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The house resounds to the thunder of huge stompy adolescent feet. The hallway’s piled high with backpacks and sports bags. The air is thick with the smell of coffee, slightly burned toast and an undertone of ripe training shoes, and cries of “Mum, where’s my sleeping bag?”, “I can’t find my boots!” and “Have you seen the car key, Emma?” come from all directions. Chaos. But I don’t care because this evening, for the first time in almost fifteen years, it’s going to be totally peaceful and calm.
I have three sons. Yes, three. Yes, I am outnumbered, yes, they keep me very busy, yes, we get through a lot of food, laundry detergent and athletic socks. No, I wasn’t tempted to try for a daughter as well. No, I wouldn’t change a thing. They are delightful (if noisy).
But I’m still looking forward to an evening off from being the mum. It’s the first Friday of the summer holidays. The thirteen and fourteen-year-olds, Alfie and Owen, are heading to Scout camp, hence the sleeping bags. Toby is only just eleven and was ready to have a good sulk that the others were going away without him, until his best friend Joe, whose big brother was also going to camp without him, asked him to come and spend the weekend in an indulgent round of sugar and PS5. So all three are packed (mostly!) and ready to go. Normally I would have started to get excited about the prospect of adult time with Chris… but he’s going away too on his brother’s stag weekend. It doesn’t sound like that’s going to be too raucous. All the participants are 40 or over, and most are already married with families themselves. There’s going to be golf, they tell me.
So I’m going to get two nights to myself. Sad but true: I didn’t make any particular plans to do anything much. My life is very busy, I’m not on holiday even if everyone else in the house is, and I have a major client presentation coming up at work this morning. Also… I’m not feeling exactly awesome.
As I’ve got older, I’ve noticed that I always know when that time of the month is approaching. Pretty much to the day. For a week beforehand, the tiredness builds, I’m constantly hungry, I get headaches, my breasts feel tender and lumpy and my tummy, none too flat to begin with, feels bloated. I don’t know if it’s a last flare-up before menopause, but I never had PMS this badly when I was younger. I’m feeling all that now. I think the main event’ll hit tomorrow or the day after.
But life doesn’t stop, it’s a normal Friday for me and I have to get to work. I’m dressed carefully in a fine draped jersey top and blazer and most importantly, “the magic trousers”. My sister put me on to them and they are amazing: they look crisp and professional, but the waistband is soft and stretchy like on yoga pants, and if you’re feeling a bit delicate in that area and normal dress slacks would be binding, they really help. They also work for general fat days, and according to Sis, in early pregnancy, not that I’d owned them back then.
I gather my jacket and laptop bag and make the rounds to kiss everyone goodbye before I leave. Chris is going to do the final push of delivering Owen and Alfie to the Scout Hut and Toby to Joe’s house (if they don’t have everything they need by now, I think they never will) and then catch his train to meet the rest of the stag group at a hotel. Meanwhile I need to leave. I hope the boys are going to have a good time.
Standing on the station, with fifteen minutes to go before my own train, I finally have a moment to assess how I feel. Apprehensive, mostly about my boys, but a little about my presentation; also, hungry and drained-feeling. I know I don’t look too tired and I’m having rather a good hair day; it’s entirely internal.
Rising early, I’d eaten breakfast then, tea and cereal, but that feels like ages ago and it’s still four hours till lunch. In an attempt to boost my energy levels, I buy a chocolate croissant and a hot chocolate with whipped cream from a coffee stall.
Good call. The smooth richness of the chocolate flows down into my unsettled stomach and warms me from within, while the powdered sugar dusting the light, buttery pastry gives me an almost instant lift. Not the healthiest snack, but… I really need it today. I lean forward, nibbling cautiously. For all I want to take a huge bite, I mustn't cover my good clothes in sugar and pastry flakes. I finish, lick my lips delicately and place the paper bag in a bin.
