SomeTormentedFA

(part 29/30) p a r t e i g h t : limbo In the wake of war, the victor moves ahead into the open clearing of their unchallenged future, doing their utmost to ignore the finer nuances of violences left like dust beneath their boots, while the victims relegate their loss to mythology, quickly, before the pain rises far enough above their ears to drown their spirits. Or, in Matilda’s case, she pushes her loss away into the realms of a masochistic sounding “life wasn’t meant to be easy now, was it?” type one-liner, before the sense of humiliating failure can grow strong enough to flatten the story she tells herself about it. But it’s not for a lack of honesty. To anyone who asks her about what happened, she tells the truth – of course tactfully omitting the embarrassing parts about her grotesque intentions; most importantly how she fattened herself on purpose. Nobody can know about that. ‘Nobody can know about that, okay? I mean no-body,’ Matilda instructs him. Carlile gives her a sincere, respectful nod. ‘Okay. I hear you loud and sizzlin'. If anyone does ask, though, what do I say?’ She shrugs irritably. ‘Tell a lie? I don’t know. Just say anything except what I really did.’ He grimaces. ‘Ugh… fuck.’ ‘Yes. I know. It’s “ugh”. Just say whatever lie comes to you in the spur of the moment— I don't care what it is anymore. Just say whatever. Now finish your food. We came here to eat noodle bowls, and I already feel cranky.’ She taps the plastic bowl of Vietnamese noodles the waitress had delivered to their small orange booth just moments ago, and turns her eyes to gaze outside. A mist of fine rain waves against the window panes, hardly audible. ‘Why is it like winter…’ she says more than asks. ‘Babe. Love. I’m worried about you?’ Carlile confesses with an anxious twist in his lips. ‘You didn’t used to be carrying all this defeated weight around on your shoulders.’ ‘I didn’t used to be carrying all this lard around, either. Here; you know what…’ She lifts her bowl over his bowl and scoops half her serving into it. ‘If you’re still being a little fatty for me, you can have my fat for yourself, here, take it.’ Her voice falls, and her face softens. She sighs. She sits back down. ‘I’m sorry. That was mean. Uncalled for.’ She rests her face in her hands. Carlile chews on the inside of his cheek. ‘So, what do I say if someone asks? For real, this time.’ ‘Okay… Um… Be honest? Just don't mention I did it on purpose. Under no circumstances whatsoever. Tell them anything else. I literally do not care what you say. Tell 'em I got depressed, and that's why I got fat. It's the lie I was going to go with. The other one was that I was dirty-bulking. Take your pick. Or come up with something plausible like that, but not too weird, you know?’ ‘You sure you want me to do that?’ ‘Carl. Babe. What would people think if they knew I made myself fat on purpose?’ She watches his eyes glimmer as a chain-reaction of cheeky ideas play through his mind. She shakes her head, laughing cynically under her breath. ‘Not everybody’s like you, babe.’ ‘I know, I'm sorry… So, then,’ using his chopsticks to raise a bundle of noodles into his mouth, ‘this all happened yesterday? Like– it’s over? It’s official?’ ‘Yup.’ ‘Is it really too late, then?’ ‘It was too late when it all began, babe. Too late when it all began.’ ‘So… that’s really it… it’s over… You aren’t going back? Ever? Like, that’s just… over now? After all those years?’ He just can’t quite swallow the idea. ‘Nup. Yep. Nup.’ She shakes her head, her lower lip pushing defiantly upwards in an upside down smile. ‘Everyone can fuck of. I’m done. Well… not everyone. Just Margery and her dumb lap dogs.’ He gives her a long, glassy look that she can’t read. ‘What?’ she says. ‘It just… I’m worried how you’ll feel… in time…’ ‘Babe, listen. I’m over it. They can fuck off. I don’t care anymore.’ Slowly, Carlile withdraws and lifts his shoulders in a prolonged shrug. ‘Okay. If it’s really that simple, then okay.’ ‘Yes. It is. Now eat. I want you to be nice and full.’ But it's not that simple. . . . Her mother returns home from a research tour in South America the next day, and an excited Mr. Martin Nolasco immediately begins cooking up a paella for his wife and daughter. When her parents ask her why she hasn’t gotten ready to go to practice yet, she opens the bomb-hatch and lets the munitions drop right in their faces. She tells them everything, from start to finish. The only thing she leaves out is the part where it was all done on purpose. Once the dust clears, they’re all wide eyes, open mouths and parental concern. She immediately feels guilty for having dumped the news with such brash negativity. ‘I’m sorry,’ she confesses at last, lowering her face. She is sitting like a pile of slop on the living room couch, bundled up in her baggiest clothes. It’s late in the afternoon, and she’s been trying to keep her stomach empty so that its shape remains sunken in appearance, rather than its usual full roundness. ‘I didn’t mean to sound like that. I’m still angry. I have been for a long time now. And I know I haven’t been talking to you guys much lately. I know. I just found it so hard to process everything as it kept on happening, on and on, and on and… I need to process things before I can talk, you know?’ ‘I have to admit, it’s a bit shocking,’ her mum says at last. ‘You’re clearly hurt. We aren’t used to you showing these kinds of emotions. Why didn’t you tell us sooner?’ ‘Because I have to process things alone, first. And it’s… really embarrassing.’ Mum takes a deep breath and puts her elbow up on the arm of the couch. ‘Matilda, you should know–’ ‘You don’t have to be embarrassed about anything with us,’ Dad butts in, his voice sounding gruff in the way fathers do when they want to come across as serious and level-headed, instead of overcome with the emotions they are feeling for their own flesh and blood. ‘You can tell us anything. You know that, Matildy.’ ‘Martin, can you not talk over me…’ ‘Sorry, bunny.’ Dad laces his fingers over his Santa-like stomach and leans back in his chair, content to listen. ‘It’s been going on for ages, really,’ Matilda sighs. ‘You know how our new manager ruined the club. But it kept getting worse and worse. Took the fun out of the sport. So I gave up. And gave in. Now I’m a disgusting fat slob.’ Her mum screws her eyes shut and shakes her head at her daughter’s self-scathing choice of words. ‘Don’t call yourself disgusting in front of us,’ Dad tells her. ‘We won’t have that, you hear me?’ ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… But I did get fat. Look at me. You can see it just by looking at me.’ ‘Minnie,’ her mum starts, ‘…listen. We love you. That’s the first thing. You’re all we think about, and you’re the reason we do what we do. I know we’re absent quite often, and I’m sorry about that– we’re sorry for that. But we’ve always wanted to support you, and to put you first, to make sure you have every opportunity you can possibly have. Not everybody gets that kind of treatment. You know that, we’ve always told you this. Most children struggle with their parents. In this country, one in five Australian parents are alcoholics. The majority of families live under the poverty threshold. Then you’ve got South America; poverty there is so rife that generational trauma is as commonplace as blue or brown eyes being passed down through genetics–’ ‘I wasn’t taking advantage, I promise, I don’t want you guys thinking I’ve ever taken advantage of y–’ Dad explodes with scratchy laughter, and mum shakes her head. ‘No, Matilda, listen. We’re not lecturing you. The point is that whatever you do from here on out; we’ll support you. Because you’re our daughter, and that’s just what parents should do. The question we have, is,’ giving a brief sideways glance at Martin, ‘what are you going to do from here? If you mean what you said, and that’s really that, then you’ve given up a major part of your life. Do you have any idea what you can do instead?’ Matilda fills her cheeks with air, then blows it out slowly through clenched lips. ‘I’ll get a job,’ she shrugs, clueless. ‘I’ll work. Somewhere. I don’t know where. Maybe my internship at Dr Goodwynn’s clinic will get me a job, somewhere. Or it might not. Maybe I’ll apply for coaching staff positions. Or I’ll just work in a store. I could do that. I could…’ Then she quickly adds, ‘Oh, and I’ll stop eating, of course– lose the weight…’ Her voice trails a little, feeling unsure she can actually have faith in herself when it comes to that particular goal. ‘So long as you don’t beat yourself,’ mum tells her. ‘Whatever else you do, you cannot afford to do that. I see you doing it sometimes.’ ‘No,’ Dad agrees. ‘And you have to remember, you did come from rather…’ winking at his wife, ‘…fuller fruit. Your mother Jenny here was something of a well-fed woman when we first–’ Matilda cringes. ‘Dad!’ ‘Martin!’ Mum barks, reaching over to smack his hip with a scolding glare. He beams at them with the smirking glee of a simpleton, and rubs his facial hair like he left something in it. ‘Speak for your rude self,’ Jenny says. ‘Look at you, calling me fat. Lord almighty if I don’t hear the bed squeaking at night when you secretly visit the fridge! I can tell because the bed levels back out again when you roll yourself off it!’ Matilda shrivels like a prune with awkwardness. Her dad runs his hands up and down his portly stomach – which, now that she really visually examines it, Matilda realises is quite rotund, and takes up much of his blue flannel shirt. She cannot seem to remember a time when it didn’t, to some extent. There have been times when it was smaller, and times when it was larger, as is natural in bodies. Right now, though, if she isn’t imagining things, it seems to be visiting the more extended end of the scale… Martin shrugs with humble admission, albeit flushing pink in the face. ‘I cannot prove you wrong, my darling bunny rabbit.’ Mum lets the offended expression drain from her face as she turns back to their daughter. ‘Look, Minnie,’ she says, placing her words with great care and tactfulness, ‘I know you might be feeling down on yourself lately, and things may not be going well with your club, but you can’t be taking it out on yourself. And so long as it doesn’t present any… problems?… in your love-life (pardon me if I’m getting too private), then there’s nothing wrong with being a bit on the “larger” side. Quality of life is the key marker for a life worth living. If anything, sometimes it means you simply enjoy your food, and that is one of the only good things left to life that hasn’t been spoiled by politics. And as your dad so lovingly put it, just then, I’ve never spent too much time on the thinner side of life, myself. Neither has he, actually– at least in the past decade,’ she adds pointedly, turning to give him serious eyes. ‘Just look after yourself, Matilda, okay? That’s all we ask. If you’ve really quit your sport, then you need to keep occupied in other ways. Something meaningful. The sport was your identity for so many years, and now that it’s gone, you’re going to have to be careful not to lose half of your mind and soul with it. Take this from someone who left their passion in academics at twenty-one because I thought earning money was more essential. I remember lasting barely a year before I lost my mind.’ ‘Apply yourself,’ Dad takes his turn to speak, folding his arms on top of his large stomach in a pensive manner. ‘Use your mind. Use your passions. Engage with something. For god sakes, Minnie, don’t get bored. Is what we’re saying. Just don’t get bored. I’ve seen people get bored over the years, and let me tell you something; it makes for a dull life. People do some stupid things when they’re bored. We believe in you. You believe in yourself, as well. We’ve seen that, always. It’s what makes you such a great player of your sport. We want to see you carry that self-belief somewhere else, now, if you’re really leaving the club behind for good. Understand?’ Matilda sucks her lips between her teeth and nods. ‘I will,’ she promises. ‘I will. I know what you’re saying is true.’ ‘Good stuff, pumpkin. Oh– and invite Carlile over for dinner again, will ya?’ dad adds. ‘We haven’t seen him in months and I don’t know why.’ ‘Okay. I will.’ . . . With her internship at Dr Goodwynn’s clinic finished, she is left scratching her ears as she wonders what to do with her time. In the absence of any ideas magically materialising like a holy vision in the night, she uses her spare hours to hang out at Carlile’s for six out of the seven days of each week, and still ends up wondering what to do with herself. She’s so free she feels trapped. Imprisoned by the tyranny of too much choice, and no choice. The young couple’s running joke of “Carlile stealing her weight for himself” ends up looking more and more like the opposite of a joke. The constant scraping of her portions onto his plate is beginning to accumulate dividends as the scales report a loss of three pounds for her, bringing her down to 180 pounds, while Carlile’s stomach in the meantime appears to be crawling an atom or two further out towards his lap every time she weighs in. It makes her grin like an idiot to know that for every three pounds by which she shrinks, her hands will sooner or later happily find a pinch more fat somewhere on his body to grab hold of and play with. Or, as is common in life’s mundanity, is this all a deceitful game that the apparatus of her mind is playing on itself in self-entertaining boredom? When the scale reports 178 pounds a week later, she celebrates the loss by cracking open a tube of Oreos, a tub of yoghurt, and from there indulging in two bowls of ice cream in a reckless swoon of dopamine-seeking appetite that gets the better of her, only for her to immediately regret doing so. But how else would she have resolved that punch of remorse in her stomach except by filling that hole back up with even more snacks, and undoing the scale’s downward journey by a digit or two overnight?[] So she starves herself twice as hard afterwards to repent for her failure – but proceeds to give in no sooner than the moment Carlile brings four boxes of pizza back from work one night, and they gorge themselves out of their clothes. An hour later, they find themselves rubbing each other’s distended bellies, dumb, mindless, their hazy eyes glued to the screen in his room as a documentary on wildlife helps soothe their minds and stomachs into a prolonged, transformative digestion of carbohydrates into adipose tissue. With just about every family member in the household currently under his roof, they have to make love in careful silence, covering each other’s mouths as they suppress aroused giggles followed by embarrassed shouts of pleasure, unconcealable. ‘God fucking damn,’ Carlile bemoans afterwards, the two of them entwined in a post-sex swaddle. They lay staring at the dark ceiling, knowing that through the plasterboard, the wooden framework and the carpet upstairs, they are technically staring at the backs of his sleeping parents. ‘It’s getting a bit overdue, don’t you think?’ ‘What is?’ Matilda asks, her voice drippy and soft. ‘It’s getting stale; needing to be secretive.’ ‘I know. Do you really think they can’t hear us?’ she asks, holding his butt cheeks in one hand and rubbing the top of his hand as it cradles one of her breasts. He rolls his head over to look at her with hints of contrition in his eyes. ‘Can I be honest?’ ‘Uh-oh.’ ‘No?’ ‘No; yes; you’re gunna have to be honest, now.’ Carlile gives her a wide-eyed look. ‘Well… I’ve never been to-o-otally sure they can’t hear.’ ‘Aw, fuck.’ She glares at him with long-reaching horror. ‘F-uck.’ She waits for him to say something, then repeats, ‘Fu-u-uck. You aren’t serious, are you?’ He shrugs. ‘They probably can’t. We aren’t raucous; we’re quiet. But they might be able to hear something. But they might not. Probably not. Or maybe they can.’ ‘Shit,’ Matilda panics. ‘Shit.’ She stares at the ceiling, a feeling of ghastliness wriggling through her like a worm from throat to toes and back. ‘Don’t freak out. Please. I was just saying; it gets old and stale, doesn’t it?’ ‘Uh. Yeah. Now that we know they “might” be able to hear us. I have no idea what to do now that I know this.’ He turns his body so he’s laying on his side facing her. His paunch sags out in a crescent arc, desperately close to touching the sheets. She wants to feed him some more and provoke his stomach into oozing onto the bed properly. Instead she lays her hand on the smooth mass of his midsection, enjoying its soft heat. It’s something she knows she would enjoy having on her own body, if she were allowed – but alas, duty calls her to lose the weight she’s foolishly gained over the course of the past year. ‘Well that’s the thing,’ Carlile says. ‘What “thing”?’ she asks in an idle, amorous voice, taking a fingerful of the chub around his belly button and feeling it roll with incredible rubbery softness between her fingers. ‘The thing is to move out.’ He puts a hand on her upper arm, stroking her skin gently with his thumb as he postulates in his mind. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I love this place– I have for a long time. It lets me score one over my fucking brother, wherever the hell he is these days… probably got himself into dealing crack somehow, but… I mean, come on, we’re both adults. Sometimes being down here makes me feel like a kid.’ ‘Isn’t rent expensive?’ ‘Depends who you ask, and where you are. Places like Melbourne, Brisbane, Adelaide; we have some family over there and they say rent is shocking. The market over there is way overcooked. But where we are isn’t so bad. Not yet at least. And anyway, I work almost full-time in a kitchen. I’ve been talking to mum and dad about it.’ ‘Really?’ Intrigued, Matilda rolls onto her side to face him, leaning on her elbow. ‘You’re actually thinking of moving out for real?’ ‘Not me; us.’ Her face brightens. ‘Us?’ ‘Of course. What, you don’t think it’s a good idea? Does it taste a bit sour?’ ‘No! No-no, I do. I do. It’s just… I’ve been sitting around being a fat piece of shit ever since I… you know? I literally just quit my only passion project in life, and my internship finished almost a month ago now. Or is it more? Shit.’ Matilda sticks her lower jaw out, sighing. ‘How long have I been sitting around for now?’ Carlile shrugs. ‘Things can always change. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about it, is all I’m saying. Dad said they’d be happy to help with a deposit for bond, so that’s half the problem sorted.’ ‘Bond. Is that the money you have to give to a landlord?’ He gives her a quizzical look. ‘Yeah.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Look, I’m sorry I have gaps in knowledge of the finer details. I’ve lived at home all my life and been a sport rat, twenty-four-seven. And now I’ve quit that, I’m trying to find myself in the real world.’ ‘I know. But if we can manage to do it, then I want to move out. I want to start living on my own– on my own with you. Doesn’t it make sense?’ ‘It does…’ Matilda spends a moment fantasising. ‘You’d miss this place, though, wouldn’t you?’ ‘Oh, don’t tell me you’re afraid of change now,’ he scoffs, giving her exposed flank a playful slap that causes her slouched belly to give off a lazy wiggle, reminding her just how much weight she still has to somehow push off her body. ‘You, of all people?’ he says. ‘You’re– you were, the bravest player in your club. For years. You were the next best thing to a local legend. Nothing could intimidate or scare you.’ ‘Yeah I guess,’ she deflates, ‘but that was back then. This is now. I know I’m being depressing, I’m just having a rebound period, okay? I’m, like… finding myself again, or whatever.’ He searches her eyes with sorrowful care and compassion. ‘It’s alright. That’s another reason why I think you’re brave; having to find yourself again. Anyway, living on our own, like actual adults…? Don’t you think that would help?’ She looks past him into empty space, analysing her thoughts and feelings. Then she begins to nod, each nod growing more affirmative with every passing moment. ‘Yeah… Yeah, I do. You’re right. It would. Yes.’ She nods enthusiastically. ‘Let’s do it.’ Then she sinks down one notch. ‘When I find a job, that is. At least something.’ ‘I think we could get away with it for a bit. Until the bills started arriving. But initially I feel like we could get away with it on my income only… what do you think?’ ‘Would we have enough budget left over for food?’ He winces. ‘Not likely.’ Matilda winces in return. ‘Uh…’ . . . It is either a miracle, or some cosmic joke that was waiting for the perfect time to spring its punchline on her oblivious ass, that an email comes through the next morning. It comes from an address handle that reads: “[email protected]”. Intrigued, Matilda squints through the morning blurriness in her eyes and reads the email, hunching over. ‘Oh my god!’ she yelps out of the blue, her paunch contracting, then pushing back out to jiggle briefly as she leaps from Carlile’s mattress to spring up with energetic delight. ‘What is it?’ he asks. ‘I can’t believe it!’ ‘Woah, settle down, I haven’t even made breakfast yet.’ ‘I can’t believe this!’ ‘What? What’s wrong?’ Carlile panics, thinking some new catastrophe has arrived to put a dent in the hull of their personal Titanic. ‘Listen to this! This is crazy!’ Matilda babbles like an erratic schoolgirl. She kneels on the mattress and shuffles on her knees towards his still rugged-up body. All Carlile can look at is her belly, sunken overnight, but flabby in appearance, wobbling around as she shuffles closer, her phone held right up in front of her face. Settling down on her haunches, she begins to read out loud from her phone. ‘It says it’s from a health clinic group called Olsen Howitzer or something. And– and Dr Goodwynn? That lady who I did the internship with? I didn’t know this, but she works at two different sites, and this one just sent me an email, like, at five-thirty yesterday! I hadn’t even checked! This is so crazy. Listen to this: “Dear Matilda, Here at Olsen Howitzer Health Group, 3/40 South Ponds Road, our well-trusted practitioner Dr. Rupi Goodwynn has spoken highly of you in regards to your time spent under her mentorship as an intern at another practice. In the previous fortnight, a vacancy has opened for a secretary at the front administration and reception desk of our clinic. Dr.Goodwynn put forth your name and contact details in an expression of interest on your behalf. In respect of having received positive word of mouth before receiving any external applications for the vacancy, we will be treating Dr. Goodwynn’s word as a legitimate EOI, even though we do not have one from you, and would like to hear back from you. If you are interested in hearing more about the position, rate of pay, hours, and other further details, please contact us sooner rather than later, in order that we can arrange future discussions. Please find our contact details inside the signature of this message. We look forward to hearing your response. Sincerely, Dr. Kylie McMaugh, Administrator Olsen Howitzer Health Group, 340 South Ponds Rd, Attikatpa Park, 9037”.’ Carlile’s face, meanwhile, had been growing brighter and brighter with every word, so that by the time she finishes reading, he is beaming straight at her. Lowering the phone, she looks at Carlile with an expression of delight that causes her whole face to expand like the radiance of a sun. ‘Ring them!’ he practically jumps. ‘Do it! Do it now before it’s too late! Go on!’ Not five minutes later, she’s already on the phone. ‘Uh just a moment,’ says a young, distracted-sounding woman on the other end of the line. ‘There was a note left somewhere around here… the relevant information was on that. Let me just find where it went so I can remind my forgetful little noggin.’ Sounds of shifting papers and ledgers on the other end. ‘Ah, I’m sorry. Always something extra to do around here, things always getting lost under something else… ugh… case in point for needing another set of hands at front-of-house! Oh lord, where the heck is it. I’m sorry, just give me a moment, I’ll have to get right back to you. Can you hold?’ ‘Yeah, no, no problem at all,’ Matilda stammers, sticking her hand into a packet of honey-soy chips that were meant for Carlile with happy, absent-minded ease as she lays outstretched on the fold-out lounge while Carlile is bringing down some breakfast from upstairs. She’s put five entire handfuls of chips into her stomach already, and is on her sixth before she realises what she’s doing, and stops her wandering fingers just as the phone line makes a clattering sound from being picked up again. ‘Are you still here?’ comes the lady’s voice. ‘Yes!’ Matilda almost shouts. ‘I’ve got the note now,’ says the lady, audibly sitting back down. ‘So… it’s Matilda, correct?’ ‘That’s me.’ ‘From what I’ve been told, you were doing an internship with Doctor Goodwynn at her other practice? She’s been talking with management, I think they would like to know if you’d be able or willing to accept some work with us?’ ‘Oh my god, I–’ Matilda fumbles, heart stammering with victorious glee, ‘Ye– I–’ She stops herself to manually adjust her frame of mind before she babbles so much she develops a speech impediment. She twists over her shoulder to see Carlile leaning around the side of the partition wall, his shirtless upper body pudgy and milky in the pale morning light, eagerly nodding with wide-eyed intent. Do it! he is mouthing silently, Say yes! And that’s all the encouragement she needs. Feeling once more like she’s kicking a ball straight into an open net, she lifts her voice. ‘Yes. Absolutely! Could you tell me more? When? Where? What will I be doing? And when do I start?’ . . . ‘Well then, I doubt you’ll need a tour of the place all over again,’ says the acting receptionist, an elegant Malaysian girl with a friendly attitude, shining long black hair and a bodily silhouette Matilda can’t help but notice is packed with curves. It’s a Monday morning, now one week since accepting the job offer. ‘You would be familiar with this place already from your time with Doctor Goodwynn?’ she asks, opening a door leading from the common area into a small room with two desks joined together in the middle of the floor. ‘Oh– no, I was interning at her other practice,’ Matilda responds. ‘Wait, for real? Why does no one ever tell me anything…’ The girl closes the door behind them. ‘I’m Quinn, by the way.’ They shake each other’s hands and exchange smiles. The sky outside the windows is oppressed by blankets of overcast clouds, but the dopamine in Matilda’s system makes it all seem so bright and fresh. ‘This is the prep room,’ Quinn explains. Filing cabinets line two whole walls, and shelves with drawers and hatches full of inventory items fill the walls opposite. Stepping forward, Quinn reaches for a small white piece of plastic and hands it to Matilda. It’s a name-tag with her name printed in bold upper-case letters. ‘Here’s all you’ll need for today. They’ll get you a proper one tomorrow.’ ‘I get a “proper” one?’ she asks, astounded, already feeling high on the sense of official importance and duty bestowed upon her. Quinn laughs. ‘Yes. A proper one. You’ll have to get a lanyard with a keypass on it and whatnot, like this one.’ She lifts her own lanyard to dangle an object the size of a credit card. ‘You have to wait until your trial shifts are over, though. For some reason they don’t want to give out these ones until you do all your shadow shifts–” pausing to roll her eyes “–it’s a policy and rules thing or something, I don’t know. Follow me!’ Quinn leads her back out into the common area and around into the hallway towards the front desk; a long, red oak counter with a matte finish that gives the foyer the high-end modernised ambiance of some embassy of international affairs. ‘Well then,’ Quinn smiles, ‘welcome to the team. It’s just me here this morning, so I think you’ll be doing your first shadow-shift with me. Yay! That’s the computer where I sit,’ pointing at two screens at the far end of the service desk, up against the wall. The computer in front of you is where you can do some work once we get you going, but Desi will sit there when she comes in for the midday shift later. We only tend to need one of us for the early morning shift– it’s usually the least busy part of the day.’ She grabs a small wrapped chocolate from a clear plastic bowl tucked behind the upper partition of the desk and begins to unwrap its foil coating. ‘Want one?’ she asks. ‘Oh. Oh, no, I shouldn’t.’ ‘Understandable. I might get off my fat ass and be responsible one day.’ She laughs, then sits down at her computer, gesturing towards the chair at the other end of the desk. ‘Bring that chair over and have a seat next to me so you can see what I’m doing.’ The office chair is a large, advanced-looking piece of furniture, with a tall back, deep padding, and armrests that look like black clouds. Lowering herself down into its plush hold, Matilda simpers with awe at the obscene levels of comfort that encase her body, even as she feels the buttons of her white office shirt tighten across her waist. She had to steal the shirt from Carlile’s wardrobe when assembling an outfit for her first day on the job, because her own shirt had kept letting her belly button show itself from a gap between two extremely stressed buttons. Quinn, however, is dressed all in black, much like a waitress, which tells Matilda that she might not have to worry about buttoned shirts ever again. She spends the morning watching Quinn greet patients, receive their details and offer relevant instructions. Everything Quinn does on the computer system, she demonstrates a second time for Matilda to observe, breaking it down step by step; she enters data into the system, calls through to a practitioner’s office, answers a call to receive a booking, edits existing booking details on the database, sorts through emails, shows Matilda which ones are relevant and which ones aren’t for various reasons… Later on in the day, who else should come through the foyer to retrieve something she’d left in her car, but for Dr Rupi Goodwynn herself, her silken black hair held up in a swirled bun, and the ends of her long, light sundress trailing along behind her as she stops with a smile of recognition on her face. Her cheeks look softer, maybe by a trick of the lighting, and the waist of her dress conforms to the outward swell of what might just be menstrual bloating – or might not be. ‘Matilda!’ she cheers, clasping her hands in front of her chest. ‘How are you? So you accepted the work!?’ Matilda can only nod abashedly. ‘Oh my goodness, I am so happy to hear this. It is so lovely to see you again, it really is so lovely.’ ‘Yeah!’ Matilda beams with a lopsided grin as she glances at Quinn, unsure how to respond from beneath the pressure of all her gratitude towards Dr Goodwynn, without coming off as excessively thankful, subservient, or indebted. Fuck, has she started losing her confidence already? She only quit sports three or so weeks ago. ‘It’s good to be here,’ she replies, feeling awfully plain about herself. ‘Excellent, excellent, I like to hear that very much. And you have been looking after yourself, I hope?’ ‘Certainly have!’ she laughs, knowing she hasn’t been. The self-punishing, the lingering sickness of failure, the intentional starving in desperate faith that her ballooned body will continue to diminish. ‘Good, good,’ smiles the doctor. ‘Well, I look forward to seeing you around more often here. You take care, please. And have fun. I am needing to go, now, but I will see you soon. Goodbye. And goodbye to you too, Quinn.’ Dr Goodwynn grins and waves, making her way out the sliding doors at the entrance. ‘She’s so nice, isn’t she?’ Quinn observes. Staring with unfocused eyes at the glass sliding doors through which Dr Goodwynn just vanished, Matilda nods, wistful, for some reason unable to escape from a sense of remorse she doesn’t want to feel. . . .

Part 28/30 …April, midway through removing her bottle from her bag, looks up to see who the newcomer is. When she gets eyes on Matilda, her face morphs into a photograph of surprise. Ever so slowly, her expression shifts into that of confusion. Matilda makes a helpless, apologetic face, unsure what she should say or do in this particular moment. ‘Ma-tilda!?’ April hisses. Her face is as golden and sweet as it ever was. The spirit within April is reliable, and sound, and if Matilda were the head coach of a team with April in it, she’d trust the girl with her life. God, she’s missed her. April glances backwards over her shoulder, then back at her. ‘Wh– how– where have you been? What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were coming today! Did you tell her? She’s going to kill you!’ Panic crawls up Matilda’s neck. ‘I know,’ she pleads, grimacing apologetically, ‘I know.’ Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to do this today. Her entire body, from scalp to toes, is soaked in shame. ‘But I’m here?’ she offers. ‘Surprise? Yeah… I know.’ She lets her shoulders fall. ‘I know I really let myself go, April. I feel so shit about it, too. I haven’t been well. I’ve been trying to lose all… all this.’ She gestures dismissively at her body. ‘I don’t even know how it happened,’ she lies, ‘but… all I know is I have to get back into things. I have to train hard,’ karate-chopping her palm to drive home each point, ‘get fit again. Get sharp. Get back on the ball. Get–’ ‘Hey, hey,’ April hushes her. ‘Hey. Matilda. Come on. It’s okay. I get it. I was there, once.’ She gives Matilda a sorry smile. ‘Back when I had my injury, remember? But seriously, it gets better. It does. I’m back in the team! Take it from me; I didn’t think I would be back. But here I am. And you will be too.’ April looks away upon a thought momentarily. ‘I mean, it might not be easy, but…’ ‘I know. I kno-o-ow.’ Matilda drags her palm down her mouth and chin, and they stand there, the two girls, watching each other. Hoisting her duffel bag further up her shoulder, Matilda can offer nothing better than an “I’m-out-of-ideas” shrug – because she is exactly that. April ducks her head, nervously turns to go, then comes back, nods, and finally makes her way out of the change rooms and onto the field to join the others. Matilda watches the empty space left behind her teammate for a spell, then drops onto the bench behind her with a dejected plonk, and a shockwave of flab up her body. She drops her duffel bag on the floor between her feet and sits in the marsh of her own silence. Whistles screech outside. Margery’s voice can be heard now and again. It's all “this isn’t good enough”, and “that isn’t quite right”, and “more of this, more of that”. Grette and Karen can be heard running drills from the far end. The thump of boots against freshly-inflated footballs. A bird flutters to a landing outside, somewhere unseen, and emits a flurry of chirps near a window. Trees rustle in the wind. Bending over to unzip her bag, she has to open her legs slightly in order to avoid feeling her stomach ask for space. It’s hard to tell if her awareness of it is due to her complete change in motives or not, but she takes out her training shirt nonetheless, and examines its limp form in her hands. The item was manufactured some forty pounds ago. There is no point taking the risk now, is there? Even though the scales say she’s lost weight, the piece of clothing betrayed her before. So, she folds it up and puts it back inside the bag, bringing out the alternative; a larger, plain grey tee. She can just say she accidentally left her kit in the wash at home. The drab grey shirt looks more like a mechanic’s rag than a top, a garment that has no affiliation with the club at all – not a streak of the club’s violet, no badge, no sponsors. She’s only kept it in her bag for all these years as a forgotten spare. But it will obscure her chubbiness, and that is all she will need to carry her through the storm of such a horrid day. Lifting her arms up, she slides the piece of clothing over her pudgy torso and applies slight adjustments to its drapery, then straps her shin guards on, fits her socks over the top, ties her boots, and begins to stand up. But she hesitates. Hands gripping the sides of the bench, she lowers herself back down, and takes a moment to bring her unbalanced mind back to the centre of itself. She hasn’t prepared herself for this. She hasn’t even tried to. What the fuck is she thinking? Not so long ago, things were different. She remembers how brave and convinced in herself she’d once been, how wrapped in hatred, enraged at a woman who brandished the cheek to simply stroll into the club like she already owned the place and then start drilling awful, stale ideas into the team with an arrogant self-assurance that left nothing but sterile destruction in its wake. There was a time when it all seemed like such a good plan – forcing her body to grow fat against its own will. It wasn’t half as bad as people said it would be. In some sick sense, she even came to enjoy it at times. The date night with Carlile, months and months ago, in the early days of her silly experiment, long before she had anything worse to worry about than a bloated belly from all the food she’d started eating. Those kinds of dates with Carlile were surprisingly nice. Then she’d started to get soft, and it had been cathartic, for a while, allowing herself to eat whatever and however much she felt like eating at any particular moment… treating herself to something special the nano-second she felt even the slightest twinge of a craving… To think that she’d even had the gall to play a game or two after binge-eating on those same days… And even as she’d started to grow soft, there were parts of the blow-out that were fun. It was morbidly fascinating to watch her flat stomach take on a buttery appearance she’d never seen before, and then establish a little lip of tactile flesh. The whole farce amused her, in her heart, so greatly that she found she couldn’t stop. She remembers playing and toying with her first jiggles for hours. They’d felt like some sort of achievement. Some sort of transformative proof. But once that tiny beginner’s pudge began to thicken, to deepen the inset of her navel… once that shallow dish of flesh started expanding its borders, pushing its gradient of softness further and further across her stomach, and then abruptly evolved into a small ** belly with all the unnerving rapidity of dough that rose in the time you’d merely glanced away… when she did nothing about it except continue to entrench that fleshy shape upon her abdomen with every extra calorie she needlessly ate… once it became discernable so as to finally press up against the inside of her loose shirts, Matilda at long last discovered the heart-wrenching pleasure. Heart-wrenching because it pained her. It had to be kept secret. Such a deep expanse of natural wealth and beauty, never to be shared. She’d felt like Columbus, like a historical explorer whose discovery was so rich and dangerous it could never be spoken of… She’d discovered how sensual, how exciting it felt to roll, pinch, push, provoke the tactile layer of chub between her fingers – especially when her libido accumulated, building in volume, crying for the nearest outlet… Then her ** belly had crept even further into the latent size and shape awaiting it like fate, and the shock of its presence had smacked her with full force like the chest-punch of a religious revelation. Once it started to jiggle without her deliberate provocations, it really twisted the cords of her heart. Her attention had been captivated in the same way that you might find yourself paying extremely close attention to a seed, obsessing over the smallest alteration as it slowly transforms, one increment after the next, over the course of months, into a flowering plant. And in spite of the shock she felt when her lean body began to melt visibly out of shape, in spite of the way her belly had decided to sprout its meat over the waistband of all her pants, skirts and shorts in a firm, perfectly curved ooze of pudge – well even then, it didn’t matter. Not enough to stop. It had been too much fun. Too dangerous. Too exciting. Too frighteningly erotic. Despite everything she knew about herself, and despite everything she’d been taught about the human body, Matilda had found herself waiting for more weight to manifest. The next bit. And the next bit. Bite after bite, mouthful after engorged mouthful, feeling herself blow up almost day by day without wanting to acknowledge it. But she’d been hoping for it. Just to see what it felt like to obtain more. And sure as an apple falls to the ground, every time more flesh arrived, and the initial shock of its arrival died away, there was a sensation deep inside her that flirted with arousal as she conducted some perverted, self-masturbatory investigation of the incremental changes in her body’s flabbiness. Now look at her. She doesn’t even want to think about the comparison. She simply sits here, alone, in the change rooms, remembering everything all at once. She remembers during one of the past months, after she and Carlile had fed each other heavy with too many servings of high-calorie meals, how they’d plunged into a night of booming sex in which their bodies rocked against each other, the inertia of their own bodily weight clashing, and she could have sworn that in the climactic moments of those few hours, she had never felt so profoundly a woman. Never in her life had she felt that way. And perhaps she never will again… Having put a stop to her binge-eating ways, she wonders if she’ll ever get to experience such a fundamental embodiment of her own womanhood again. No. Never again. Not at the expense of anything but the silhouette of her ballooned body. At least she could keep it somewhat contained inside her clothing, back then. But ever since the trip up the coast with Carlile, it’s been nothing but embarrassment with the way her waistline has grown too porky to conceal. Maybe she wouldn't care so much if it wasn’t for all this club’s fanfare and parade. All this fakery, and pretence – and all these sad, stale power dynamics. At least she could be happy within herself as a fat slob with Carlile if they were the last people on earth, if the club’s problems were not there. Just two chubby lovers and their chubby selves loving each chubby other. The idea of it makes her feel like giggling. But it’s a fantasy. In the solitary silence of the change rooms, she makes a scoffing sound, alone. It isn’t to be, is it? The cards don’t hold that particular combination for her. At the final hour, at this last minute to midnight, here she sits, a self-dejected failure, feeling the sad silence around her like a insulating bubble, and admitting the hurtful truth to the tiled walls of the very grounds she was on a “mission” to save: It hasn’t worked. None of it has. Her bluff has been called. Actually, matter of fact, her bluff was called a long way back. Now, without it, she’s nothing but a fat, out-of-a-job girl with nothing to occupy her time or hands, and a stomach which has been trained to expect food even when it shouldn’t, and which she can practically hold in both hands so that her fingertips come just shy of meeting. And there it is again; that old, new, strange and familiar feeling again – her fingers itching to take her stomach out, let it protrude over her lap, caress it in her hands and play with its supple heft like a bag of riches. She feels wrapped in barbed wire. If she doesn't show herself out on the field soon, that will be her crossing the last line of grace, and she'll never be allowed to come back into the team at all. But if she does show herself, there's no telling what might happen, or what kinds of obscene insults might be thrown at her. Expecting the worst, she puts her hands on her knees and massages them, attempting to knead the anxiety out of her body and expel it somehow through her legs. At last, hauling up from the depths of her soul enormous fortitude, Matilda sniffs, blinks hard, and then stands. She faces the doors leading outside and makes her way towards them. Walking up the ramp, she leans into a small jog, struggling against her awareness, against every sensation of her thighs, breasts, flanks, and pudgy midsection all jerking angrily as they jiggle on her unfit frame. Fuck this, she never should have shown up today. Coming clear onto the grass, she looks around. Everyone is present – even some younger girls from the reserve team. Over there’s Bethany, doing fast paced one-two-touch sprint drills with April. Nysha by the water bottles, putting on her gloves and giving a ball a test-bounce as she shares a joke