Christmas with the Tart.
Now, before you start lecturing, I know I should have blocked him, but I needed to see those pictures, to remind myself of reality, to remind myself I should stop snivelling about the way life had turned out and be glad it was the Tart who had to deal with his smelly socks, unrealistic demands, and toxic under-the-duvet fumes now. Even a thatched bungalow on an Antiguan beach couldn’t make that stench romantic.
I was better off without him.
I had to be, because he wasn’t coming back.
Anyway, as Big Ben had chimed last night I’d toasted Roberta with a large glass of Baileys and vowed that today would be my turning point. This would be the year of the new, improved Pippa. The Pippa who could finally get into a pair of skinny jeans without herniating something. The Pippa who was going to rise phoenix-like and resplendent from the ashes of her marriage and transform into a glorious being.
I pondered that for a few moments but then made the mistake of looking down and discovered I could no longer see my toes past my rather wobbly midriff. I prodded the bulge with a finger and it rippled.
That’s the downside of stripping down to your underwear to weigh yourself. What you save in precious ounces, you gain back in reality. No longer could I ignore the fact I didn’t just have a muffin top, but a whole Victoria sponge sitting round my middle.
Maybe a phoenix was the wrong image—the wrong logo—for my marvellous rebirth. Maybe a butterfly would be a better fit. Because I clearly had the whole roly-poly cocoon thing going on.
While I’d been thinking, the bathroom scales had turned themselves off in a huff. I jabbed the button again with my big toe and waited for the display to do its usual warm-up dance and settle back to zero.
I’d try again. Just to double-check. After all, the battery might be going.
Once again I shifted my weight on to my toes, because I knew that leaning forward would cause the scales to dip up to half a pound. I rose to the right spot, the point of balance where I was far enough forward to see the jostling numbers go down a little, but not so far that I toppled over and faceplanted into the bathroom wall.
Oh, yay! Lower this time … Not even in the teens, but closer to—
Hang on. No.
Don’t do that! Stop climbing!
‘No, no, no, no, no!’
The scales had returned to exactly the same number they’d been at the first time. A number they had never dared show before. Not just double figures, but higher. The one that was unlucky for some, and definitely not good news for me.
I couldn’t even comfort myself I was the national average dress size any more. I’d waved goodbye to that number in my rear-view mirror some time around mid-December.
‘Traitor,’ I whispered as I stepped off the scales and threw my pyjamas back on. Before the display went dark, the offending numbers seemed to linger just a little longer than normal, mocking me.
‘That’s it!’ I muttered as I tied up my dressing gown. ‘I’ll give you one more chance tomorrow, but after that I’m off to Argos for a replacement and you’re going down the dump!’
The scales sat there, unblinking in their innocence, as I stomped from the bathroom.
After that lovely little episode, I really didn’t want to leave the house. I’d have much rather hidden myself away under my fleecy blanket on the sofa and watched one of the DVDs Roberta had bought me for Christmas than have family round for a big New Year’s Day lunch.
Okay, okay … I knew the cat hadn’t actually opened up an Amazon account and ordered me a couple of Hollywood’s golden oldies, but there’d been precious little else under the tree this year, just a lovely scarf from my older sister, Candace.
It probably didn’t help that I’d put the scraggy little fir in exactly the same spot Mum and Dad had always had a tree when the cottage had been our family home. Present-day reality was competing hard with memories of so many happy Christmases here, filled with both laughter and bickering. Now Mum and Dad were gone the house seemed far too quiet, even if I chattered away to Roberta as I tried to reacclimatise to seeing the cottage not as just ‘Mum and Dad’s’ but as my new home.
I sighed. When I’d dreamed of how my life would turn out when I’d been younger, this was so not what I’d been expecting. I’d always had some half-conscious idea that by the grand old age of thirty-seven my life would be like a John Lewis Christmas ad—perfect and stylish, grown-up and full of warmth. But instead of the loving husband and cheekily cute children I’d imagined, I was all on my own, only a cat and a few presents I’d wrapped myself in cheap Rudolph paper to keep me company. I’d even had to fill my own stocking (mostly with chocolate, save for a wrinkled satsuma I’d nicked from the fruit bowl) and put it at the end of my own bed.
I stared at the gaping hole under my Christmas tree. It seemed to grow bigger and darker the more I looked at it.
Ed had always been terrible with money but good with presents. There’d been an explosion of badly-wrapped parcels under our tree when we’d been married. Things he’d splashed out on that we probably couldn’t afford, not on a musician’s pay, anyway. I allowed myself to miss that, at least, even if I’d forbidden myself from missing the man himself any more.
My ex had been the lead singer of a band called The Shamed, who’d had one big hit and a couple of not-so-huge ones back in the early noughties. They’d been making an okay living, though, doing gigs all over the UK, especially on the university circuit.
But then a contestant on X Factor had covered one of their songs, leading to a flurry of iTunes sales and things had started to change. Ed, who’d never let common sense get in the way of his career planning, had started dreaming of bigger record deals and arena tours. He’d even boasted about pinching Take That’s comeback crown. So when the opportunity to do a late-night reality show on a minor-league cable station had come his way it had been too much to resist.
He’d spent almost three months locked up in a house that looked like a mini-version of Ikea—without the nice meatballs—battling it out with other D-list celebs for the grand prize of … well, not a ton of money, that was for sure … but, for the lure of resurrecting his profile and the band’s career.
And it had worked, thanks to an infatuation with a glamour model almost half his age. The story had made the front pages of the tabloids and internet gossip columns. Thanks to his new-found notoriety, the band had signed with a new record company and were planning a greatest hits album. Ed had got everything he’d ever wanted. It didn’t seem fair.
I sighed. That was it. I couldn’t stand staring at the tree any longer. It was coming down this evening when my sister and her family had gone home. I had to leave the past behind, stop dwelling on what couldn’t be changed and move forward.
Speaking of moving forward, it was probably time I got both myself and the house ready …
I spotted Roberta, stretched lazily out on the sofa with her eyes half-closed, and felt a stab of jealousy, but I still rubbed her tummy