Once on the train, I recheck the presentation on my laptop then zone out, staring out of the window as the suburbs slide by. The refreshment cart comes down the aisle and on auto-pilot I order coffee and a sultana scone. Wait, oops. I already ate that croissant. Well, I could put the scone in my briefcase and eat it later…
Ten minutes is later, right? I wasn’t exactly hungry, but I want that scone and here it is. I find myself opening the cellophane and paper packet, splitting the scone with the flimsy plastic knife and mashing the firm butter over its crumby surface. I peel back the foil on the little jam portion. The scone isn’t as delicious as the croissant had been, but it’s not bad, well risen and not a doughy lump like some. I eat it in neat bites; by the last one I’m wishing it was bigger. Maybe now I’ll be able to get through the morning. Lord, it’s still only 8.45…
Once in the office, the morning seems to tick on much faster, as I knew it would. Dealing with emails, checking all is set up for the presentation, then making sure I’m ready myself. I look at my reflection in the mirror in the Ladies. My usual medium-height, medium-to-curvy self looks back. Dark hair tidy and shiny, no lipstick (or crumbs) in teeth. Or on my jacket, or the drapey blouse that looks decently professional but camouflages the slight mummy tummy I still have (yes, after eleven years). I feel the need to double-check how my clothing sits today, more than I usually would; my stomach still feels uncomfortably bloated. But you couldn’t tell. I kind of hate that I feel the need to consider my appearance so carefully, but as one of the few more senior women in the department, I encounter my share of misogyny, and I’m not keen to give anyone any ammunition that I don’t have to. At least it’s no longer considered essential to wear heels all the time. I hope my ankles won’t swell, standing.
Right. Time to go.
“Well, that went well!” As the clients stream off towards the foyer, my boss Mike comes towards me with his trademark bouncy stride. He was right – it had gone really well, both the presentation and the round of questions after – though I felt perversely annoyed that he should sound at all surprised. I’m good at this kind of thing; that’s why they have me do them. I’m knowledgeable, warm and persuasive and don’t have that slightly over-enthusiastic, too-much air that makes you suspicious of whatever Mike might be selling. Unjustly; he knows his stuff and is very good at his job. Just a little high-energy. And sometimes just a bit weird.
“So… lunch? I’m buying. We deserve lunch out after all that.” Mike is right that we deserve something; this project’s been weeks in the preparation, and yes, I’m really hungry again. It’s late for lunch, almost 1.45 and there’s been no coffee break for me – I feel wiped out again, and I’ve been fervently hoping my stomach won’t growl for the past 20 minutes. But after the full-on charm act for the clients, I don’t really want to have lunch with Mike. I want to go to the pizza-by-the-slice diner two streets away, slump into a pink leatherette booth all by myself, and inhale several slices while not talking to anybody.
But it’s a nice gesture. I probably should let him do it. “Okay, where were you thinking of?”
“Chinese buffet?”
Actually, now you’re talking. I was picturing somewhere I’d have to sit on a hard chair and wait to be served. “Sounds great. Let me get sorted out and tell the others.” The others are Erin, Nina and Jayden, the juniors on our team.
Waiting by the buffet for a space to load our bowls – it’s really busy – I find myself standing next to Erin. She’s tall, blonde, athletic and beautiful, and also 24, and in between rueful reminiscence that I was never that hot when I was 24, I worry about her. She’s a good… when did I start thinking of her as a good kid? I’m not actually old enough to be her mother. Or not really. Anyway. She’s an excellent employee, but it's only her first graduate job and I worry that she won’t be taken seriously because of how she looks. I worry about Nina as well. She’s also very bright; she’s half Chinese (I hope the food here isn’t horribly inauthentic...) and I know she’s had racist comments of the “where are you really from?” variety. Sigh. I challenge it when I catch anyone at it. Jayden isn’t a standout the way the young women are, or not to me, but I know Mike has put him forward for management training which I’m not entirely sure he merits. It was done while I was on holiday, and I’m just waiting for an opportunity to level the playing field. If I can.
There’s space to get to the buffet now. Erin edges in first and starts piling noodles into her bowl. I don’t know what any of these dishes are, but it all looks good. I load up with a little of everything that’s vegetarian, then realise that I have a really heaping bowlful. I don't usually eat this much at lunch, or not nowadays. Oh well, I don’t have to eat it all if I don’t want to, or go back for a second pass. I take a glass of juice and head back to the table.