with Mandy. There’s Suri, Jessie and Stacy doing passes in triangle formation without any discernible passion to be seen in their body language. Evangeline is doing keepie-uppies with her long, lean dark legs. Kelsey and Talina practice link-up play along a set of cones under Margery’s stiff-postured watch, while Ilda stands beside her and Karen walks around the far end of the pitch laying cones every two feet for a scrimmage match. And then Matilda spots Elisha, contrite and cocky as a teacher’s-pet, standing at the centre of it all like she owns the entire pitch, fitting her captain’s band to her left arm despite the fact that there is not an actual match being played today – an act as vain as pinning a graduation certificate to your lapel in public. No one seems, as of yet, to have noticed her hovering with timid uncertainty at the edge of the field. Walking with her head down low, she stealths her way around the sidelines to come up behind the equipment station, where she grabs a ball, rolls it away from the fringes of the group, and proceeds to do warm-ups by herself. She looks up across the other side of the field, where Margery stands cross-armed to watch Kelsey and Talina do their drills, her wire-gaunt back turned and oblivious to Matilda’s presence. Knowing that she can’t waste a nano-second more of the doomed privacy which remains for her to hide behind, Matilda dribbles the ball casually up and down along the sideline, careful not to provoke her fatter parts into wobbling with too much aggression. She draws the least amount of attention to herself as possible, delaying being spotted for as long as she can… That is until Bethany jogs past, circling around wide to collect a heavily weighted pass from April. She glances briefly at Matilda – then her face suddenly glitches, and she does a double-take, fumbling with her feet. Overstepping the ball, she scuffs it with the back of her other foot. She glances down quickly to bring the ball back under control, then hops to a standstill, and is frozen with a ghostly stare. She almost opens her mouth to exclaim Matilda’s name, but is cut short when Matilda presses her finger to her lips with panicked urgency, silencing her. Bethany’s voice, lodged in her throat, escapes in a confused wheeze. She turns around to get April’s attention, who is already looking at Matilda, only with a disharmonious look of sorrowful, powerless pity and all the remorse of second-hand embarrassment. It’s a sight which Matilda has never been hurt by, until now, with such reclusive regret that it makes her want to turn around and leave… And, as things happen in threes, her stomach at that precise moment curls over itself in a wave of cold hunger, using its voice to rumble audibly for food it does not need. Heat spreads up her neck and into her cheeks, the corners of her mouth widening unintentionally in an embarrassed grimace. She lifts her shoulders weakly and shakes her head as if to say, I don’t know what to say either, guys. I really don’t… Bethany and April swap glances multiple times, until April drops her head and starts jogging backwards, gesturing for Bethany to pass the ball along so they can get on with things and continue their drills. Fighting for breath under the burial of anxiety setting like concrete over her throat, Matilda continues to dribble the ball up and down the sideline. Hunger pesters her core, a cold and cavernous empty streak inside her. The happy version of herself, Matilda knows, is somewhere in an alternate realm, at home with Carlile, cuddled into his warmth as they fill their stomachs with lunch and watch films they can fall asleep to. But right now, she’s dribbling the ball along dangerously close to where Suri, Evangeline and Stacy are doing interception drills with each other. The closer she ambles, the clearer their dispassionate expressions become, and she begins to turn back. But Evangeline spots her. The tall striker freezes, letting her ball roll through her feet. One after the other, the three girls stop to stare, lips agape, searching for something to say before the space between them goes so stale that it cracks like plaster. Matilda throws her finger to her lips with an urgent, ‘Shhh!’ Their throats bob as they swallow their shock back down inside. Looking across her shoulder and glancing at the coaches, Matilda cranes her head forward and whispers, ‘Please don’t.’ But they mustn’t have heard her, because Suri begins to open her mouth to speak. Matilda hushes her again with a lightning-fast finger to her lips, glaring at her teammate even as she feels parts of her body shake at the burst of movement. Unsure what to say, where to look, or what to do, the three girls slowly turn a blind eye to Matilda, and return to their routine, swapping concerned looks between each other. Matilda takes a few deep, steadying breaths, then turns back and begins to cautiously dribble the ball down the line once again. All is well, for a moment or two. She stays out of Margery’s awareness long enough to jog end-to-end, four and a half times along the touchline, and do some keepie-uppies before the tightness squeezing her chest finds its way into her lungs and begins blocking out the oxygen she is meant to be using to put one weighed-down leg in front of the other. Slowing down to a walk, breathing heavily with her hands on her hips, she lazily boots the ball ahead of her and meanders after it. But it’s the wrong place at the wrong time. Elisha, Grace, Jessie, Caitlin and Mandy and are all practising interception manoeuvres a few yards away from the touchline. Cailtin and Mandy come sprinting along in pursuit of Elisha, who passes the ball off to Jessie. Mandy veers off to intercept it, and all is well for a split second until Jessie spots their much disgraced, terribly out of shape teammate standing no more than five metres away, and instead of pirouetting on the ball to keep moving, Jessie stands rooted to the spot, in shock, and Mandy comes barrelling straight into her. Matilda watches Jessie blow over like a ragdoll, feet kicking up into air, while Mandy stumbles, reeling with the collision, falling onto her hands and knees. ‘Fuck!’ Jessie yells, rolling onto her side. Every single player, from all corners of the field, stops what they’re doing to see who screamed. They watch as the two girls sit up, dazed, sore and slow. Caitlin runs over to them. ‘What happened? Are you guys alright?’ Elisha makes her way in, closer, but Matilda quickly realises the captain’s attention is elsewhere. Her eyes are fixed, with atomic precision, upon her. Matilda shrinks back involuntarily, shoulders drawing in. Elisha Billidon, captain, little coach’s pet, does not do a double-take with her eyes – nor does she show any expression upon her face but the exact opposite of confusion. No. She knows exactly what she’s looking at. Mouth visibly opening wider and wider in vicious, delighted mockery, her chill blue eyes scream nothing but a kind of “holy-fucking-shit-you-got-big!”, and it feels like a death-stare from across the pitch. The worst part about the unspoken accusation, is that it’s not just an accusation. It’s a matter of undeniable fact. Matilda knows it. Everybody knows it. And look – over there… Here we have it. Here it comes. Everybody stay quiet, now. Nobody move. The commander in chief, towing in her wake the moment of reckoning, comes striding across the grass to see what all the commotion is about. Which is when Margery Hartwell finally lays eyes on Matilda. It has been almost a month now. But for whatever reason, Matilda in all her anxiety, in all the dread and folly leading up to this moment, in the long approach to this atom bomb, can feel nothing. Nothing except a disappointing, silent numbness… like some cryostasis of the soul nobody informed her she’d been put into. Margery herself is unreadable. Blank as an unmarked tombstone. Matilda senses death crawling through the ground towards her. Every pair of eyes is watching, now, mute spectators scattered all around the field; teammates, back-up players, coaching staff, assistants… even an uninvited ibis which has been pecking at rubbish in the grass has stopped to cock its head up at the scene. Booming silence sits over them all like a tarpaulin sheet. Little by little, small signs of thought begin to reveal themselves behind Margery’s eyes. She approaches Matilda at a moderate pace, careful to appear casual about it, and regarding her with a wary stillness upon her lips, along with this strange, sceptical, sidelong glare, as if she isn’t quite sure whether or not to believe what her eyes are telling her. Is this pudgy, fit-to-fat failure of a player really here? After all these weeks? Unannounced? Late? Matilda can see Elisha’s vengeful gloat of secret glee beaming from her eyes behind Margery’s shoulder as the head coach comes ever closer, slowing down, and finally coming to a stop a few yards away. Her small grey eyes turn even smaller with scorn. A twist plays itself into her lips before she at last begins to speak. ‘I cannot bear to look at you, Matilda,’ she drawls, her voice sounding like she could cry. Mind racing with dull, uninspired thoughts, Matilda pokes her tongue inside her cheek and looks off to one side with bored irreverence. She has no idea what to say, and even less of an idea what Margery wants her to say. But then again, the entire point of coming back today was to apologise, to make her case, to plead, to promise. If not now, then never. She knows she has to give it a shot. Otherwise half her life’s work and dedication will be cut off like a dead limb. Everything will be for nothing. The motto of the club bounces between her ears like a joke. She feels her chest hiccup as she almost laughs. All for heart, or all for nothing. What a motto. Well then. Taking a breath to speak up, she plants her feet evenly, shoulder-length apart, folds her arms under her chest, and tolerates the humiliating irony of her upper stomach’s soft girth pressing into her forearms. She takes a second and third stabilising breath to course-correct her consciousness, then looks Margery in the frightening cores of her destitute eyes. The scene hangs by its own final thread like some gunless Mexican stand-off. Matilda is the first to make a move. ‘I know that you can hardly bear to look at me,’ she admits slowly, doing her best to sound humble. But Margery’s jaw tenses like a hydraulic valve. ‘And what else, then, would you “know”?’ ‘I know,’ Matilda says, letting out a small puff of air from her nose, tipping her head a little to one side in a show of unintentional belligerence. ‘I know what I’ve done. I know what I’ve caused. I know I have to do better. And… and that’s why I’m here today…’ She bites her lip. Does she even believe what she’s saying? Does she even believe it will work? Is Margery even listening? Feeling pessimistic, but confident in following her intuition, there is nevertheless a doubt that she feels lingering dangerously close to ruining her motivation. But she goes on, allowing herself to show some emotion. All heart or all for nothing. ‘Look. I’m sorry,’ she says, sighing. ‘I am. I don’t even know why I came today, but… well I do, actually, but…’ She falls silent for a beat, distracted by the way Margery’s eyes have started drifting up and down her body – which she knows, lit in full daylight for all to see, must look comically chubby. Suddenly Matilda feels the skin-tight cling of fabric touching every bulging surface of her waist, chest and body. Now it’s all she can think about. She can feel the constrictive bite of her training shorts digging into her cushioned thighs, cutting up the crack of her fattened cheeks, grabbing into her hips… Margery’s expression grows contorted more and more with lines of disgust, even as Matilda continues to speak her case, trying her best to ignore surging waves of emotion building up against her fortress walls. ‘It’s time for me to be honest, now,’ she struggles to say. ‘It’s gone on too long. And I’m sorry for that. But I had to take a break– I just couldn’t do it anymore. Something tragic happened in my life,’ she lies, ‘and I couldn’t deal with it mentally. I was so unhappy–’ ‘You were unhappy, were you?’ Margery mimics her in a flat tone of apathetic mockery. ‘You did this because you were unhappy? Matilda, do you have any idea what you have done here?’ Silence answers the manager’s interrogative question. ‘Do you have any idea how much trouble you have caused me? How many problems you have created through this little… escapade,’ gesturing with an upturned palm at Matilda’s body in disgust. ‘You have left a not insignificant hole in this team. A structural hole that I have had to run around fixing, trying to prevent you from dragging us down any furth–’ ‘Dragging you down?!’ Matilda breaks in like a brick through glass, almost laughing, eyes boggling out her head. She gasps at the audacity, unable to keep a smirk behind closed doors. Then she remembers in a painful snap of presence that she is meant to be taking the submissive position in this confrontation… so she straightens up, wipes the disbelieving smile off her face, and assumes once again a stance of supplication. ‘Yes!’ Margery yells, the hollow of skin under her eyelids turning wine-red with fury. ‘Yes! Dragging us down! Dragging us down with your sad laziness! You had so much talent, Matilda. So much talent,’ she stresses. Matilda wants to interject with a knife-stab reminder that Margery has her own bygone talents, wasted, lost, slain by failure. But she bites her tongue at the last minute. ‘This team relied upon you,’ Margery berates. ‘I relied upon you. You were such a great talent, such a promising young player. I was prepared to take you all the way–’ Matilda laughs out loud, this time. She can’t help it. The laugh forced itself out, too mighty, too strong. It doesn't seem Margery has heard it, however, through her rabid onslaught of rage. ‘–All the way, the whole way, with such a great amount of talent, all gone to this! This! This!’ Margery shrieks, splaying both hands at Matilda’s body with the desperation of a chef mourning a spoiled meal. ‘This disappointing waste of dead weight. You have let yourself become… more than just overweight! Have you been to a doctor, Matilda? Has anyone told you if you are obese yet? What have you been doing in the time you haven’t been showing yourself? What have you been eating? How much? How much have you been eating, Matilda? You’ve been wasting everything you have in front of our very eyes! Stuffing your face, lazing about, indulging– you say you’ve come here intending to fix your behaviour– yet all you’ve been doing is getting bigger and bigger, every time you appear, somehow less fit than the last time, and I have had it to here!–’ holding her chin up, she points to her neck, one dark, long vein bulging with seething fury, spitting her words out, ‘Here! I have had it up to here with you. You disgust me–!’ ‘Coach! Coach! I…’ comes a voice out of the blue. ‘You disgust me, you disgrace me, and you disgrace the entire footballing world– you’re nothing now but an obese, slobbish…’ Margery’s momentum dies. She appears to shut down, then start up again, processing the fact that someone had just dared to speak up. She stiffens in the shoulders and turns to look around behind her, jaw set hard as steel, eyes wide with crazed intent. The voice that spoke had been Suri’s voice. Everybody looks over to her, slowly, fearfully. She is quiet and sheepish, but is raising her voice nevertheless. She asks, ‘Is what you’re saying entirely fair? I don’t think… I’m not sure it is, really. Shouldn’t we be getting back to our drills now?’ ‘Yeah,’ Kelsey agrees quietly, from somewhere in the rear of the pack. ‘Don’t be too hard, coach. We–’ ‘One more word!’ Margery’s voice explodes from her throat. She pauses to level a cold stare on the girls, turning slightly to survey them each one after the other, wherever they happen to be standing on the field. ‘One more word,’ she hisses, ‘and we do nothing but beep tests all day. None of you have shown the endurance you should be displaying, in any case! One more fucking word out of anyone, and you’ll lose your spot– because I will have to take it as a god damned attempt at sedition, this time. Like this young lady over here,’ she snarls, turning back to Matilda, pointing one of her thin, bony fingers at her like an unsheathed knife. ‘You’ve been attempting mutiny ever since the moment I met you. I could see it in your eyes. In your body language. All of you; take a look! Look at her, realise that this is what laziness looks like. This is what bad character results in. This is slovenly indulgence, and it has no place in the sport. This is what happens when you don’t play for the team. Understand?’ ‘Play for the team?’ Matilda scoffs, unable to believe the dishonesty. She knows better than anyone that she’s done nothing but play for the team. She’s in this mess to begin with because she was playing for the team. Every sacrifice has been for the team. ‘You have become obese, Matilda.’ Margery’s eyes flare with bile. ‘You don’t play for the team. You play for yourself.’ ‘Are you–’ Matilda’s chest floods with irretrievable velocities of fury. Her mind runs ahead of her, and she loses track of it entirely. ‘Are you fucking kidding me? You think I’ve been playing for myself? Bullshit! Actually, you know what? That’s it! That’s it, I’m done with this! I am absolutely done with this. You know why? Because of you!’ Feeling herself fly off the handle at the speed of light, Matilda seizes the moment in her hands, clutches it, owns it while she has the spotlight, however humiliatingly harsh its brightness paints her fattened, flabby body with her belly sticking out, and her thighs bulging inside her shorts. The coach’s face turns slack as a snapped cable. ‘I cannot believe what I am hearing from you, Matilda.’ ‘Well you’d better believe it, you fucking cow!’ A few gasps from around the field. ‘Matilda!’ Margery squawks. ‘I will give your spot to someone else–’ ‘You already have, you fucking dumb cunt! Don’t you see that? You’ve pushed this entire club into mediocrity and e-e-everybody hates you now.’ Matilda spreads her arms out wide and does a spin, gesturing at all twenty of the girls who surround them. ‘Yes. You. Everybody. Everybody hates you. Not me. Do you know why? Wait, no, of course you don’t. It’s because you have no imagination. And that’s a home-truth; sorry! If you didn’t think I’d take it all back a moment ago, well– now I definitely am not. You’ve ruined it. I hate you and I hate what this place has become. I’ve been here for six years of my life, and it’s all been murdered to shit because of you. You have all the wrong ideas. I’m only speaking on everyone’s behalf. Your backwards tactics, your backwards passing, your backwards training practices– it’s going to chain this club to the fucking ground, you hear me? And you’ll be the only person who’s to blame for it– for stopping this club from becoming anything better than the “Local Wannabes F.-fucking-C.”, alright? I have gone through too much stress, too much worrying, too much feeling like shit to deal with your bullshit personality crap anymore– ever since you walked in and replaced Kendra– who was a brilliant woman by the way, and we all miss her– she took us up and up and up– then you came along and you kept us stuck constantly at the middle of the table, and then we start to go down– Oh, and, by the way, before I forget, don’t you even think about telling me the usual bullshit– the bullshit you tell me– all the load of absolute crap about how, “oh, your body is getting weighed down”, and “oh it’s your fault”. No. No more. It’s not my fault. How about this instead: if this club is being weighed down at all, it’s by your stupid pathetic ideas on their own weighing this entire club down!” A spell of dreadful post-war quiet drifts like smoke across the park. It is so dead that you can hear the individual cars out on the road beyond the line of land plots and trees. Margery’s hands are shivering with rage. She opens her mouth to speak, but Matilda is faster than lightning. ‘I’m finished with this shit!’ she shouts. ‘I don’t know why anybody else hasn’t quit yet. Actually, no— I do know. It’s because they’re scared. They’re all scared of you, Margery. Is that what you wanted? You inspire fear. That’s it. That’s all you do. That’s all you know how to do. And anyway,’ she shrugs disaffectually, ‘the only reason you hate me so much is because it reminds you of how big of a failure you were…’ At first, Margerys’s face shows no recognition of what she’s referring to. Then, as Matilda continues to rant, gradual realisation softens the haggard woman’s face until there is nothing left in it but horrified sorrow. ‘Like yeah, I get it,’ Matilda goes on, ‘I get what’s happened to me. I got fat. Fine. I know. I got so fat I can’t play without running out of breath. But don’t point fingers. Don’t tell me I’m fat when you were a fat little bitch when you were younger, yourself, miss Margery fucking Hartwell– oh yes, oh yeah, I know. I know all about it. The only reason you’re a coach and not a player is because you weren’t deemed “fit enough”, right? You didn’t pass the trials because you were too chubby. Fine! Well now you’re so hypocritical about your shitty self-loathing complex and hatred of fat people that anybody could tell you have a huge fatphobia complex— I mean like, fuck me! It’s so obvious! It’s so obvious that only you could look at jelly on a fucking plate and feel freaked out about it! And then you go to an ice cream shop? Yeah, you heard me. The ice cream parlour. I saw you there, once. Don’t give me crap about “health” and “indulgence” bullshit. You only hate me because you hate yourself. You hate fat people. You hate what you once were. You’re a fatphobic piece of shit. “Oooh, oh wow, oh no, Matilda got fat.” Yeah, no shit! Here it is! Here, look at this, then!’ In a flush of resentment, Matilda grabs her stomach in two hands and shakes it up and down so that it bounces underneath her shirt, and she feels that soft, squishy part of her body move, jerk, tugging at her abdomen from which it protrudes with each iteration of its jiggle. Without thinking to stop, she then turns around to stick her enlarged ass out at them, and gives it a raunchy slap. ‘“Oh no”,’ she mocks her audience, doing magic-hands, ‘“how awful, it must be so awful to be so fat”. Well guess what! It’s not, actually! It’s not that bad! You can get over it! So get over it. Everybody grow the fuck up. Especially you, you fatphobic bitch!’ Her throat scratchy from so much yelling, Matilda peers into Margery’s eyes, and notices the woman is even now withering like a leaking balloon. Her face is pale, and words are no longer in her mouth. Even her plumage of hair seems to have drooped slightly. Matilda looks around at her audience. She sees each and every stunned, wordless face staring back at her, a mixed pastiche of confusion, embarrassment, shock, recognition, awe, horror… She begins to feel the warmth of composure seep back into her mind – and with it both clarity, and a dawning fear in recognition of what she’s just done. She pats her clothes back down, feeling her blood pressure drumming through her body like an artillery gun, her heart pumping on overdrive. The feeling of suffocation only makes it harder to deal with the intensifying rage screaming in her ribcage. She flings her hands up in bewilderment, ‘I mean what is the idea anyway?’ She peels her lips back as yet another round of attacks launches from her throat. ‘Five at the back? Do you have any idea what football even is? Since when did we need five at the back? Five at the back and nobody upfront? Poor Evangeline gets nothing. Nothing. Just running around up the top wasting her runs because nobody can get the fucking ball to her because— um, duh? You’ve gone and decided, in your infinite wisdom, that if we have a brick wall at the back, then the two-and-a-half lonely forwards will just magically whisk the ball like fairies up the other end of the pitch even though there’s a million opposition shirts pushing in around them so they can’t even do anything in the first place? We’re constantly defending in our own half. Constantly. With the opposition surrounding us! Pressuring us constantly! You can’t counter attack if you’re boxed in every last minute of every match and don’t have an outlet. What are you thinking? Counter attacks? Bullshit. To counter attack you need to have a set of runners ready, and the opposition need to be spread thin, wrong-footed, lopsided, caught-out. But they’re never spread thin. And they’re never wrong-footed. Because they’ve got us boxed in. Every time. Home or away. How you can’t see that is beyond me. You’ve ruined this club. And that’s why I’m done.’ With that, Matilda turns around to face the facility and leave them in the dust. Then all of a sudden, second thoughts and third thoughts spin off one another in a thousand different impressions of conflicted emotion, and she turns back around like the snap of a whip. ‘You know what, Margery? Maybe I’m like this now– maybe I got fat in the first place– because I felt so fucking awful about the state of this club, about where it was going. Did that ever occur to you?’ Teetering on the edge of sanity, Matilda detects that she has an opportunity to spear Margery through the chest with vilification. Every breath she takes to steady herself only inflates her excitement, and in a few more breaths she crumbles beneath the power of her own dark will. ‘This club was my life,’ she says with a dreadful stare. ‘We used to win things. We used to be proud. I mean, shit, I used to enjoy the sport. I used to be in love with it. But then you came along and it turned into some sad, depressing slog of hopeless tactics nobody enjoys, nobody wants to watch, and nobody even gets to complain about, because you either shut them down or make it look like it’s their problem! You’ve caused me mental health issues for the last six months. Do you realise that? From all the pressure on me, all the terrible management. How could you be so arrogant? How could you be so up your own ass, and not see it? Like, do you not realise that you’re literally the Ronald fucking Koeman of local football? It’s embarrassing.’ Having run her mouth to the last struggling ounce of breath left inside her lungs, Matilda flings her hand in the air above her head like a French international cussing off a referee, and turns to walk away for good this time. But in no more than five steps, she feels compelled once again. Stepping backwards as she opens her mouth, she faces them and flings both hands in the air with each moment of crazed surrender in her words. ‘Fine!’ she shouts across the grass. ‘Fine, then! If you’ve got nothing to say then I’ll just piss off! I’ll just disappear and leave you to face a team of girls who secretly hate your guts! I’ll just fuck off, and I’ll go study how to be a coach– coaching for dummies– coaching 101! Coaching fundamentals! Coaching basics. I’ll do it because you can’t seem to fucking do the basics yourself– and then I’ll come back– I’ll come back and I’ll teach you how to do this fucking job– this simple god damned job that you can’t have one creative thought about for one fucking second! And I’ll show you how to set up a team– I’ll show you how to talk a team into a winning mood– I’ll show you how to treat people with dignity– I’ll show you how to make a game plan– Oh! actually, and you know what? You know what?– when I get back? When I get back, I’ll have all the knowledge you do, and more, and then I’ll show you I was right about this whole thing all along. Fuck. You. Margery. Fuck you so much. You’re a shit coach and an even shittier human being. I’m going. I’m going away. Fuck this, I’m done. Fuck you. Fuck you and see you later.’ As if to make this point her final one, Matilda spots a ball nearby, bends down to pick it up, then lobs it hard in an over-shoulder throw, aiming squarely for Margery. She doesn’t even stay to see if it lands on target. Turning on her heel, she strides away from them. Freshly mowed grass gives softly beneath the studs of her boots. With every step, her mind begins rattling with mental images of everything she once loved here… the club’s colours, the various shades of purple and white, the badge, her teammates… and as the decisive event that just happened delineates each flashing image into the realm of her past, falling behind her probably forever, she feels herself walking like a pariah through the wasteland of what was once her own kingdom. The present is already a bad memory, and it hurts to walk against its grain. With each step, the writhing heat of anger that soaks her chest grows harder, like concrete, until the weight of it feels more like anguish than anger, and a sadness creeps underneath like a damp spreading rot. Her shoulders jerk as she holds back an ambush of sudden tears. She sucks it back down, but the ambush comes upon her again, and her throat swells. It is agony to stop herself from crying. Her face feels like it’s going to explode. Once inside the doors, she tries not to linger inside the club quarters. She allows the interior walls to guide her, to pass her peripheral vision as she walks straight towards her locker, grabs her keys, picks up her duffel bag without bothering to zip it up or swap her clothes, follows the corridor into the front foyer, exits the facility unceremoniously through the front doors, walks over the gravel, crunching grit under her bare studs, barely registering the sounds beneath her feet, strides across the parking lot, and opens her car with a violent tug of the door handle. Once inside, she sits down and pulls the door shut so it slams, and sits in the driver’s seat, feeling like a blob of mud with her chest so full of pain that it might explode out her mouth. Her shorts feel tight in her groin, and her sports bra wants to be unfastened. It isn’t until she’s started the engine and rolled around the corner that she feels it coming on, against her will. She pulls over to let it happen. She cries so hard she goes blind with tears. . . . Working a while to wipe whatever evidence is left of her weeping, and massaging the puffiness from under her eyes before going inside her house, she finds, much to her good luck, that only her dad is home. He is watching a show on Netflix, his face absent, oblivious, and softly innocuous in the blue light as he turns to give her a loving wink hello. Never before has the sight of his simple, Santa Claus-like face felt so safe to her. ‘Hi, love. Got some left-overs in the fridge if you need.’ ‘Hey,’ she smiles. Putting on her best neutral-face for him, she silently promises herself that she’ll tell him about the tragedy later on. Without further thought, she proceeds to hide away in her room, and thenceforth languish in the silent privacy of darkness with the blinds drawn and the covers pulled tight up around her body. She feels cold and warm at the same time. She’s stripped off all her clothes, and beneath her sheets is naked, stewing in all her softened body’s heat, letting her hands rest upon her squishy flesh and absorbing comfort through the tactile sensation of its temperature. She feels seen, though there is no one around. She reminds herself of this. There is nobody. There is nothing to look at. Nothing to think about. Safe in the darkness, peace slowly comes to visit her soul at last, and she falls into strange, irregular sleep. . . . It’s almost noon when she finally wakes, in and out of reluctant consciousness. She denies herself breakfast, even though she feels like she could sell her house for just a taste of anything. By six in the afternoon, everyone in the club has piled up her phone’s notification bank with texts, missed calls and voice messages, all un-opened. They keep coming in, but she can’t bring herself to read or answer a single one of them. With a typical male cluelessness, Dad pops his head in to say goodnight around nine-o’clock. She says a quiet goodnight back and returns to mindlessly scrolling her phone. Just after ten at night, there’s a knock at the door. She cocks her ear, but the sound of dad’s feet do not thump down the hallway to answer. He must have fallen asleep already. She puts on some warm clothes against the chill and leaves her room to go see who it is, sensing various surfaces of her body coming alive with frenetic movement as she moves. Right as there comes another knock, she unlatches the front door and opens it to find Suri standing under the entrance with April standing just behind her right shoulder. Just the two of them. The night chill batters Matilda’s face, and her heart stammers with both shameful recognition and the remorse of love for her teammates. Standing in the doorway in front of the two girls, the cold suburban night air brings her body’s size to her awareness – she can feel it, she’s conscious of the way each part of her figure extrudes outwards in parabolas of soft weight, while their slender bodies do not. The expressions on their faces are ones of melancholy, but they sing of understanding too. In April’s hands is a team shirt, its purple fabric draped like a curtain from her fingers. It has the number eighteen in white. It’s her shirt. Instead of saying hello, April merely lifts the shirt in plaintive offering. ‘This’s yours.’ Matilda can’t bear the sight. She looks away, feeling her face vibrate with building tears. ‘You left it behind,’ Suri explains in a quiet voice. Then she reaches out with her hand. But Matilda cannot summon the spirit to lift her own hand and take her friend’s. She watches Suri’s eyes vacillate between resignation, concern, and damp sadness. The moment hangs suspended in the atmosphere of night. Then Suri steps towards her and without a word wraps her arms around Matilda, drawing her into a tight embrace. The enclosing safety of her friend’s warmth pulls Matilda’s diaphragm up through her throat, and a sob jolts out of her. Pressing her lips shut, Matilda silences any further sounds that might accidentally escape from her mouth, then pulls away from Suri’s embrace and turns to carefully shut the door behind her. ‘I can’t let my dad hear me like this,’ she says in a fragile, wobbly voice. ‘Not yet. I haven’t told them.’ ‘Your parents don’t know what happened?’ April asks softly, still holding the shirt. Looking down at her feet, Matilda shakes her head and moves forward a few steps away from the door. The three of them walk down the driveway and sit on a retaining wall built out of large garden rocks that faces the street. Matilda looks over her shoulder at her home. The windows are faintly yellow with light from the hallway, but it is otherwise filled with darkness. She faces the street again, slouching. ‘I’m sorry, guys,’ she struggles to say. ‘It wasn’t meant to be like this. I failed. I failed you all.’ ‘No!’ April and Suri urge in unison, their voices almost offended. ‘You haven’t failed us,’ says Suri. ‘No one else’s been able to stand up to Margery like you did today.’ ‘God I hate her,’ Matilda gushes through clenched teeth, leaning forward into the confession. ‘I hate her.’ ‘I know,’ April admits. ‘We all know. We all hate her. We’ve pretty much all had our turn being targeted by her.’ ‘Yeah,’ Suri nods. ‘I was.’ ‘Same here,’ April agrees. ‘So was Beth. And Caitlin. Nysh won’t admit it, but even she was– but you know her, that’s Nysh, she won’t admit anything.’ Matilda shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Margery is just a hypocrite, that’s all she is. Remember that day she took all our measurements?’ ‘I do,’ Suri nods. ‘I think everyone does,’ April adds. ‘I remember the look on everyone’s faces when the coaches brought us into the rooms and we all saw a bunch of scales on the ground. It was fucked up. You aren’t meant to humiliate your players like that.’ ‘She picked on me,’ says Suri, ‘for nothing. It wasn’t fair. Thanks for doing what you did, that day, ‘Tild.’ ‘What I did? What’d I do?’ ‘You don’t remember?’ April asks, raising an eyebrow. ‘You practically waved your arms in their faces and told them to come shoot you instead of us…’ All at once, mental snapshots deepen like coloured ink in her mind as Matilda recollects that day piece by piece. That was months and months ago. The better part of the year, anyway. Back when she had barely anything more than a tiny stone’s worth of chub in her belly to be worried about – she had to bend over and squish it up in her hands to bring it out. But she’d been incredibly bloated, that day, and she’d used it to scapegoat herself so Ilda would stop scrutinising April and Suri’s bodies. ‘Whatever you did; it worked,’ April goes on. ‘That was the crazy thing. It actually worked. We were like “what the fuck?”, but in a good way. We couldn’t believe it.’ ‘Really?’ Matilda asks. ‘Yeah,’ Suri agrees. ‘You have no idea the relief I felt when that cow stopped examining me. But… when I realised they were bullying you instead, I felt awful. I never wanted you to do that for me.’ April turns to look Matilda in the eyes. ‘Everyone felt awful after that. We couldn’t believe you’d gone out of your way to deliberately take the heat off us and put it onto yourself. We all knew Margery had it out for you, but we couldn’t believe you were going to, like… face her down. And you faced her down more than just one time. No one else has had that much courage. You know what I mean?’ ‘But I’ve let the team down. I’ve stopped us from winning anything because I’m an out of shape fatass–’ ‘No you haven’t,’ Suri interjects. ‘It’s not your fault.’ ‘She’s right,’ April agrees. ‘It wasn’t you. It was Margery. You were right, today, what you said to her. Everybody knows it. We all know you were trying.’ Matilda ‘s chest feels heavy as a boulder. ‘You do?’ ‘We do.’ ‘Us two especially. But everybody does… uh… except for Elisha,’ April snorts. ‘But Elisha’s a bitch, so…’ Suri nods. ‘Yuh.’ Matilda opens her eyes. ‘You think so too?’ ‘Are you joking?’ April almost laughs. ‘It’s kinda obvious the way she talks and walks around like she’s top shit.’ All Matilda can do is offer a sad smile. After a short silence, April looks down at Matilda’s purple shirt in her hands, then lays it down over her legs and begins flattening it out across her thighs. ‘Thing is, there’s nothing we can really do about it. If what you said today doesn't change anything, then there’s nothing else any of us girls can do. Nobody else has any other plan. We aren’t as strong as you. Nobody else wants to stand up to her. Anyway… Suri and I came to give you your shirt back. You need to keep your shirt, at least… if it’s really true… if you’re really leaving…’ An ache passes through Matilda’s chest. ‘But it doesn’t fit me anymore, guys. Seriously. Look at me. I’m obese.’ Suri tilts her head in dismay. ‘You’re not obese.’ ‘Then what am I?’ ‘How about a player,’ April offers. ‘And a friend?’ Matilda’s heart thrums. ‘Awh, jeez… thanks, April. I appreciate that. I think I… I think I needed to hear that… I do. But really… can we just be real? I’m just fat. That’s all there is. I’m overweight. Medically. I was just chubby, for a bit, but now… now I’m actually getting close to being fat. And I’ve been getting fatter every week. To be honest, I’m not even sure it’s gonna go away, now, all this flab. I tried starving. I tried exercising. But It didn’t work. It’s so hard. It’s taking too long. I feel like I could work to lose five pounds, but it’d take five weeks and somewhere in there during that time I’d just put it all back on somehow, plus more, just ‘coz I ate a bowl of pasta or something stupid. I’m so chubby now I feel like it’s impossible to come back from it. I might never play again!’ ‘Matilda!’ Suri pleads. ‘No! Please don’t talk like that! We believe in you… You have to see that.’ ‘We do,’ April confirms. ‘And so do the rest of the girls. Take it from Talina and Beth, too. They’re the ones who sent us here– they couldn’t come with us, but they really wanted to tell you– that we believe in you. We all do.’ Matilda sniffles, her hair hanging slightly over her brow. She shuffles, adjusting her bum on the stone she’s using as a seat. ‘You guys mean that?’ ‘Yes. We believe in you, Matilda,’ April says with direct, sincere delivery. ‘We all do. You might have gained some weight. But I was there, too, remember?’ ‘But I’ve gotten fatter than you did.’ ‘Not by much.’ ‘Bull.’ ‘Don’t be silly, Matilda. Anyhow, we believe in you. You’re a brilliant player. You aren’t just a great footballer; you know how to play. You know the game. You read it like no one else can. And you’re smart. We all know that– oh, and you know what?’ Matilda looks up into April’s face, waiting. ‘You would be the best coach in the world. You really would.’ Her heart swells with love. ‘You think so?’ ‘I do,’ April confirms. ‘So do I,’ Suri adds. ‘We all do.’ A swirl of uncontrollable emotion spins in her chest, thumping like a lopsided washing machine, and she feels her face flush with incredible heat moments before she bursts into tears. ‘But I’ve done this to myself,’ she sobs. ‘I made myself into a fat fuck… because I thought it would force Margery leave the club… Why! … I’m such an idiot! It was such a stupid idea!’ ‘Well that might not have gone as you planned,’ April admits with an awkward hesitation in her voice, ‘but at least you care. You care so much that you did something unthinkable. You know? Whereas you have to wonder if Margery cares at all.’ ‘Yeah,’ Suri says, ‘I care too, but I couldn’t have done that. You did something ridiculously courageous.’ Matilda sob-laughs. ‘Ridiculous would be the right word.’ ‘No, but it was courageous. Do you understand what I mean? That’s why I believe in you. If you were a coach, I’d believe in you every day of the week.’ Matilda gathers the front of her hoodie into her hands, then pulls it up to her face, wiping the moisture pooling around her eyes. As the hem lifts clear of her stomach, her muffintop is accidentally put on display for a moment, granted absolute freedom to pooch out over her lap, shining like a large dollop of smooth butter under the light of the street lamps. After a split-second of shock, Suri and April choose to look away respectfully, as if from some awful scar. When Matilda registers the cold touch of night air on her stomach, and connects the dots, she lets the hoodie fall back down over her stomach. A moment of silence is shared. April offers the shirt to Matilda again, changing the topic. ‘Here, take it,’ she urges. ‘You’re still a part of the team, as much as anyone else, probably even more so. You were back then, and you are now, and always will be– and anyway, it doesn't matter how big you got. So long as Suri and I are here, then that means you’re still part of this team. I know the others feel the same way too.’ Swallowing the saliva that’s built up in her throat, Matilda looks down and across at the shirt, with mistrust darkening her face. ‘No matter how big?’ April and Suri both nod. But Matilda has doubts. ‘Are you sure about it? What if I’m stuck like this?’ ‘No matter how big.’ April repeats. ‘What if I got stuck like this, what if I somehow got even fatter and grosser?’ ‘Well, I mean, I’d be worried for you. But it still wouldn’t matter.’ ‘What if I put on another ten pounds? Twenty pounds? Like, what if I got stuck at another thirty pounds heavier than I already am?’ Suri shrugs. ‘You’re still loved either way by us.’ ‘Doesn’t matter,’ April adds. ‘Nobody should feel ashamed because of the way they look– athlete or not. It shouldn’t matter.’ Slouching into her shoulders, Matilda at long last takes the shirt from April’s hands and rests it across her own lap. Her thick-thighed lap. She looks down at it like the recovered body of a dead cat. She’d left it behind, much she left behind everything it symbolises. But it is hers again, now. It has the number eighteen. Her surname is on the back, printed in a bold arced between the shoulders. Crickets whistle in the long grasses across the street, and the moon is almost full in the clear black sky. Sniffling the congestion back into her nose, she pats the shirt down against her sausagey thighs and says with casual dryness, ‘Don’t make me put it on, though.’ She looks up at them. Their faces watch hers, with uncertain expressions. Then a smirk twitches at the corner of her mouth, spreading up into her eyes, and the three of them share a round of laughter with each other, relieved. Looking out across the street into the foliage of the natural reserve, they fall into an easier spell of idle, comfortable talk, spirits buoyed on reclaimed hope, until they feel midnight nearing. The sad and thankful farewells she exchanges with them later on will be the last words they will share with each other for a very, very long time. . . .

