noisy
slurps and a defiant stare that said, ‘What you
gonna do about it, big guy?’
So Bogey
was delighted to find that he had me and the flat to himself again and he settled
on my lap, purring noisily as I checked the dire state of my financial affairs
through my online banking account.
My
suspicions were confirmed. £8.53 to my
name and no pay cheque due that month. I
sighed and petted Bogey’s ears. He
looked up at me with questioning eyes. I
often thought he was tuned into my feelings but he was probably just thinking
that eight quid was enough to cover the cost of his cat food, so what was the
problem?
The
problem was I could match my disastrous love life with an equally depressing
employment history. I’d left school at
eighteen with absolutely no idea of what I wanted to do with my life. Mia was determined to marry young and breed
for Britain
but I was totally clueless. And so I’d
drifted from one unsuitable job to another.
I’d had a go at most things but rarely found joy in any of them.
Daddy
said my true talents lay with people and that I had a knack of making them feel
comfortable and at ease. People liked to
talk to me to tell me their troubles and I’d sat for many hours at bus stops or
on trains listening to a life story or the tale of a messy divorce. But I wasn’t clever enough to be a
psychiatrist or a counsellor so the door to those professions was firmly closed. Dad would regularly email adverts to me for
receptionist positions with cheery little notes - ‘Saw this and thought of
you. Bet you’d be great. Just smile and chat to people while they’re
waiting for their appointments.’
But what
he didn’t realise was that I’d been turned down for more receptionist’s jobs
than my mother had shoes. Companies
didn’t want gawky - they wanted model looks with Tipp-Ex-white teeth and glossy
blonde extensions. These stunners were
the first port of call for a customer, the shop window, and nobody wanted to
put me on display.
So I’d
given up applying. I’d seen the look on
too many interviewers’ faces. It said, ‘Oh purlease! You? Greeting our guests? Next!’
Which
meant I found myself trawling the web and applying for mindless, brain-numbing
jobs which paid a pittance. Customer
service call centres were really all I was suited to - I could talk but no one
would have to see me.
Only my
close friends knew my real dream was
to be a writer. Through my words and in
those pages, I could be anyone I wanted - a ballerina, a model, a wife. I could be loved, admired and lusted after.
As with
all my other non-existent talents, I suspected it was something else I wasn’t
very good at. I certainly wasn’t overly
committed to my art because at the whiff of a new man in my life, my storyline
would be forgotten and not another sentence constructed. It was almost as if I could only write when I
had a broken heart - I needed to be a tortured soul.
But
would it ever earn me a living? £8.53
wasn’t going to see me through the week, let alone the month.
I opened
my document entitled, ‘Love, Lust and
Lies’ and scanned the last words I’d written. At the time they’d seemed perfect, now I
wasn’t so sure.
‘He
took her delicate hand in his and kissed her perfectly formed knuckles. Her heart was racing in her tiny chest and her
pert bosoms rose and fell with each breath.
‘This
is forever, my love. You know this,
don’t you?’ he purred.
She
nodded her head and licked her lips, waiting for his kiss. It was forever, that was all she needed to
hear. Forever.’
Well,
I’d read worse. I’d also read better, but if I could just
force myself to finish it I could ask Mia what she thought and then maybe send
it to some agents.
It wasn’t
going to be an instant boost to my financial status, though. I’d heard it took ages to secure a book deal
and even longer to see any money from it.
Closing
the document and vowing to write at least a thousand words the next day, I
sipped at my now tepid chocolate. There
was only one thing for it. I’d have to
talk to Daddy about a loan and pray that I could secure a quiet moment with him
without my mother preaching or belittling me.
I hated
asking my dad for money because he never said no or made me feel awkward. It was almost as if he wanted to do it to
make up for my lousy mother. He showered
me with love, time, gifts and cash as a kind of compensation and I didn’t want
to take advantage of him. I was
twenty-eight and should have been fending for myself, not running home for
hand-outs all the time. But even if the
best job ever came up, right at that second, I’d still need money to see me
through.
‘Bum,
bum and bum!’ I said out loud to myself, startling Bogey who looked at me with
disdain. ‘How dare you wake me from my slumber if it’s not for love or food?’ And he jumped from my lap, landing awkwardly
and sending the biscuit tin flying.
It was that
act that sent me over the edge. My
bottled-up emotions suddenly came flooding out as I surveyed the broken
Hob-Nobs and crumbs of Bourbon. Bogey
tried to apologise, not realising the biscuits were the least of my
worries. He snaked in and out of my legs
as best as his portly frame would allow as I howled and bawled, sweeping up the
remnants and chucking them in the bin.
Exhausted,
I sunk to the floor and hugged my cat to me, rubbing my tears in his fur. ‘Oh, Bogey, what are we going to do?’
Of
course he didn’t answer. The only
response I heard as I sniffed and sobbed was the voice of my mother, once more
in my head.
And
again it was mocking me with its stock-standard phrase of my childhood.
‘Pull
yourself together, Persephone! Big girls don’t cry!’