Erin’s already there and if my bowl is full, hers looks ridiculous. She has a little mountain of food there – stirfries, noodles, salads and a teetering tower of chicken pieces with sweet and sour sauce poured over – and it’s almost tumbling over the edge. She must have carried it really carefully. Though I should know better, it’s hard to imagine such a slender girl will be able to eat all that. I don’t say a word, but she obviously thinks I’ll notice. “It looks like a lot, doesn’t it?” she says defensively. “I have to eat a full meal now, it’s a triathlon weekend.” Oh, yeah, Erin does triathlons. Scarily hard ones, too. I have no idea what her training regime entails, but presumably she can use the calories and protein. I wish her luck and dig into my own bowl.
“You hungry then, Erin?” Well, Mike evidently isn’t held back by tact. That’s probably sparkling banter in his book.
“Triathlon weekend”, we say in unison. Erin shoots me a shy smile. I picture Mike doing a triathlon… nope. Mike’s bowl isn’t too shallowly filled either; he has more than I do and he’s no athlete, just a middle-aged man with a bit of a dad bod. Not that I’m one to talk. The others return and we all dig in.
It might be a cliché that Chinese food makes you want more soon after, but it’s certainly true today. It doesn’t seem to take long to get to the bottom of my bowl, and although I wasn’t going to go back up, my half-satisfied stomach tells me I want more of some of the dishes… that thing with the mushrooms was delicious… and looking at Erin’s chicken makes me crave some deepfried tofu, which I didn’t get the first time round. It’s a little weird how it squeaks in your teeth, but it’s so good.
So when Jayden and Nina stand up again, I go too, and so, after a little pause, does Erin, piling her bowl high again. I’m impressed by how much she can eat, even now I realise why. I thought my teenage boys could put it away, but they’ve got nothing on her. Nor does Jayden, who must weigh thirty pounds more than she does. As for me, my insides feel way better than they did this morning, but oh boy, I’m so glad I wore the stretchy trousers today. If I finish this bowl, and yes, I can’t resist it, I’m going to be so full.
And I am – I’ve sated my appetite for savoury food – but not quite so full that I can resist the siren call of dessert. There’s green tea ice cream and pineapple or banana fritters. Nina passes on dessert, and I wonder again what she thinks of this place, but I won’t put her on the spot just now. But really we need to get the juniors’ input on what they’d like to eat, next time we have a team lunch.
It’s nearly three o’clock. We wouldn’t normally be out this late, except maybe for the Christmas lunch. Time to get back to the office. I reach for my jacket, stand up slowly and realise that I’m beyond full, I’m stuffed. Sitting, I could feel my waistband starting to restrict my bloated tummy, and the underwire of my bra was starting to dig in and hurt; standing reveals to me that I’m not just puffy round the middle from PMS; I’ve packed my stomach so full that it’s slightly distended.
I can’t possibly pull my tummy in. It feels tender and taut, and although I don’t look down at it, I’m sure it’s visibly bulging under my blouse. It’s warm, so I carry my jacket over my arm in front of my middle, and hope it provides a little camouflage.
Back in the office, I settle behind my desk and adjust my waistband so it’s not compressing my stomach. I’m glad I didn’t wear a fitted top. I might be over-full, but inside I do feel better. Time to tackle the emails from the past few hours and do some planning for next month.
Two hours later, it’s time to go. I check my phone; I have a few messages from Chris letting me know he caught his train and arrived at the hotel OK, and one from Joe’s mum saying that the boys are enjoying themselves and that Toby is very polite. (Hmm, I hope Chris delivered the right kid…)
As I walk to the station, in a late afternoon that’s turned hot and sunny, although I’m still kind of full from lunch, I’m thinking about what to have for dinner. I’d planned to order in a takeout and was looking forward to it, but should I? I wasn’t expecting to have a big lunch. OK, a huge lunch. I would get so fat if I ate like that more often. I could just make myself something light… we have food in the fridge…
Or I could head into M&S on the station concourse and get myself something right now. That would also be a thing I could do.
Boarding the train a few minutes later, I settle into a table seat, put my headphones in and call up a podcast, and pop the top on a can of premade Pimms and lemonade. I also have a layered cheesecake dessert thing in a plastic cup. What’s another 200 calories today? I sip and eat slowly, licking the mouthfuls of dessert off the plastic spoon, enjoying the sweet taste yet knowing I don’t in any way need the food to keep me going. But my body’s clearly determined to overindulge today; I’m not going to fight it.