For almost a year now, Matilda has been spending a day, once every fortnight, at the physiotherapy clinic as Dr Goodwynn’s intern. Today, though – this warming, seasonally changing day with flocks of birds migrating from tree to tree – will be her last. On her second-t0-last visit, Dr Goodwynn had been away, so Matilda was asked to help around the foyer with administrative tasks and whatever other experience the receptionists could provide her. Not having seen Dr Goodwynn for several weeks now, Matilda has learned what it feels like to begin overthinking in the void left behind by an absence; the absence of Dr Goodwynn’s counsel. The picture of Dr Goodwynn’s eyes haunt her psychological field of vision, leering like a Venetian Mask cutout over her thoughts, in spite of all the gracious things the doctor has said to her, despite all her abundant care, like an authority figure who can only be disappointed in you, never pleased. But it’s hard for Matilda to tell how much of it is simply anxiety coming to the surface in strange, outwardly-projected ways. She keeps predicting scenarios that haven’t happened. She keeps imagining Dr Goodwynn greeting her happily, when she arrives today, in such a way that is nothing but professional theatrics hiding real disappointment. It’s clear to anyone with eyes that she’s grown fatter in the space of two short weeks. Matilda can’t recall what her weight measured before Dr Goodwynn saw her last. As Matilda pulls the steering wheel into a parking turn, she realises that she doesn’t even know her current weight – a number perhaps too terrible, a piece of data too shocking to do anything with, except try and forget she ever saw it, and do her best to bring it back down from whatever anonymous heights it has climbed to. She needs to get skinny again. But even as she twists to step out of her car, that restrictive, demeaning tension across the centre of her shirt reminds her that her clothes are too small for her waistline, and whips her anxious thoughts in the rear so that they bolt out the gates into a frantic run into nowhere. Breathing somewhat unsteadily, she locks the car and makes her way across the parking lot towards the entrance, clutching her bag in front of her like a self-conscious teen with a “look at me” target painted on her whole body despite their best efforts to remain anonymous. ‘Matilda!’ cries Dr Goodwynn when they run into each other at the door to her office. ‘How lovely to see you.’ Dr Goodwynn looks up and down Matilda’s body, eyes beaming affectionately, then tucks her clipboard and paperwork closer under her arm and extends a hand to the door. ‘After you. Welcome. I have not seen you in so long; how are you?’ Matilda feels snagged on an uncomfortable pause, stuck in admiration of the woman’s simple beauty. Breaking the pause, Dr Goodwynn opens the door to let them both into the office, then moves past Matilda to lay her things down on the desk. Turning and bending her knees to sit in her chair, she gestures to the spare seat for Matilda, who is still lagging behind every queue. ‘Please, sit,’ Dr Goodwynn invites. Matilda wiggles and shuffles her bum until she settles, which isn’t happening so easily thanks to the uncomfortable constriction of hard fabric around her hips that she can’t make go away – the seamwork is cutting up under her groin, and she’s far too deeply aware of the sleeves’ seamwork around her shoulders and armpits. She really should have taken more time getting dressed this morning, but she’d been in a rush and run out the door thinking she would somehow, given time, settle into the tight striped shirt tucked into a black pleat skirt and grey leggings whose elastic waistband was already cutting into her hips ten pounds ago. Even the pleated skirt feels tight where it sits fastened around her waist. So she sucks her belly up into her chest, and gambles on blind luck that the rest of her body isn’t spilling out the sides of her clothes as well. Dr Goodwynn turns on her computer screen, straightens her paperwork, then swivels around with one leg crossed over the other to beam pleasantly at Matilda. ‘How are you, Matilda?’ she asks sincerely. ‘How have you been?’ The screen lights up behind her face and loads to a blue login page. Matilda holds her breath, and is about to answer – but is caught off guard by the astonishingly loaded nature of what she was going to say in response to a very non-loaded question. Perhaps she could tell the truth. Or perhaps she could say the simple version of things, instead… that everything’s going alright… that nothing is new… and then proceed to the next formality, comfortably, just like anybody would. ‘I’m good,’ Matilda says at last, her words stretching – but it comes out with a doubtful, upwards curl in her voice, like a question mark that she didn’t intend on being there. Now it sounds precisely like the lie that it is. Dr Goodwynn’s head inclines. She blinks twice, then turns her head to look at Matilda slightly askance. That’s when Matilda caves. ‘I don’t know.’ She slouches. ‘It’s not really that important. Just problems with the club. Carl and I– we went on a little holiday– I haven’t been to training in a while because of the second bye-week break. Then we got back from our trip, and I missed training without meaning to. And in general, the club isn’t good. It’s not going well. I just have a lot on my mind… sorry…’ ‘No. No, no, no, don’t apologise. It is okay.’ Matilda shrugs and nods, then shrugs again, not believing herself. ‘So…’ Turning back to the computer, Dr Goodwynn logs in and brings up her folders, clicking into one and opening a document. ‘Since this is your last day with us, there is a completion form here for you to fill in so that we know you had a pleasant experience working with us, and nothing was done out of procedure, or inappropriately – yada yada yada, you know how these things are.’ ‘Oh, okay.’ Matilda tilts her hips to lift one cheek and pull out the fabric underneath. Settling for as good as she’s going to get, she settles, then straightens in her seat so she can face Dr Goodwynn properly. The mentor begins to talk about something else, dipping her shoulders back and slipping her expensive-looking cream coloured cardigan off her arms. She folds it in half over her handbag, then puts her thumbs between her shirt and slacks to give it a quick shimmy. Giving Matilda eye contact, she continues to speak, then pauses and lowers her head into Matilda’s line of sight. ‘Matilda?’ she says. ‘Is there something you are looking at?’ Then Dr Goodwynn follows Matilda’s line of sight, and turns her gaze down to her lap, before sitting back in her chair as if greatly amused. The lower half of Dr Goodwynn’s buttoned white shirt is not flat, but is instead round, with her belly sticking out in a small bloated dome over her slacks that brings the buttons somewhat flush against her stomach. Caught in a state of paralysis, Matilda keeps her lips pressed tight, unsure how to react, or if she can even begin to look away from the object of shocking fascination. Is what she’s seeing real? Is it an illusion? Is it new? She had no idea Dr Goodwynn could display anything like this, with her body being so archetypically hourglass. Matilda thought Dr Goodwynn was a woman who would stay in shape for all eternity, like a statue etched in marble. Unable to remove her eyes for a fraction longer, Matilda thinks she can discern a faintly-observable ooze where the small bulge of Dr Goodwynn’s belly lips past the waistband of her slacks in a way that can only indicate a modest coat of softness – meaning it’s not just bloat, either. Dr Goodwynn has a strange expression on her face. ‘Oh, please don’t mind me,’ letting out a wise, unashamed chuckle as she pats her tummy. ‘I think I must have eaten too much cake this morning; it is Peter’s birthday today. There is some cake in the common room for everyone… Perhaps it was somewhat too nice. But I don’t do well from foods with gluten, yes? Especially so early in the hours of the day. You know, there is still so much left over, if you wanted to go and get some for yourself, you should feel free.’ Matilda almost says yes, feeling the need to people-please, but catches herself out and slumps in her chair, throwing her gaze down to one side slightly. She looks at the strange, thickened mass of her own middle, so strange it is almost alien to her, then opens her mouth to speak in an awkward grimace, ‘Ahhh… I’d better not…’ Dr Goodwynn nods respectfully, then pauses as if waiting for an explanation, but nods once more and begins to turn away, dropping the subject. But Matilda knows this is the only chance she’s gonna get. So she panics a little, and jumps on the opportunity too fast to be casual, scooting forward in her chair desperately, a pained, embarrassed look on her face, pushing her fists against each other nervously. ‘I need to diet,’ she blurts. ‘Like, now. Urgently.’ ‘Is that so?’ Dr Goodwynn replies, clicking around on the computer, then sliding her chair over to the printer so she can grab some pages whirring out onto the tray. Matilda sighs. ‘Yeah. I did a stupid thing.’ ‘What do you mean to say a “stupid thing”?’ ‘I got fat.’ ‘Oh.’ Dr Goodwynn wobbles her head, tutting. ‘This is not a thing to call “stupid”.’ ‘But I–’ ‘But would you say what you are saying, to yourself– to me? If you say you have got fat, then would you say I have?’ Matilda contemplates the question, and what she realises is: no. She wouldn’t. It would be rude. And wrong. ‘Uh… I guess not,’ she says. ‘Is that why you were looking at my tummy? You were thinking this?’ Dr Goodwynn laughs. ‘Wh– no! Of course not.’ ‘Oh, but this is okay. I will have to admit it; I have a bit of a belly too. Even mine is not so flat, you see?’ Dr Goodwynn cups her belly bump in her hands and gives it a pat. It looks tiny in proportion with the rest of her hourglass physique, but Matilda can tell there is still something slightly substantial going on. The longer she looks, the more a chord of envious admiration for the mentor’s body shape comes over her. ‘Do you know,’ Dr Goodwynn continues, ‘in some cultures, they… how do you say it… the society desires a softer body for women. In parts of India it is most certainly so. Where I come from, belly dancing is very popular. Do you think they are very skinny?’ ‘I’m… not sure. Are they?’ ‘Most of them no. Let me tell you a story about me. At home I was a belly dancer for some time, and I assure you the girls around me were most of them bigger than me. I was not born big, I was a very small girl. These ladies, they were very beautiful I remember. I was young, and I was not yet studying, so I had to…’ She pauses to find the word. ‘…dedicate myself to it. Do you think I was skinny forever?’ Matilda waits in silence for the answer. Dr Goodwynn shakes her head. ‘No, I had to put on weight. I think I gained twenty pounds – maybe more – nine kilograms in India. Was that a “stupid” thing? I do not think so. It was a very purposeful act. When I studied medicine, however, I lost this weight because I had no money. Ever since then it comes and goes. If I am not careful, I can end up with a little belly like this, because it comes back to visit.’ She laughs. ‘One time when I was younger, I returned home to visit from Australia quite ashamed to see my family because I had somehow gained back all the nine kilograms again from my belly dancing, and then a little more than that, too. Maybe I was ten or more kilograms bigger. This means about twenty or more pounds, you know. None of my clothes fit very well, you see, and it is very very hot in India – humid too – so I could not wear anything to conceal how much weight I had gained overseas. You could see quite clearly how my body had changed. Even my stomach did not fit properly things I wore– it was then too big. But do you know what my mother said to me?’ Shaking her head, Dr Goodwynn rolls the chair back to the desk and lays the papers on the end of the table. She looks up at the computer and opens her daily schedule program, clicking and typing as she speaks. ‘My mother said something to me that I agree with, and I share with you now. Bodies are not mistakes, you know. We do not do things to them, or act on them, like they are something else, something outside of us. We are our bodies, Matilda. So please, do not talk about your body like it is such a mistake. You are talking about yourself. Now, I can see you have certainly become a little bigger since we first met, and this is not something to be denied; lying does not ever lead to good things.’ A hot flush devours Matilda’s entire body as she hears the fact put so bluntly. ‘But,’ Dr Goodwynn sticks a finger up, halting Matilda’s thoughts, ‘you cannot afford to talk about yourself in such a way. Do not name yourself as a “mistake”. Instead, you should think about what you want to do, and formulate a plan. This is what I tell all my patients. I tell them all the same thing. Think about what you want, and fit a plan to that. Do not come up with a plan, and make what you want fit to that. Does it make sense?’ But what Matilda wants is to eat ten tacos, five rolls, a packet of chips and three bars of chocolate to kill the nauseating hunger that’s been killing her from the inside out. And if being porky is part of the price, then at least it would feel better than being this hungry all the time. ‘I think so,’ she says. ‘It’s just that… it’s just that I can’t afford to be this size anymore. I’ve never been big before, and it’s–’ Her tongue catches. She doesn’t want to say it’s been “bad”, or “awful”. In moments of raw honesty, she amidst to herself that the journey hasn’t been as bad as people make it out to be. She was really enjoying herself for a moment, there, living the best hedonist’s dream – only with a purpose. But that purpose has since collapsed on itself, and she needs to get back to where she was, or else any involvement she ever had with the world of football and the intricate magic of its mechanics will forever be relegated to her time viewing it on the screen while other people play it for her… ‘It’s just not right for me to keep going this way. People look at me different. And I feel different. But really most of all, I need to reverse this before I’m never allowed to set foot on a football field again. ‘Okay,’ Dr Goodwynn interjects, speaking over the top of Matilda until she calms down, ‘okay, it is okay. It’s okay. I understand completely. You need not follow the rabbit hole of negative words all the way down where they are taking you. We cannot do others’ work shaming us, to ourselves. Understand? There will always be somebody else to do that for us. It is needless. Now I understand you want to lower your weight as quickly as possible. But, Matilda, listen: you must know it is dangerous. Losing weight fast is not right. Do not push yourself to lose weight too quickly,’ Dr Goodwynn stresses with painful sincerity. ‘I tell all my patients the same thing. And I hope you shall too, if you go on to work in this field. It is that you must let it happen, as it happens.’ She makes gentle flowing motions with her hands. ‘Allow it to occur, as it occurs. Let it be its own process. You cannot make a river run faster than it already is. So be kind to yourself in the meantime. Be kind to your body. Give it what it needs, always, but give it no more than what it needs. And then, you will see the weight loss.’ Her eyes drift away a little. ‘Do you know something; back in Bombay, when I was studying there – do you know Bollywood actresses? The Bollywood film industry in India?’ Matilda nods. ‘There were Bollywood actresses who had swallowed tapeworms. Tapeworms, Matilda. They do that. I will never forget it; my teacher was practising physiotherapy at the time. He had many wealthy, wealthy clients, some of them Bollywood famous. There was one woman who wanted so badly to be as thin as Britanny Spears and all the American actresses of the year two-thousand which you saw on TV – she wanted to be thin like them, so she swallowed a tapeworm just to lose weight… Oh my god, she got very sick. Very sick. Be kind to yourself, Matilda. This is all I am saying. Not that you will swallow a tapeworm,’ she laughs, ‘just that if you want to engage with a diet plan, then you must do it healthily and kindly to yourself. One: do not fast or crash-diet,’ she instructs, listing each item on her fingers, ‘two: do not malnourish yourself, three: do not compare your progress to others, four: do not look upon other women with envy of their bodies, five: do not look at your flesh and bone with hatred, and six: love yourself. Love yourself enough to do it properly. Do all these things and you will be safe. Okay?’ Matilda nods, feeling lectured, humbled, and humiliated all at the same time. She also feels called out – because up until now, she’d been planning to leave at the end of the day and do exactly what she’s just been told not to do. . . . When she gets home, she plonks down in her bed, stares up at her ceiling, and proceeds to do precisely what she was told not to do, her smarter judgement overpowered by sick desperation. At six o’clock, her parents ask her to come to the table for dinner, but she refuses to emerge from her room, malingering like some dismal teen, not wanting to see food, nor smell food, nor taste food, preferring to keep her body hidden from the inevitable, humiliating, overbearing parental concern that she knows will fill the eyes of her mother and father if they caught even one glance of her dreadful, out of shape body. In the morning, she waits for them to leave for work with tentative, concerned goodbyes through the door, before taking one of her practice balls into her car and driving to the local park to train in secret. If she can just brush up on her skills without having to deal with resentful stares, things might prove to be just one step easier on the journey uphill against her own body. At this stage in the catastrophe, any step, even small, is better than no step at all. Hiding inside her biggest, baggiest clothes, she steps onto the poorly-mowed grass field and looks around, feeling a slice of relief that it is not busy around here. Weekdays after all are solitary affairs for most people. The only life forms in sight are two toddlers running around some play equipment with their mother watching, and a man throwing a tennis ball into the distance as his border collie thrashes after it in a blur of limbs and fur. Tucking her phone and keys into her jogging belt, Matilda drops the ball onto the ground and walks it along the grass, apprehensive. Even her activewear bra is exerting too much compressive force on her chest for her to be able to ignore it like she used to. She can feel her breasts crowning over the top of the band – she can even feel them erupt into lazy jiggling as she leans into a jog. Not two steps further, she feels the rest of the flab on her body kick into motion, bucking and jerking like jello as it wobbles on her belly, thighs, sides and ass, and even the wings of her back – all of it exploding into fatty tremors as she leans deeper into a full run. But the run doesn’t last very long. Her body feels too awkward. She’s got a slight lumber going on. Her knees thud with each of the fifty extra pounds, her stomach and thighs shuddering about – so she falls back into a sensible but brisk jog instead, using her feet to guide the ball towards the other side of the grass until she has to come to a halt all of a sudden, sucking deep lungfuls. Why is she bending over with her hands on her knees? Why can’t she regain her composure in four quick breaths? She looks up at the netless goals on the other side of the grass with an uneasy grimace that contorts the features of her soft face. She almost begins to wonder why she’s bothering to try again, if the results are simply going to crash down upon her sense of confidence like this, obliterating it under the weight of self-induced