“Your skin’s sagging!”so declared my husband, sixty at the time, as he pinched my side before our guests. I fetched a mirror and showed him where indeed his own skin hung.
Claire, what’s this then? Arthur, cheeks flushed after his third glass of sloe gin, suddenly reached out and gave me a sharp, proprietorial pinch right above my skirt’s waistband, right where the fabric strained a little as I sat.
He did this in full view of our guests, loudly, shamelessly.
Arthur, really? I tried gently swatting his hand away, as one might with a persistent autumn fly, but he was unfazed.
Again, his fingers stubby and browned like overcooked sausages sank firmly into my waist, and while it didn’t ache, it left a sharp sting of humiliation.
Look here! he called to Geoffrey, our neighbour opposite who was sizing up a helping of coronation chicken. I keep telling her, “Claire, just lay off the bread at night,” and she says, “It’s age, hormones.”
Arthur burst out laughing, his belly wobbling dangerously beneath straining shirt buttons.
Hormones, she says! Lazy bones, more like! he concluded triumphantly, sweeping a glance across the table.
Arthur, stop it, I muttered through clenched teeth, feeling the heat of a fierce blush crawling up my cheeks and neck.
Geoffrey choked out an awkward laugh, eyes fixed on his plate as though the dollop of mayonnaise there was the most captivating sight in England.
His wife, Margaret, politely busied herself with her napkin, pointedly ignoring the commotion.
Oh, stop it? What, cant I speak the truth? Your skins sagging! Arthur poked my side again, as if testing a batch of dough for its readiness.
Just here, look, rolls over like a Shar Pei, those folds. Not a pretty sight, Claire.
A heavy, sticky silence settled over the parlour, broken only by the steady hum of the ancient fridge in the kitchen.
I do this for you, he added, adopting his most patronising tone, leaning triumphantly back and folding his arms. A wife should keep herself up, so its pleasant for a man to look at her. Thats the natural order.
I looked at him.
Properly, as though meeting him anew after thirty years of marriage.
Sixty-two now. That belly, looming over his trousers like a thundercloud on the horizon.
The second chin melting silently into his neck, which itself slumped into stooped shoulders, and all ridges lost somewhere along the way.
His bald crown glistened in the lamplight like an oily crumpet, shining from too much roast.
You mean, pleasant for the eye? I asked, my voice eerily calm, even to me.
Something had shifted inside then, like the heavy lever in a docks sluice: one decisive thunk. Gone was my shame, my urge to soften his moods, that old patient indulgence.
Only lucidity remained.
Of course! Arthur thumped his chest, letting out a hollow sound of pride. Look at me, I keep in shape!
What shape? I asked steadily, not breaking his gaze.
A mans shape! he sat up straighter, as his back permitted. Every morning I do my exercisesswinging dumbbells five minutes a day, Im in good nick.
He tried pulling his belly in to demonstrate. The effort fell rather flat.
His stomach merely twitched, shuddered, then settled back firmly on its rightful perch, spilling over the belt digging into his flesh.
A man should be an eagle, not a sack of spuds, he finished his little speech.
An eagle, is it? I slowly rose from my seat, careful not to make a scene.
Where are you off to? Offended, are you? he shouted after me, refilling his glass. Truth hurts, it seems! You need to diet, not pout, Claire!
I slipped into the hallway, heavy with the smell of old coats and shoe polish.
There, upon its nail, hung the old mirror from my parents house heavy, oval, in a thick oaken frame. It remembered us, young and trim.
I lifted it down five kilos if it was an ounce and the frame bit into my palms. Oddly, it felt lighter than a feather to me.
I returned to the parlour, bearing the mirror as one might carry a medieval shield. Or a verdict.
The guests froze, forks halfway to their lips. Margaret forgot her mouth was open, and inside glinted a chunk of pickled onion.
Arthur, stand up, I said, softly enough, but there was no mistaking I meant it.
What? baffled, but cowed by my cold impatience, he stood. Whats this, a dance?
No, I stepped up close, breathing in the scent of onion and cheap spirits. Were going to admire our eagle.
I thrust the mirror just under his nose, making him start.
You hold it.
He grabbed the frame automatically, surprised by its weight.
Claire, what are you playing at? the swagger leaked from his voice, the first trickle of worry appearing.
Look, I ordered, the same tone one reserves for scolding misbehaving pets. Really look.
He stared at his quivering reflection.
Well, thats me, innit? What’s your point?
Now look lower, I jabbed the glass, right at his sweat-soaked shirtfront. See?
See what? still trying to save face.