I’m not in a hurry, I’m not in heels, so I walk slowly back from the station. I can feel the tension of the day flowing out of my limbs as I do; my massive lunch has finally gone down now, and my tummy feels more normal, if rather tender. It’s still hot and I’m longing for a shower.
As I step into my silent house, for a moment I feel a little weird. This is literally the first time since Owen was born that I’m going to have a whole evening alone. I kick my shoes off, then stoop to tidy them aside, and shed my laptop bag and jacket. I head upstairs, peel out of my clothes and enter the bathroom. The mirror on the wall shows my naked self; soft breasts above an average-sized midsection, neither skinny nor fat, that has seen some action, with the mild remains of diastasis recti and faint, old stretchmarks from my pregnancies, and that little pooch at the lower belly where things just didn’t snap right back.
Having said I’m not fat, I can’t help noticing my tummy still looks a bit puffy compared to its usual appearance. I pull it in, as it’s empty enough now, but only succeed in making myself look a little lumpy. I step into the shower, turn the water on, and wash all over with moisturising shower gel. The loose skin on my belly and its soft layer of padding feel slithery and squishy under my hands as I massage the gel over myself. I don’t always love my tummy, but I do love how it feels when I do that. I do my breasts, then reach around and massage my bum and thighs as well.
After the shower, slipping into old pyjama trousers and a well-washed soft T-shirt, I pad downstairs. The sun is starting to set. I cue Netflix up on the TV, walk through to the kitchen and rummage in the fridge. Pffft, nothing looks good. And I don’t want to cook, now I’m all clean and relaxed. I collect a half-bottle of white wine and a glass, go back to the living room, start up La La Land, then open the drawer of the coffee table and start to page through all the takeout menus that we stuff in there. Not Chinese, I did that already today. Pizza? Curry? I pause the TV and dial the number of the local balti house. We often order from there; it’s always good.
Not too much later, the doorbell rings. I’ve already paid by card, so the driver only has to hand the plastic bag over. I look in the top to make sure it’s the right order, sag paneer – and it is, according to the label on the top – thank him and head back inside. It’s only when I head to the kitchen that I realise there are four big cartons in there, not two. I guess our habit of ordering large amounts for the five of us made this bag seem small?
I fish the receipt out of the bottom of the bag. It’s printed, but scrawled on the bottom are two complimentary items – samosas and sticky rice dessert. They do often throw in extras but I hadn’t expected it with a single order. Still, I can stick the leftovers in the fridge.
(Do you think this is likely to happen? No, nor do I, not the way today has gone, but this is what I tell myself.)
I lay everything out on a tray and bring it through with a wad of paper napkins. I prop the tray next to me on the couch (which I would never let the boys do), prop my feet on an ottoman and get thoroughly comfortable, and start to browse my way through half the samosas as Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling do their meet-cute. I have to sit up more to eat the paneer in its sloppy spinach sauce, scooping it up with torn-off bites of the jumbo-sized naan bread, but I manage not to drop any on myself or on the cushions. Before long I can feel I’m getting full again, but it’s delicious and I’m in no rush.
An hour later, Emma and Ryan are starting to fall out, I’m beginning to wonder whether I can reach the box of tissues from where I’m half-lying back (I’ve seen this film twice before and you’ve got to think strategically when you know you’re going to cry, and I am PMSing, after all). And I have eaten so much I feel like I might explode.
I thought I was full at lunchtime. Compared to this, that wasn’t full, that was just… not hungry. I haven't stuffed myself like this in years. Not a smear or crumb remains of the curry or naan, the samosas are all gone, the rice pudding has been scraped clean. My entire midsection feels rammed solid, as if my body is a bag or a pillowcase that has been packed tighter and tighter until the fabric is at straining point.
Halfway through my huge dinner, my belly felt full, but still soft; now when I place my hands on it, it’s almost completely firm, with just a thin layer of marshmallow squishiness over the top. The packed mound of it is bulging up out of my pyjamas. I'd say my stomach feels inflated, but that implies that I’m hollow, and I feel very, very far from hollow. None of the food I’ve eaten was heavy exactly but I’m very aware of it filling me up. I can sense it as a football-size lump inside me. More solid than a football. One of those weighted medicine balls from the gym.