humiliation. Matilda intersects her pessimism at the last minute and stands back up, lacing her fingers behind her head and waiting for the tediously long wave of lethargy to pass through her body. When she’s finally ready, she leans into a light jog again, taking it easier this time around. Got to start from scratch. Start light, build up. No point pretending she can make her body do what it used to. When she comes close to the goal, she tries to dribble the ball a little, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. Each time she pushes her weight to the opposite side with each leg, it seems slightly harder, and she feels slower than her brain expects, one touch, two touch, back and forth inside each foot until, without predicting it, she over-hits the ball with the side of her boot and can’t land on her other leg fast enough to catch it. The ball spins just beyond the reach of her toes. She steadies herself on her feet with a shockwave through the freshly deposited blubber like a sleeve around her body, and watches the ball roll to a stop in a divot of the grass. Swearing at herself, she walks over to it and begins to dribble it again, slower this time. Less presumptuous. By the time she does a full circle and comes back around to face the goal from the left hand corner of the 18-yard box, she’s breathing heavier than she likes, the air feels dry in her lungs, and anybody else could have dribbled two full circles around her. Taking a few deep breaths, she lines herself up with the ball sideways to the goal, nudges it forward, moves after it, plants her left foot in line, and brings her kicking foot down into the ball with an over-ambitious curling swing. Her entire centre of gravity lurches, then pulls back, lifting her foot so it skims over the top of the ball as the rest of her goes twisting backwards, leg kicking up stupidly into empty air as she falls down on her forearm, the back of her thigh, and her ass, with a thud that booms through her whole body. Groaning, she rolls onto her back, temporarily stunned, and pushes herself up to look around to make sure nobody saw what just happened. The man with his dog is nowhere to be seen – only the mother with her children playing on the equipment. They don’t even seem to know she’s there. So that settles it. As if it wasn’t settled already. She’s too heavy for the simple task of a set piece kick. Textbook stuff. She can’t do it without her centre of gravity pulling her off balance. She’s grown too chubby for the basics simply in the time she spent away at the beach with Carlile, and during whatever the hell she’s let herself do afterwards. Nevertheless, she puts on a brave face, and tells herself she’ll do it right this time around. She squares herself up to kick the ball again, and then again, and yet again, trying to adjust her muscle-memory to the additional weight crowding her body. Eventually she finds a new sense of balance, but her kick seems weaker. Which means she has to strengthen her muscles again. Tomorrow she’ll go to the gym and put her legs to the weights. Then she’ll be fine. . . . At the fuel station on the route home, she fills her car at the pump, then grabs herself a pack of cheap gum at the checkout, sticking them in her mouth one after the other like an automated factory line to kill her cravings. It hardly works. Her stomach simply groans and scratches its own walls in a bowel-knotting tantrum of hunger, until finally, deep in the late hours of the night, she can tolerate the discomfort no longer. Any more and she feels she’ll rip her blankets to shreds. So not a minute later, she is standing half naked in the cloak of an almost pitch-black A.M. darkness in front of the open fridge, bathed in the holiness of its dim white light. She scoops heavy spoonfuls of leftover spaghetti carbonara and bolognese from their left-over containers into a large mixing bowl, because a standard one isn’t big enough. Even as she shuffles back to her room, she’s already spooning the food into her mouth as she walks, then shuts herself in her room, plops down in bed, and devours it all like a lump of flesh, cold. The hunger dies like a muffled scream, a storm passing into clear blue skies. Without looking, she knows her stomach is enlarged once again. She puts the mixing bowl on her bedside table so drowsily she almost knocks her phone and lamp onto the floor – then lethargy comes over her, and she’s barely lowered her head to the pillow before she loses consciousness. Then over the course of the next week, she launches herself into a diet that consists primarily of starving herself, chewing gum to trick her brain into thinking it’s eating, and ignoring Dr Goodwynn’s advice to just take it slow and steady. No; the situation calls for dire, desperate measures, immediate action, and even more immediate results. She needs to get back in the team, get training again, condition her body faster than anyone has done so in human history. Whenever Carlile is at work, she spends those solitary hours at the gym alone. She jogs on treadmills, nearly dies from over-exertion, catches her breath, brings it back to a red-cheeked and shameful jog, sweats like a tropical waterfall, does far too many reps of leg exercises in proportion to her caloric intake to be considered safe, pushes through various rounds of weights training with little attention to form, and leaves the gym premises each time more fatigued and starved than she entered it, only to stumble back to Carlile’s house, blindly grope her way to his fold-out lounge and pass out from exhaustion while he can do nothing but stand there gazing upon her sleeping corpse, wondering why, lately, she’s been sleeping more than talking. The week wears on into the weekend, and instead of taking a break, Matilda goes even harder, visiting the gym twice in the same day, sleeping in between visits, and getting angry when Carlile asks why she’s ignoring him and won’t partake in any of the meals he makes for them to share. With every second serving she leaves uneaten, he slowly resigns himself to finishing the remains, even if they’ve turned cold and sour. He comes to add a few pounds to his body, without much effort, and somehow she doesn’t even seem to have noticed. By the time the next Monday swings around, everything has converged, as sure as a river flows downhill, to an eruption of tempers. It all started with a crease in the sheet of the fold-out lounge that wouldn’t go away even though she’d kept trying to re-adjust the linen. When Carlile had to take the entire fitted sheet off, she wouldn’t move because she was too exhausted, and his voice boomed at her like some baying dog. She’d never seen him like that before. It slammed her in the throat with a fright, and she responded by retaliating in her own way, yelling obscenities at him – cold air colliding with hot air, sucking them both into a whirlwind of destructive shouting. Matilda had dressed, gotten in her car and driven home. Carlile stayed in his room. By Tuesday morning, they’d cooled off, come back together, and reconciled. Matilda had been the first one to apologise, after too many sleepless hours at night tossing and turning until she remembered Dr Goodwynn’s instruction to treat herself the way she’d treat a friend. Would she let a close friend behave like this? What would she tell them to do? In the darkness of her bedroom, all her jittery insomnia had been replaced in an instant with a sweeping flood of guilt. She’d been asking too much of herself. Pushing too hard and too far. A quick Google search had confirmed the rest for her. She’d been quite seriously doing some damage to herself. The erratic mood swings. The energy deficits. The strange cognitive impairments. Trouble sleeping. Brain fog, and a mental clarity that had been growing more and more distant. Pushing your body to extremes while crash-dieting will create ten times more problems than it will fix. ‘All that, and for what?’ she laments over her uneaten plate of bacon and eggs as they sit awkwardly in his room. The stale air of recent apology hangs between them. ‘Seven pounds? I checked my weight last night when I got home. I’ve lost seven pounds. That’s all. That’s it. That’s all I get. I’ve been feeling like absolute shit, for weeks now, like I’ve been dying in slow motion– and after all that? I’ve lost barely seven pounds? I don’t even feel that much smaller.’ Carlile can only gaze at her awkwardly with abject sympathy. What words can he possibly offer her that won’t just fill the air with useless noise? ‘I needed this to be way faster. I’ve got to go to training today. What am I gonna do? It’s all gone too far. Gone on for too long. The girls keep asking me where I am. Fuck! Suri thought something happened to me! Can you believe that? Knowing her she probably thought I died in a car accident…’ Matilda presses the sides of her skull in her hands like she’s trying to squash a melon. ‘I’m going to turn up, today. I’m going to turn up, and they’re all going to look at me like I’m someone else.’ She puts her hands on her hips, points her face at the ceiling and blows air through her teeth. ‘Okay. So that’s it. Too bad for me. I don’t have a choice anymore. I have to go. I’ll just have to go and face it. I’ll have to keep going to the gym, keep dieting– but not starving though. Not anymore. I can’t do that anymore. And I’m sorry.’ She turns to face him, her eyes drawn low with sorrow. ‘I’m so sorry, Carl. Look, I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing… But it just made me all screwed up in the head. I couldn’t stay awake. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t function right. So I’m not doing it again. I truly am sorry. But I still have to get fit. So, one way or another, I’m doing that.’ Carlile takes a steady breath. ‘Okay. But can… can you just eat something on the way out, at least? You can't go to training without energy. You need it.’ She grinds her teeth, slowly capitulating. ‘Okay. Fine. But just a piece of fruit or something. You can have the rest of my eggs.’ . . . Her drive to the club grounds is tense, drawn-out, and is fraught with drivers in their cars who seem to be making even more erratic decisions than usual. Like a child facing up to a parent for stealing their credit card, she draws a deep breath into her lungs and grips the wheel with tense knuckles as she obsessively ruminates over what to say once she arrives at the club. She’ll apologise, first. Actually, she’ll say nothing. No, she’ll apologise. She'll go straight to Margery, sit in her office, and apologise. No she won’t. She’ll speak her mind. No, she’ll apologise. Say sorry for being slack, for getting so goddamn chubby, for not being a team player, for wasting her opportunities. Maybe she can put it all down to bad mental health. No she can’t. But yes she can. Maybe she can lie. She shouldn’t – she’s already lied. Or maybe she can, if it’s a small lie. Or believable. Plausible is all you need. The idea is simple. She’s lost a family member and fell into a bout of depression. She was keeping it a secret. Couldn’t tell anyone. She gained a bunch of weight because she was depressed, but she’s fixing it now. She’s trying. Then she’ll promise she's on the fast track to getting fit again. No, she can’t make promises she doesn’t know she can keep. Actually no, yes, she’ll promise. That’ll make them like her again. She’ll promise she has it all planned out, and then she can ask to be given a second chance. A second chance to return to fitness and get back in the team. Or is it a third chance? Suddenly the tail lights of the car in front of her flash red, growing into her field of vision. Almost ** on a lurch in her heart, she stomps on the brakes, heaving the car to a hard stop at an intersection, the tires giving a small scream on the bitumen in a moment’s time before rear-ending the car in front of her. The continuing momentum of the sudden halt throws her forward against the locked seatbelt, and her duffel bag is sent rolling off the passenger seat and onto the floor. She can feel her heart punching her chest. She sits still in a moment of silent shock, then puts the car in neutral and rips up the handbrake. Unease drenches her. She looks around. The traffic lights are red. Nobody is going anywhere, currently. No further harm. She’s safe now. Chasing her breath for a few moments, Matilda looks across the centre console, sees her duffel bag thrown upside down at a haphazard angle on the floor. She leans across the handbrake, reaching over, down to the floor – and thus straining to bend at the waist, causes her belly to roll into her lap diagonally. Unable to fit its contents any longer, her shirt opens up to let a chunk of her lower stomach escape, the thickened fat of it squashing into itself until it cannot compress any tighter, forming in a roll as thick as her calf used to be. With a curled-lipped grunt to make the rest of the distance, her fingers grope for the handle, catch it, and then she can pull the bag upright, dragging it up onto the seat. Then, keeping one eye on the traffic, she turns to grab the bag with both hands and turns it to lay straight on the seat. She sits herself uptight once more and readjusts herself. Finally, fluttering air through her lips, she returns her hands to the steering wheel, and for the next minute, waits in careful silence for the traffic lights to turn green. It isn’t until she’s driving again that she feels the seatbelt scratching away at her skin in synchronisation with the slightest irregularity of the unrepaired bitumen road. Keeping her eyes fixed ahead, she brings one hand down to pull the seatbelt away from her body… only to be met by the smooth flesh of her belly against the back of her thumb, her fingertips sinking into tender flesh under the seatbelt. It is a curious kind of disappointment she feels, peeking down to see more fat than she would like. It hits her in the diaphragm so squarely that it causes her to wonder if it was ever a good idea to turn up for today’s training session at all. She still looks too chubby. But maybe it’s an illusion of her emotional eye, exaggerating appearances, contorting proportions out of cynicism and self-loathing. The scales did say she’s lost seven pounds, after all. Maybe she should believe what they say. But then why this? Too much flesh. Too much soft curvature. Trying her best to ignore the sloshy quivering of her belly’s jelly motions, her paunch one blubbery unit nodding up and down at every hitch in the road, she pulls her top down – all the way down, as far as the fabric will concievably stretch. Ten minutes later she steers into the premises of the club and finds a park along the far end of the lot. Turning the engine off, she looks at the dashboard clock. Five minutes overdue. Knowing she’s already late, she tells herself that being late is better than being absent – even if Margery’s face is going to swell tomato-red at the sight of her. And with that, she pulls the keys out of the ignition and begins to exit the vehicle. But all she can do is sit there. She’s stuck, staring blank as a doll past the windshield. Through the gap between two silver cars, she can see the flat green expanse of the field. It’s the same one she’s laid eyes on for the previous seven years of her life. In the distance she can see Mandy and Grace are already out there, passing to one another. Then Caitlin comes into view, doing keepie-uppies by herself. Matilda finds herself grinning. Looks like Caitlin has come back. She must have endured whatever detention Margery put her through, whatever lesson in obedience, to be back already. Plus, that means Margery had lied about Caitlin “quitting”. She always knew Caitlin would never “quit”. She’d been there, waiting, all along. Suddenly Matilda’s heart fizzes with anxiety like carbonated water. Then her instincts kick in, blowing her train of thought aside like a smash at an intersection, and she steps out of her car, swollen with inner bravery. Retrieving her duffel bag from the passenger seat, she slams the door shut with exasperated determination, locks her car, and begins striding for the doors. Inside the facility, she can already hear the voices of those very teammates she's left neglected for months, now. Even now they fade as they make their way out of the change rooms and onto the field. The lights are off in the hallway towards the offices. Curious, she sneaks down to the end of the administration block, down the passageways, and peeks into the manager's office. But it’s dark inside. Margery isn’t there. Nobody is around at all. Coming back out into the central foyer, she looks toward the opposite end, down the corridor leading to the maintenance rooms, the storage closets, the restrooms, and the rear fire exit. She could do just that: exit. Presumably right this very moment. Nobody would know. Cut her losses, leave this whole rotten thing behind her, never come back. Course-correct the path of her life in the direction of something better than the humiliation and fat-shaming she is going to endure the moment any of the coaches realise she’s here. But the thought of leaving her teammates behind, abandoning them to the eternal warfare of Margery’s childish rage rakes coals of guilt across her heart. Taking a frustrated breath, she rubs her face and turns to face the locker rooms. Through the doorway, she can see the white tiled floors, their lockers painted in violet and mauve, some of the older ones still flakey-white with the dull zinc showing through, all under the same caustic cold LED illumination with daylight coming morosely through the window slats along the tops of the walls. Maybe one day this club will get new lighting installed. Maybe one day they will have the money. If they do well and make a name for themselves. Get promoted. Will she be around to see that? She knows she wants to be. But can she, is the real question. She knows the club won’t be going anywhere except in confused, backwards zig-zags that arrive nowhere but wherever they started so long as Margery keeps driving the girls into fulfilling her anachronistic ideologies seeded from a place of blind shame and ingrained self-hatred. Shrivelling with a sudden influx of emotion, Matilda remembers that one night, months ago, when she’d shared dinner with Carlile’s family, and it turned out that his uncle… what was his name? Trevor… It turned out he knew Margery when he was a youth, and as the strange contortions of life would have it, Margery’s presence in this youthful club is one of vindictiveness from having been “too pudgy” in her own youth. Recollecting the details for the hundredth time, Matilda’s face turns sour. It’s not her fault Margery had been a child prodigy-turned-tragedy, the old story of talent gone rotten and neglected because of something as ordinary as her physical appearance. Passionate talent, when neglected and with nowhere else to go, turns inwards and eats away at itself with writhing discontent until nothing is left but the cold, psychopathic drive of spite and resentment for fate destroyed, opportunity lost. The fact that Margery’s entire, pathetic personality, childish to the point of two-dimensionality, is built upon the desire to prove her worth to her inner child feels gruesome to Matilda. But at the same time it forces a twinge of sadness in her heart, right in a little spot where she doesn’t want it. The sadness disgusts her, inflames her fury with Margery’s blind hypocrisy – that a woman who was once no worse than a little pudgy is now no less than a turgid hypocrite of a false leader. Matilda straightens her back, inhales long and deep until the fibres of her lungs can take no more before bursting, then releases it, slow and steady. Then, centering her mind, she walks into the change rooms. The space feels empty, and there’s a vague echo that returns to her from the tiled walls. She hurries down the middle of the room, comes around a line of lockers, and screeches to a startled halt. . . .