Your skins sagging! I pronounced, mocking his earlier emphasis. And not just sagging, Arthur its resting.
Claire! he tried to set down the mirror, face going beetroot.
No, hold it, I pressed the frame lower, forcing his gaze. What dyou call that above your belt, then, steel abs?
Geoffrey spluttered, suppressing his laughter into a cough.
No, darling, thats a lifebelt for when were drowning in lard.
Arthur was now the colour of an overripe tomato, fit to burst.
And here, your sides sticking out of your trousers. Are these eagles wings? Or floppy piglets ears, ready for Christmas roast?
Enough! he hissed, twisting away. People are watching, why shame me?
Let them! I spoke up firmly above his hissing. You wanted truth, didnt you? Our homes high priest of looks!
I stepped back, surveying the full scene.
Lets dissect your aesthetics, then turn side-on to the light.
I wont he stammered, then conceded, falling silent.
Turn! I barked, the forks clattering together at the table.
As if hypnotised, shuffling self-consciously, he turned sideways.
His profile, reflected in the glass, was hardly Grecian his neck, such as it was, had all but vanished.
See that triple fold at your nape? I said, doctor-cool. Thats our Shar Pei, right there, pedigree.
Margaret, no longer hiding, buried her face in her napkin, shoulders trembling with suppressed laughter.
And under your chin? Thats a pouch, like a pelicans do you keep spare crumpets in there?
Im a man! whimpered Arthur, thinly, as though it would excuse anything.
Oh, so for you, its all right? I laughed, short and cold. So one soft fold on me, after two children and thirty years by the cooker, is sloth, shame, sagging skin?
I drew close, looking straight into his eyes.
Yet you, whos not lifted heavier than the telly remote in ten years, have the wobble of an undercooked blancmange and that counts as a man in his prime?
I snapped the mirror from his exhausted hands. He stood, rumpled in the centre of the room, shirt gaping where a button had finally surrendered and shot beneath the sideboard.
All his poise, all his orator’s importance, fell away like the skin from an onion.
The eagle had vanished; only a rather fat and suddenly very ordinary old man stood before me. The king stripped bare.
And terribly, terribly well-fed.
Sit, I said quietly, resting the mirror against the dresser. Eat.
He slumped onto his chair, which gave a treacherous squeak at his weight.
And lets have no more talk, not even half a word, about my figure, I said, fixing my hair in the mirrors reflection.
I turned, lowering my voice for him alone:
Or Ill hang that mirror right opposite your seat at the table. Youll watch your own pelican eat with every mouthful.
Geoffrey now laughed loudly, unconcerned about wounding our hosts pride, tears glistening in his eyes.
Arthur, wordless, speared a tiny pickled mushroom and chewed, staring only at his plate, as though he could shrink himself invisible.
The tension that usually lingers after a family row ebbed from the room.
Instead, the air felt lighter, clearer as if at last, someone had opened a window in a stuffy, smoky parlour and let the breeze in.
I took my rightful place at the head of the table.
And I took a huge, shameless slab of my homemade Victoria sponge cake.
The very cake Id spent yesterday afternoon baking, which Id planned nobly to avoid for my waistline.
The rich buttercream oozed from between the layers, the sponge crackling under my fork.
Claire, pass me a slice as well a large one, please, Margaret said with a quiet smile, pushing out her plate. To hell with diets we only live once.
And for me, too, winked Geoffrey, pouring another cup of tea. I reckon my wings are sprouting as well, better keep them fed.
Arthur glanced up briefly.
He looked at me with new, wary respect.
Then at the cake.
Then, sidelong, at the mirror, still propped against the dresser as mute testimony to his defeat.
In its base, his socked feet peeked out, one black, the other deep navy nearly purple.
A proper old eagle, at home.
Sorry, Claire, he muttered, peering down at the tablecloth. Didnt mean it, just letting my mouth run.
Eat, Arthur, I replied, smiling as I relished a forkful of cake. Youll need your strength.
He raised a brow.
To lift those dumbbells, I teased with a grin. Since youre our resident athlete.
The evening carried on with its usual chatter of prices, allotments, and weather.
Yet something irreversible had shifted around that table.
My perfect home critic had, in an instant, deflatednow just a man, with his own fears, his weaknesses and folds.
And you know what?
That cake was absolutely delicious.
The finest I’d tasted in two decades.
Since that day, the old mirror has remained in the parlour. I never did put it away.
And now, whenever Arthur passes by, he unconsciously pulls his belly in and straightens his shoulders.
But he never, not once, mentioned my sagging skin again.
Perhaps, hes still wary of waking the pelican.