I’m so glad I don’t have a bra on now or a tight waistband. These old pyjamas are stretchy and it’s just as well. Even so, I pulled my waistband down some time back; it was just too tight and uncomfortable with the elastic cutting into my poor bloated tummy. The red mark is fading now to pink.
I can see that because this T-shirt isn’t long enough to cover my exposed lower belly. It wasn’t skin-tight when I started but not baggy either, and there isn’t much room in it now. Every time I move, it rides up. My tummy is so swollen now that it’s seriously tender, and I’m very aware of the fabric moving against its sensitized skin. It makes me want to wriggle and shimmy to free myself of it, but I’m definitely too full to move that way. I pull the T-shirt up and let my stomach be totally unconstricted. Instinctively, I try to relax my abdominal muscles and let it all hang out… but I can’t; they’re already relaxed as far as they will go. I really have stuffed myself to bursting.
You might wonder why I’m not freaked out by this, or maybe you can guess. Twenty years ago, I used to do this on the regular...
-0-0-0-0-0-
I was a university student, away from home for the first time, having shared a room all my life till then - and a taste of freedom and privacy unlocked a spirit of hedonism and greed which soon tipped over into something more. I always scheduled my indulgence for the day after handing in assignments: I would eat lightly all week in preparation, so as to save money – and calories – to indulge myself with whatever food I wanted in the privacy of my room. Knowing that this was weird, I didn't tell anyone. It was the turn of the millennium, ultra-thin was in – and the idea of overeating on purpose, just for my own pleasure, felt naughty and rebellious. So I started small. I would get a takeout or a pizza, lock my door and eat whatever I wanted till my waistband began to tighten and I felt sated and sleepy.
My boyfriend at the time, Richard, found out about this habit and soon discovered that he found it hot to watch me eat. He enjoyed watching my tummy bulge outwards, but he absolutely loved that we shared a secret, and with his help and encouragement I gradually worked up from simply indulging my appetites to stuffing myself beyond fullness as an end in itself. I was a slim, fit-looking girl, and nobody would have believed that my flattish stomach could stretch out enough to hold three regular-sized pizzas, brim with an entire family-size tub of ice cream, or gurgle and slosh with a whole two-litre of pop. But as time went on, eventually I could do that and still have room for more.
Rich was maybe getting a little too into this. Sardonic and irreverent, like me he got a charge out of going against society's expectations. He revelled in finding new foods to stuff me with, always encouraging me to push a little further, balloon up a little bigger. Sometimes I was just slightly scared he wouldn't stop if I asked, though I never actually tested this; I relished being coaxed and encouraged, and he certainly did that. He bought a large mirror and we would watch my midsection gradually blossoming outward as he fed me, until my belly was round and tight, stretched till I felt ready to split apart and I really could manage no more. Then we would move things to the bed… and take most of next day to recover.
The two of us liked each other a lot, but in some ways our relationship hung on too long, bound together by our secret sessions and not too much else. The food was amazing and so was the astonishing stuffed sex, which had to get more creative the more bloated and cumbersome my belly became. But in between, we were getting stale.
Also, I was living in an unsustainable state of feast and famine. The more obscenely Rich overfed me, the longer it took me and my stretched-out stomach to recover, and the more difficult it became to compensate for our orgies of indulgence by cutting back the rest of the time. I started to gain weight; it wasn't a lot, maybe a deferred freshman fifteen at the very most, but I noticed. One day I couldn't zip my favourite dress… then ironically, later the same day a classmate asked - gently - if I had an eating disorder, as she'd never seen me eat in public.
It was an uncomfortable thought - maybe I did! "Binge eating disorder" wasn't something I'd heard of then but it had occurred to me that perhaps my overeating was like bulimia, except without the throwing-up part. I'd assumed nobody noticed that I always skipped lunch, rarely ate in company and kept it minimal when I had to, but I was wrong.
When I saw Rich later we had a big fight about it. I flashed my minor belly pudge at him and pointed out that he got all of the fun of our sessions, but none of the bodily effects. He said that he paid for half the food and didn't get to eat it, and that he didn't mind at all if I gained weight. I snapped back that I certainly did mind, and it was my body. I liked the contrast between my slim, controlled public self and the unconstrained consummate glutton I was in secret.
Looking back, his stance doesn't seem that unreasonable, but there it was, we were done, and after a farewell "dinner" which nearly blew our food budget for the month, we went our separate ways. I set about shedding the weight and sitting my final exams. I struggled for a little while with the urge to eat an entire cake or multiple orders of chips… but I was resolute.
And then, a little after I graduated, I met Chris. Somehow, it never made sense to get kinky with him. It wasn't that I didn't feel I could, so much as I genuinely didn't want to. Compared to the louche Rich, he was so sensible and clean and adult. And already that life was beginning to seem like a weird folly of youth.
-0-0-0-0-0-
Lost in memories of the past, I've only half been paying attention to La La Land. But I'm jolted out of my reverie by my phone going off. I sit up from my semi-sprawl on the couch, groan as the motion inadvertently jostles my food baby, scrabble for the remote to pause the movie and answer the phone.
It's Gillian, Joe's mum. I panic momentarily, but it's all right, the boys are fine, she's just asking if Toby has a spare Playstation controller because one of theirs has conked out. He does. "Is it okay if I pop round and get it?" Yes, I tell her.
Oh help. Gillian only lives five minutes away. I heave myself to my feet, feeling the weight of the family-size banquet in my belly change my centre of gravity. Hands pressed to my bulging front, I waddle into the hall and effortfully climb the stairs to Toby's room, my burdened stomach seeming to lurch from side to side with every step, every movement intensified by the tenderness of my over-full belly. I know I've been more stuffed than this in the past, but I never used to have to move around much in the aftermath. Not climbing stairs, anyway.
I find the controller, amble back down – descending is easier than ascending – and catch sight of myself in the hall mirror. I still have my waistband pulled down under my belly bulge, and my whole midsection is on show: the soft part at the bottom marked with faded pregnancy stretchmarks, the smoother layer of middle-aged mum tum looking many degrees more swollen and puffy than usual, rising up to the bloated food baby that is my upper belly, reddened and stretched, poking out from under that short, rucked-up old T-shirt.
I tug the T-shirt down and my waistband up, but they don't come close to meeting; a bulge of stretched pink flesh is still on show. Impossible to pull it in. I can't answer the door like this. I lumber back to the living room and rummage through the clean ironing basket for a man-size black T-shirt, pulling one down over my head just as the doorbell rings. I lean forward just a little, hoping it won't cling to my protruding tummy.
I open the door to see Gillian on the step. She smiles brightly as I hand the controller over. "Thanks Emma! I was going to say, would you like to pop over for a bit? Could get a bit lonely here on your own…"
It's a kind offer, though of course it's the last thing I want to do right now. Luckily she can see I'm in pyjamas and slippers. "Oh Gill, that's nice of you to ask but I'm actually feeling a bit under the weather. Think I'm best to have an early night." I smile, send my love to the boys, and retreat back to the safety of the house.
After I close the door, I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror again. The big T-shirt belongs to Owen, the fourteen-year-old, and says in block letters, "IN MY DEFENCE, I WAS LEFT UNSUPERVISED."
I smile, pull the T-shirt off and pull my waistband down again to free my aching belly. I breathe out slowly and massage my temporary bulge, thinking. It was kind of a thrill being almost caught by Gillian. I may not have thought about stuffing for years, but it has been missing from my life. Is there a way to bring it back?
Rubbing the top of my foodbaby, I'm ruefully aware that I'm not that young girl with the magic metabolism any more, and even occasional indulgences are likely to lead to real weight gain. It won't be my secret vice any more. But that doesn't seem like such a big deal as it used to. And hey, perimenopause would explain my body changing. I couldn't keep it a secret from Chris, but after all these years, can I really see him objecting? Perhaps he wouldn't; he's seen me thin, less thin, pregnant with cravings, with baby weight to lose, and never treated me any different.
Maybe there's a way to make this work.
I fold the T-shirt, put it back in the basket, and wander through to the kitchen.
There might be some ice cream in the freezer.