Two days later, a brilliantly blue-skied and sunny Tuesday descends upon the city, bringing nothing worse than a breeze to ruffle the trees. In a few hours from now, Matilda will have to return to the club grounds for the first training session after the fortnight’s break. Until then, she hasn’t been motivated to do much more in the last couple of days than spend all the time she can with her boyfriend, eating whatever he cooks, and during the hours he’s at work, sitting around filling her mouth with snacks as she wastes time on Football Manager on his laptop, tries unsuccessfully to play FIFA on the xbox, or loses herself scrolling through Instagram, getting up only to move from the futon to the couch to the bed and back to the futon again, all the while acting as if nobody lives in the upstairs section of the house. Yesterday she’d visited Harriette and stayed most of the day watching movies, with caramel popcorn and a more than “a few” blocks of chocolate in their hands before heading back to Carlile’s for dinner, where she’d gone to bed late at night feeling bloated, and finally fallen asleep rubbing her hand in tiny circles around her boyfriend’s overloaded stomach. As of this morning, on a Friday, Carlile is minding his own business, playing games to relax on the futon for the last hour before his shift, when his leisure is interrupted. A shrill and desperate, ‘Fuck!’ erupts from the main partition of his room. Panic takes over his limbs. Rolling off the futon, he stumbles up towards the doorway and peeks around the corner. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks. When he sees his girlfriend, a heavy gulp of air escapes his lungs. The first thing he notices is the lower half of her belly, hanging out of her purple team shirt, which is stretched across the parabola of her stomach. Even as he watches, it surrenders a little more to the size of her paunch and slips up to expose her darkened navel. The shirt has become stuck to her form – beneath the fabric’s manifold creases, the exact shape of her body is laid visible, and it’s all possibly the most arousing thing he has ever seen. She sits on the edge of his bed, strapped in panties that are trying to cut her hips in two, leaving pale flesh to ooze out like butter between her inner thighs and her softening mons pubis. It’s not just her stomach’s expanding size that is stopping the shirt from reaching the bottom of her torso. It’s also her breasts. She’s only ever had moderate B cups with no drastic changes in their size until now. As if overnight, her boobs have grown rounder than ever. They look plump and weighty enough for him to fill each of his hands, and her shoulders and upper arms looked so filling out, it’s as if they’ve played catch-up with the rest of her and begun testing the capacity of her shirt’s sleeves. Anxious with shock, she clutches the hem of her shirt and pulls down on it, her knuckles pressing the front of her belly bulge down with it, so that when she lets go, its natural spring sends it back up and down again in a humiliating bounce, smaller jiggles blinking along the exposed blubber of her waist and thighs. She tries again, sucking her gut up into her chest to pull her shirt all the way down. She manages to get it to the bottom of her belly, and it holds, barely, looking stretched as a stocking... but then she releases her stomach back to its natural size, resulting in the fabric sliding right back up with a stubborn matter of factness. ‘I don’t fit in my shirt!’ Matilda freaks. Carlile’s mouth is dry as a bone wrapped in cotton. ‘I… I can see that.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I mean that I can see that.’ Blank panic glazes her eyes over, then says again like a broken record, ‘I can’t fit in my shirt. Look!’ ‘Yes. I can see that,’ he says, powerless to unlock his eyes from the half-naked, gorgeously blubbery bulge of her belly. She looks at him like he didn’t get the memo. ‘I got fatter, Carl?’ Something cruel comes over him. ‘Are you telling me you didn’t notice?’ ‘What? Don’t tell me that,’ she says in a wilting voice. ‘I need you to hurry and take these pounds off me. We need to swap already. Jesus christ, I thought I wasn’t going to get any fatter than I already was!’ ‘It can’t be that much,’ he tries to placate her. Unfigurable, analytic confusion floods her face. He watches in passionate awe as she cranes her neck to peer down the front of her figure, a build up of flesh materialising between her chin and neck. Touching her body with both hands, she pinches her flesh to create a roll in the side of her fleshy ribcage, then fondles it sideways to the roll continues around to the forefront of her belly, where the fat above her belly button refuses to fill her thumb and forefinger by any less than a thickness of two inches – she pauses there to give it a hard squeeze, then moves around to the opposite ribcage, feeling and kneading herself like a cat. She sweeps her hand down to her hip and digs in with her thumb. It sinks out of sight. ‘Fuck me,’ she breathes in sickened awe. ‘How much?’ he croaks. ‘How much what?’ she asks in frustrated distraction, pinching different parts of herself, twisting them up and down to investigate which areas are soft and which are firm. He sits breathlessly down on the arm of the couch. ‘How many pounds?’ She gives the top of her stomach a ginger smack where it sticks out with firm bulge, and they both watch it emit shimmering outwards vibrations which quickly evolve into looser jiggles, lower down, as they exit via the cushion of fat below the line of her navel – an area which looks like it could begin to droop after ten meals or so. And is that a stretchmark to the left? He thinks he can spot two faint pink lines on the right side of her belly. ‘I don’t know how much,’ she says. ‘I kind of don’t want to.’ She looks up and stares at the wall with darkness in her eyes. ‘But I should check. Well I want to check – but I also don’t. I feel confused. I thought it was going to be okay.’ ‘Let’s check.’ ‘No. I’ll go,’ she commands. ‘You stay right there.’ Carlile scrunches his lips in surrender and remains sitting where he is while Matilda tramps out the room, down the short corridor and into the laundry. With his hands on his legs, he massages his knees as he listens to the sounds – the linen cupboard opening, the scale sliding out, the clacking on the tiles, then a prolonged measure of silence. When he hears nothing, he gets up and makes his way to the laundry, looking in from outside the door. Matilda stands there looking down at her feet, hands linked over the back of her head in a classic posture of disbelieving shock. The softness beneath her chin has bunched in a way that looks so sweet, it makes Carlile want to go off right now and cook her every meal in the whole wide world so she never has to endure the pain of hunger for as long as she lives. She steps off the scale, then steps back on. Her eyes expand. ‘One hundred and eighty seven?!’ she cries. ‘How? How? How did I get ten pounds fatter just like that? What the fuck is going on!’ Kicking the scale away with the back of her heel, she brushes past him and flies back into his room. He follows her in. She’s pacing back and forth, wringing her hands, periodically attempting to tuck her shirt over her jutting paunch, but failing against the persistent bounce of its softness. By the time she gives up, it’s ridden up on top of her lovehandles, too. ‘It’s not so bad. I’ll just cook less–’ he starts to say, but she cuts him off. ‘Look!’ she shrieks through clenched teeth, furiously pointing with her hands at the grinning crescent of fat hanging out from the hem of her shirt. ‘I only weighed a hundred and seventy-five pounds before the trip. I swear to god. I weighed myself before we went– I know I did.’ ‘What do you weigh now?’ ‘I just told you, you dingus. I’m a hundred and eighty-seven pounds, and I don’t even know if that was accurate!’ ‘That’s…’ his arousal completes the math for him. ‘What… twelve pounds?’ ‘No shit, Carl.’ She drops her backside down on the bed, springs buoying her back up with a lazy bounce. The front of her shirt expands as it fills up with the shape of her growing gut, then slips up an inch to expose a band of fat. ‘Twelve pounds? How could that happen in a week? Is that even possible?’ ‘Maybe. But it could be water-weight.’ ‘Bullshit.’ ‘No. No bullshit. I’m serious. Water-weight is real.’ She shoots a glare at him. ‘But this didn’t happen before, did it? See this?’ she retorts – and to make her point, grips the sides of her belly and gives it a shake, every swathe of the package of blubber that is her stomach jiggling in different ways and to various degrees. Then she lifts an arm to give the developing thickness surrounding her upper arm a slap, before making the spread-out meat of her thighs wobble in her hands. By now, his cock is so stiff that it’s pressing into the fly of his pants and causing him little bouts of pain. He stutters, ‘I can, I can see that. But, what I mean is…’ He clears his throat and forces himself to look up into her severe, big hazel eyes. ‘I’m serious about water weight. Subtract two pounds any time you weigh in after a period of binge eating.’ ‘I haven’t been bingeing,’ Matilda scoffs. Carlile boggles his eyes and nearly bursts out laughing. ‘What?’ ‘I’m serious. I’ve been eating like normal.’ ‘What’s normal?’ ‘Like…’ Her eyes search around the room desperately. ‘I mean, I just eat what you make for me. Three meals a day. Like normal.’ ‘Oh, okay, sure – if “normal” is eating three days a meal, plus snacking all the time in between?’ Her eyes go blank on him. He groans, suddenly self-conscious for no good reason. ‘Look. I’m not… I’m not throwing stones… If “normal” is eating like we are, and nibbling all the time as well, then I’m guilty of it, too.’ At those last five words, he notices her eyelids droop, her vision becoming smoky. With instinctive awareness, Carlile knows he’s hit a button – and so, with a stuttering blink, he decides to push it some more. ‘You make me eat as much as you do. Don’t you?’ Her mouth peels open into a small “o”, and she slowly tilts her head to one side, a lock of hair sliding over one smooth cheek. ‘What do you mean?’ she asks in a low, curious voice, growing eager for more. ‘Everything I cook, you make sure I eat with you.’ She puts her hands on the bed to either side of her and begins to lean back, shoulders rising. Her breasts slope down towards her belly, thrust out into the air. ‘Yeah,’ she says in a breath. ‘I do, don’t I…’ ‘And my parents are never home. That’s why I get to keep using the kitchen like it’s mine.’ ‘Uh-huh…?’ ‘And I make a lot, don’t I?’ ‘You do.’ ‘And whatever you eat, I eat too.’ Matilda sucks a shaky breath into her lungs, boobs pushing further out as her nipples suddenly show up tall and firm against the fabric of her too-small team shirt. ‘And?’ ‘And if you’ve been eating a lot, then I’ve been eating a lot, as well.’ Her gulp is audible. ‘Do you think it’s happened to me, too?’ Stepping back to make his body fully visible to her, he watches her eyes journey down his body like a starved animal, and for some reason, the thrill he feels in his warming groin makes him like objectification of him in her eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ she drawls, as if **. ‘I can’t see. Can you… can you lift your shirt up?’ ‘I’m in a tank top, though. You can’t tell?’ ‘Take it off.’ The demand opens a balloon of warmth in his chest. Having begun to thoughtlessly move his fingers towards the bottom of his top, a thought finds him, and he feels a great emotional blockage freeze his entire body in an instant. He realises that he doesn’t know the answer to the question. Has he? What if he has? Does he look any different? What if he hasn’t noticed? That would be both embarrassing and ironic. Then he catches the look of uncontrollable desire on his girlfriend’s face, and suddenly all doubt, all fear of humiliating possibilities, real or unreal, disappear like a gloom with the sun returning from behind a cloud… and the gravity of the raw hunger in her stare… it’s all too much. Before he can stop for second and third thoughts, he finds himself undressing for her. He will remove his shirt and show her the most confusingly vulnerable part of his entire body. It can’t be that bad. His metabolism is likely faster than hers, anyway. He watches her face go from pale, to red, and back to pale again, and flushed again, as her breathing intensifies, her bright brown eyes wide and utterly locked on him, her nails slowly digging into the bedsheets. His fingers touch the hem of his shirt, and he pauses. She urges, with a weak, impatient voice, ‘Please hurry.’ This time, when he crosses his wrists and grabs the bottom of the shirt, he is keenly aware of the usually mundane, daily activity of the fabric sliding up from under his belly– under his belly…? He notices the fabric drag on the surface of his skin, and as he pulls it all the way up past his chest, his awareness is brought to his stomach, for no discernible reason. With a stretch of his arms over his head, he pulls the top off, shrugs it off his head, then shakes his hair down, and plants his hands on his hips only to discover they feel different. He can feel his chest stutter in that moment, the miss-stepped heart beat of thrilled energy surging into him with explosive power. He looks into Matilda’s face. Her lips are gawking a little. He looks down at himself. Well. That serves him right. Beneath his chest, he sees bare flesh slope away at a downwards angle before disappearing under its horizon, which has at some point turned into a noticeably distended gut. Face flushing, eyes bulging with humiliated, inflamed arousal, he begins to cover himself with the shirt, but stops halfway through, and simply stares down at himself. Is he just bloated? He sucks in, but the familiar discomfort of being stuffed does not arrive. He cranes to look at it more from the side, and realises just how smooth its teardrop contour is. The only blemishes on it are the old stretch marks reawakened like scars. Considering its protruding character, it could be quite a firm unit. But when he touches it, he is proven wrong – it is just a layer of soft, gently wobbling fat, with a firm sphericality beneath the surface where his abdominal wall bends out to its slight fullness. ‘No way,’ he murmurs in a sluggish, disbelieving voice, feeling the supple mass squish and bend between his fingers as he slowly grabs different sections of his waist, and he remembers, recalls past sensations, all of it coming back in a surge of teenage history. The weight of his teen years, shrunken from its former heft, has poked back out for a visit, and once again he is dealing with a round little paunch sticking from his midsection. Under his navel is where most of it sits, but as he traces his palm up over his navel, he discovers the cushion of fat spreads up the front of his stomach, bestowing upon it its particular dome-like appearance. Meanwhile, Matilda is slap-faced and speechless, drool pooling under her tongue. Whenever his venturing fingers, sliding across his stomach, catch microscopically here and there on his skin, the rebound sends miniscule little bounces through his belly’s blubber – almost exactly the same way Matilda’s does when she gently touches herself. Dormant stretch marks are there, reddened by re-awakening like faint stripes down the sides of his stomach. She rises from the edge of the bed and moves towards him, head tilted in hypnotised fascination, and lets her fingernails graze the pink lines, tracing them upwards. Her fingers create little sunken depressions in the spongy resistance offered by the pudge encircling his belly button, and with a back-arching inhalation of breath into her lungs, she spreads both hands upon his stomach and slides them around the sides of his waist, wrapping his entire body up in her arms and pulling him into her. Their warmths interlock. They are chest to chest, now, stomachs pressing together like water bags. Their faces and mouths come close, sharing the heat of desperate breath. He moves his hand up her shirt, no room left inside, and feels up over her cushioned belly, up to her soft chest, exuding heat, and turns his fingers to cup one breast. Its weighty flesh nestles into his grip, and his other hand reaches between her legs to feel her groin, the soft density of her enlarged belly resting against his forearm. She hooks her fingers down the front of his boxers and pushes her hand lower, her fingertips finding his cock and wrapping around its thickened length. As she strokes back and forth, little currents of pleasure start to pulse through him, and she can sense it intensifying like a song. She tightens her grip, feels his pelvic floor tighten in response. Having found the method, she keeps going, and slides her other hand up his shirt to grab handfuls of flesh in her fingers, her soul melting into him when she feels his hand squeeze her breast. Their tongues meet and slide over each other. They kiss, and then kiss again, deeply, stumbling automatically in the direction of the bed. Matilda unlocks her mouth from his, and with a panting gasp, lips rashed red from passion, glares at the door. He follows her line of sight before disengaging ever so briefly to shut it, very quietly, and make sure it’s locked – then he returns and gives her a gentle push on the sternum. She allows herself to fall backward, sinking into the mattress. He follows, sliding along her body to straddle her. Then he leans on his elbows, one on each side of her head, and lowers his head to meet hers. Their mouths come together again, and they become a closed circuit linked by the conduits of their entwined mouths and genitals, swollen with need. She brings her knees up, presses her thighs into his buttocks. They don’t feel very soft yet, but she knows they will be. Meal by meal, bit by bit, she’ll make him grow. ‘I’m going to make you so fat,’ she exhales. His hands grab her scalp and dig into her hair. Groping blindly for his boxers, she says it again, between kisses, ‘I’m going to make you – so – so fat…’ She stretches the elastic of his boxers over his cock and lets it leap out, feeling it thud against the inside of her hip with a deadweight knock. She grabs him with deep lust, letting him throb in her hand as she snarls between each kiss, ‘When I’m done – done with you – I won’t be able to – to wrap my arms around you anymore.’ His cock thickens instantly, and if she didn’t know him any better, she would have thought he was about to come. He drops his head beside her ear, weak, and pants heavily, his body losing strength as he sinks into her gravity. She murmurs, ‘You liked that, didn’t you?’, fractionally surprised at how dirty she sounds. ‘Little fatty,’ she says, pulling violently on his cock. ‘You can’t trick me.’ With his torso feeling inflamed with such unbearable arousal that he feels like he could explode, Carlile grabs Matilda’s arm and squeezes its flesh. Then, in a surge of aggression, he pushes himself upright into a straddle, sitting on her pelvis, and claws at her training shirt, its tight purple folds resisting at first. He hooks his fingers underneath and forces it up over her breasts, her belly and tits jiggling with every pull and tug. As she lifts her arms to accommodate, he has to reach around to lift her back off the shirt, so she leans up on her elbows, belly touching her thighs, and finishes the job for him. Carefully, she throws the shirt aside, feeling the layer of fat on her stomach slosh side to side, and she tries her best to ignore the conflicted emotions which the only symbol of her legacy are stirring up in her – the shirt – cast now to one side like some discarded rag in a heap. Resetting her state of mind, she lies on her back and looks up into her boyfriend’s intensifying downwards glare. Feeling snide, she fills her diaphragm with air, juts her belly up at him in a prominent mound by arching her back, and gives it an inviting whack. Carlile’s soul nearly leaves his eyes as a wave of chubby wobbling plays out across the hill of her belly. ‘It’s going away soon,’ she says. ‘So enjoy it while you can.’ Blood rushing into his head, Carlile spreads both hands and grabs each side of her stomach, fingertips sinking into the layer of fat along her flanks, and makes every last inch of it shake. Her belly sloshes up and down, and her enlarged nipples shake in circles where they slope away from her chest. Kneading her stomach like a kitten, left, then right, he places both hands either side of her belly and brings them together, squashing her, captivated by the way it all gathers into a engorged package of smooth, fluffy fat, simultaneously deepening and closing her belly button inside twin rolls of creamy blubber. When she reaches around his forearms to lace her fingers around his cock, his pelvic base seems to inflate, and he feels he almost has to come on the spot. With a desperate, mush-brained gasp, he lets go of her belly – and instantly feels the absence of its sensual, soft warmth. It’s as if the air, empty of content, is cold against his palms. He pushes her hand off his cock with a look that lets her know she’s brought him too close, and slides back until he’s kneeling above her legs, and looks at her knees instead. They lack the definition they once possessed in this light. Matilda watches him grab the insides of her thighs with a hungry squeeze of their watery flesh – and then she allows him to push her thighs open. He lifts his body to climb over her legs as they stretch out, then crawls forward so he can run the tips of his fingers from the bottom of her lips up to the top, where he feels her clitoris sitting proud and helplessly swollen. Her nerve endings explode into a frenzy at the sensation of his fingertips sailing across the moisture coating her lips, and she almost grabs his wrist to shove his entire hand inside her. She feels open, ready – it’s getting desperate. She feels her soul shaking inside her body. Thinking ahead, she reaches to the left for his pillow, where an emergency condom is stashed inside the case. Her arm contorts with pleasure as she feels Carlile’s fingers swirl around the opening of her vagina, then slip inside, throwing her off balance. She rolls her eyes with a shivering moan, then continues to grope and grasp until at last her fingers brush the edge of the pillow, and she clutches it, just managing to drag it closer before his fingertips stroke the ceiling of her vagina. Electric fire fans throughout her. A lungful of air explodes from her loose lips. She coils around the sensation, one knee lightning involuntarily and her upper back arching like a bridge. As the wave dies down, she swallows saliva and slips her hand further into the pillow case, wiggling her fingers around until they detect the corner of plastic packaging – but he’s still stroking inside her – and a tremendous surge of pleasure expands within her, bringing with it a quiet, weak yelp from the back of her mouth as she almost chokes. Fighting against her own body, she hooks the small square packet into her grip and pulls it out into the open, lifts it above her eyes, and tears it open at the corner. Just then, she feels his fingers press into the roof of her vagina before rotating to the side, then all the way to the bottom, where he caresses the floor of her vagina with slow, firm strokes that make her mind spin like a washing machine and provoke her spine into another back-arching swell of sensation for several seconds that go for eternity – until finally it ebbs away, and she is left in sporadic convulsions of aftershock, snatching small gasps for air. Allowing him to continue tracing lines inside her, she takes the condom out and throws the packet aside, lifting herself up in an abdominal crunch that’s not as simple as she remembers it being, and reaches for his mouth with her lips, taking his warm cock in her other hand. Once he spots the condom, he gently withdraws his fingers from inside, the abruptly wet friction unleashing a shock through her body. She makes an unintended whimper. He tries to fit the condom onto himself, but she won’t stop getting in the way, fumbling with the slippery latex and confusing his fingers, overzealous with her own desire, eyes plastered to his throbbingly ready cock. She keeps making mindless, hungry attempts to grab his cock, and he keeps batting her hands away, again and again, so he can wrestle the condom on. At some point, she becomes lucid and helps him, holding the protection in place so he can use both hands to unfold it down his rock hard length – but she gets excited and pushes it down all the way for him. Lifting her eyes a little, she sees his stomach, sees its softness, sees how it has grown from the excess calories she’s been making him eat. While he makes final adjustments, she cups the gently hanging curve of his paunch, lets the heft of it fill her grip. It makes her feel like the palms of her hands are melting into his body’s warm skin. His softened core radiates heat, travelling down her arms and into her spine. She makes a sound halfway between a moan and animalistic grunt. Her eyes roll up into her skull as she throws her head back. ‘Fuck me,’ she grumbles, bathing in pleasure. ‘Please fuck me. Fuck me. Just fuck me.’ But he needs no instructing. He raises one leg past her hip and follows her leading hand that guides his cock towards her wet lips – and as her lips, slick with lubrication, open up to consume his length, she pulls him all the way inside, unable to bear it any longer, exalting with wide-eyed relief as his girth opens her up from within. He grabs her shoulders, lowering his weight into her, pins her down, his core straining with pleasure as their bodies press into one another, enveloping pliant contours of skin into each other’s warm softness. . . . When she wakes up, it is late in the afternoon, with flushed cheeks and her mind clouded by the fog of a post-sex haze so thick she almost can’t recall her name. Her skin feels clammy, and she knows they’ll need to shower. Probably together. Carlile is still unconscious. She decides to wait for him to wake up. Working her stiff jaw and straightening her legs out in a stretch, she becomes aware of a soreness in her groin that comes only from long and repeated rounds of pounding sex. Further up, her stomach feels overladen with indigestion. Comatose snores come from Carlile’s open mouth beside her, and the empty packets of potato chips around them bring upon her a slow recollection of how many snacks they’d eaten while laying in each other’s embrace of after-care, before falling into a mid-day slumber. She spends a few minutes blinking at the ceiling and its dark wooden rafters before rolling her head around in search of her phone. It’s under the furthest pillow. Stretching out to grab it, she lifts it up to her face. Five messages and three missed calls. All from her team. Her heart palpitates with recollection, realisation, horror, and regret. ‘Oh no,’ she mouths. ‘Fff-uck’. Her upper lip peels back with worry. Everybody is asking where she is, why she isn’t there, is she okay?, etc. Unable to cope with the onslaught of emotion in the present moment, she flings her phone aside with her eyes stunned wide. Then, with snail-like caution, she shifts to the edge of the bed so she doesn’t disturb the sleeping Carlile. As she leans forward to stand up as slow as a sloth, her stomach appears to expand on the spot, a shock of fat wobbling freely as she stumbles on stiff legs over to Carlile’s bag, where she throws on one of his black tank tops over her bare skin. She feels the cotton slide harshly over her nipples, then realises with a sharp rebound of fabric against her body that not even Carlile’s tank tops are very loose on her body anymore. Okay, then. Today is the day she needs to start starving herself skinny again. Their bags are still only half unpacked from their trip, partly due to laziness, and partly because they’ve wanted to prolong and draw out the feeling of vacation. In order to keep her mind from ruminating into a spiral about dieting, she unpacks the rest of Carlile’s belongings for him, and puts them away in their respective drawers and spaces one by one, as slowly and deliberately as she can manage to waste time. Not long after, Carlile stirs awake, and the first thing he sees is Matilda hanging a shirt up in the closet. She turns to bend down and grab another, her belly compressing, then rolling over itself against her thighs, and in a glance, she feels him watching her through his small, sleepy eyes. ‘I missed training,’ she says without looking, turning aside to fold the shirt, hang it up, and begin sorting through his underwear. ‘Again.’ His face drops as he blinks away the bleariness in his eyes. ‘Shit,’ he croaks, perceiving guilt in his heart through the sleepiness. ‘Yeah. Shit.’ An interlude of uncertain silence hangs between them. He clears his throat and props himself up on an elbow. ‘What are you gonna do about it?’ ‘What are they going to do about it,’ she corrects him. He sniffs, waiting for her to answer her own question. ‘Fuck,’ she exhales, shaking her head in self-dismay. ‘I’ve got to go, next time. This is going too far. I’m fatter than I ever planned on getting. Every part of me moves. Everything jiggles. It’s getting to the point where I can’t even walk around your room without feeling my body move.’ She flicks a pair of his jeans open and her belly bounces, shaking the hem of the tank top so it slips up. Matilda’s eyes goggle. ‘See that?’ she bends a finger angrily at her middle. ‘Did you see that?’ Carlile sucks air through his teeth and turns his eyes slowly towards the ceiling. ‘Well… thing is…’ ‘Thing is what,’ showing signs of impatience. He cocks his eyebrows. ‘You’re not the only one.’ ‘Thanks– wait…’ She narrows her eyes, then tuts with a scowl, and turns aside to continue folding his things. ‘I can’t even tell you you’re wrong,’ she says, with injury in her voice. ‘And that’s what sucks. I’m trying to distract myself, aren’t I? I’m trying not to think about how fat I’ve become, and yet here I am, I missed training, and I know this time. I just feel it in my bones, you know? I think it’s the end. This has to be. It has to stop. Or things are going to get bad.’ ‘Okay, but you’re not that fat.’ ‘But I am.’ Carlile rubs his eyes and pushes himself up so he’s sitting against the head of the bed, casting a sceptical glare up at the corner of the room while he formulates what to say. ‘At least,’ she adds, ‘compared to you.’ ‘Well you better get to feeding me soon, or that isn’t about to change.’ Encountering a speed-hump of lust, Matilda just rolls her eyes, even as her face goes visibly red with embarrassed arousal. . . . Thing is: Margery had never contacted her directly. It was her teammates who made sure she knew about it… About how furious the boss is… In fact, according to Talina, Margery is one step away from dishing out an expulsion notice aimed more or less straight at her. Upon returning to her own house, the sky has begun to turn a mellow shade of pink by the time she pulls into the driveway behind her parents’ car. Stepping out, she feels abnormally aware of her clothes, and holds her duffel bag in front of her body like a nervous teenager as she enters in through the front door to greet her parents, making sure to avoid physical contact with them. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just real tired,’ she lies in an apologetic hurry, shuffling away towards her room. ‘It was a long trip, you know– we only got back today. I’ll say hi properly after I’ve had a nap.’ She can feel the eyes of her parents following her, probably with concern, as she slips around the corner of the hallway, enters her room, and shuts the door quietly behind her. Having lied to them, she has to wait for a small nap’s worth of time to pass. About thirty minutes later, she changes into the baggiest clothes she owns, and emerges from her bedroom to have dinner at the table. But it’s all performance. She can hardly be present in the moment as she sits with her family, catching up, pretending to speak, while all she can think about is how everything in her life is becoming urgent. If she doesn’t do something soon, the whole edifice of her life is going to come crashing down in pieces. . . . c h a p t e r s e v e n : “touching the limits” ‘You look very doughy in the light, like that,’ she hums. Carlile’s head turns towards her, but his eyes stay fixed on the projector screen, his thumbs working the Xbox controller as he gives a distracted, ‘Huh?’ With the day’s heat cooking the poorly insulated partition of the house’s lower level, he’s opted to go shirtless, which is a rare decision for him, but a win for Matilda, who hangs with her arms over the back of the foldout lounge, eyes are fixated on the swell of stomach pudge located between his shorts and his bare chest. The early stages of a fold is showing beneath his pectoral muscles, both of which have slackened down to a smoothened appearance. ‘I said you look good in the light,’ Matilda modifies her comment. Carlile offers her half a glance. ‘Thank you?’ ‘You don’t know how to take compliments yet, do you?’ He jolts in a sudden movement of button-hits with the controller, and the package of flesh supporting his navel jerks discreetly. Matilda's chest clenches, and she cannot help but say what she meant to say originally. 'You look very doughy in that light like that,' she says again with a savage light glittering in her eyes. When he gets a moment to spare, he pauses the game and looks at her with questioningly raised brows. ‘Do you not approve?’ Matilda gasps. ‘Are you for real?’ ‘I’m not sure I read the ingredients in your tone right… so I’m not sure…’ ‘How could you even think I “disapprove”? Dough is very nice, I’ll have you know, babe. You’re my doughy little boy, honey. My little doughy-honey. My doughy-honey-boy.’ ‘Doughy honey…’ he echoes, doubtfully. ‘Is that a real thing?’ ‘No,’ she shrugs. ‘Probably not. But it could be, couldn’t it? I reckon you could figure out a way to cook something like that? You can cook anything.’ Which is true. So he gives it a moment’s thought. And then he proceeds to try exactly that. Finding it rather intuitive, he heads upstairs into the kitchen and melts a cup of honey down into the watery base of some dough, then uses the resulting batch to bake bagels and croissants. The whole household gets one each – and then everyone asks for another. Later on, Matilda hears the stairs squeak, and down comes Carlile bearing a tray of his newly-discovered honey-dough bagels along with an array of condiments including butter, apricot jam, raspberry jam, fig jam, peanut butter, pesto and jarlsberg cheese. He arranges it all, spreading it out in a platter formation between them on the fold-out lounge, where they rest across from each other, propped up on their elbows to enjoy a late afternoon snack. As soon as she tastes the honey-dough, she wants the entire lot for herself. ‘Oh– mmmm.’ She tips her head back in bliss, eyes fluttering shut. She swallows and says, ‘I want more of whatever that was. That was pure magic.’ Occupied by his own mouthful of honey-dough, Carlile sweeps his hand in a gesture of invitation at the ten remaining bagels and croissants laying between them. ‘Well don’t just eat the bread,’ he tells her around his mouthful, ‘actually open it and put something in it. Here, use the knife.’ She reaches out for the utensil, then withdraws her hand, a curtain of doubt crawling across her face. ‘But… I shouldn’t…’ ‘Why?’ The question, while simple, unravels into more and more layers of complexity the more she thinks about it. She feels stuck in hesitation. Then, shrugging, she lathers a layer of butter almost an inch thick on her bagel and squashes a wad of jam inside as well, gelatinous liquid oozing out the sides. Her stomach clenches with hunger, and so she wraps her teeth around the food to stifle it. She comes close to chomping down a second bagel, but just as she finishes filling it with a layer of cheese, fig jam and a touch of pesto, she gets a better idea – she lifts it up to Carlile’s mouth instead. One cheek bulging with the last mouthful of his own, he glances at her hand with indecision. ‘Come on,’ she pleads. ‘I can’t eat this— I have to get back into shape. You know that. I can't have this in front of me anymore… ple-e-ease…’ Swallowing the remains of his first bagel, he opens his mouth and lets her feed him. She interprets this as a green-light, and proceeds to take care of her boyfriend with slow but firm, nurturing movements, withdrawing her hand only long enough for him to chew and make more room in his mouth, before easing the food back into his mouth and making him eat more. With one bagel down, she leaves him alone to chew on the heavy load while she cuts open a croissant and packs it with more filling. With every bite, it gets harder and harder for him to chew the food down to a swallowable size. But when it comes to the grind, and his jaw begins to ache from the repetitive moments, a set of instincts, buried beneath years and years, find him again. His body remembers. It’s like remembering how to ride a bike after many years. After a few tentative pedals, it all comes back at once in a surge of understanding. Another croissant. Then another bagel. And then another croissant. Finally, Matilda holds the last two bagels, one in each hand, and lifts them up to his face, allowing him to take a bite from one and then the other, left then right, from one to the other. Carlile can feel his stomach asking his shirt for more space. ‘Hey,’ Matilda croons in a soothing voice, ‘you look uncomfortable.’ Leaning closer to feed him a bite of the final bagel, she locates the side of his tightened shirt with her hand, then hooks a finger underneath and slides it around to the front of his belly so that she can feel the inflated softness of his stomach along the back of her knuckle. Her eyelids twitch at the sensations it produces in her, at the ecstasy rushing up into her diaphragm. ‘Here, let me fix you up.’ Acting like a concerned mother, with a furrow in her brow, Matilda lifts the hem of his shirt up, all the way up, spreading the fabric out so it stays above his belly, the whole surface of which has become a dome taught and packed with calories. She presses her hand against it while lifting the bagel to his mouth, gently pressing into the dense roundness of his protruding middle. ‘You should be careful,’ she murmurs, holding back a giggle. ‘Why would that be?’ he groans around the volume of food in his mouth. ‘This,’ she says, slapping his stuffed gut with a soft thud, ‘could become kind of permanent if you don’t be careful…’ He rolls his eyes with a tired grunt and continues to chew. When she feeds him the last of remaining food, she scrapes the left-over bits of condiments on the platter, puts them on the final piece of bread, about the size of a golf ball, and pushes it up into his mouth. As he begins to chew the last of it, he makes another grunt and falls backwards onto the sheets, whole body collapsing, staring face-up at the ceiling, jaw working and working, and his stomach a tight hump lifting into the air. Matilda leans on one arm to caress him with her free hand, making saucer-sized circles around his upper belly where his overloaded organs are struggling to deal with the quantity of food that she has forced inside it to be digested. ‘How do you feel?’ she asks, voice gentle as a nurse consulting a patient after surgery. ‘Ugh… Um…’ He closes his eyes and furrows his brow. ‘It hurts. But I think I remember why, now.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I mean…’ he takes a heavy breath and sighs through pressed lips. ‘I think I remember how it felt… good.’ Matilda’s eyes widen fractionally with triggered desire, and she leans in a little closer. ‘And how does it feel good?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbles, rolling his head left and right. ‘I thought you were onboard with this.’ ‘I am. I’m asking…’ Matilda stares into middle-distance. ‘I want to know; how good does it feel? Describe it. Describe it all to me. Tell me why it feels so good.’ Just then she notices, in her peripheral vision, a twitch between his legs. Dark intent shrinks her gaze like concentrated ink. She knows what needs to happen now. Sliding off the mattress, she hurries over to his bedroom door, aware that her own flabby middle is jiggling around with every step, and takes a peek through the crack in the door. Then she makes sure it’s locked, and comes back to the mattress, and slides onto it, looming over him. She can feel her stomach reacting to the bread. It’s already expanded. Since escaping the hold of her bike shorts’ elastic when she stood up, the lip of her belly now touches her chubby thighs – a roll nearly as thick as her calf used to be. Using one hand to rub his stomach, she puts the other on his thigh, sliding her fingers across the stiffening mound of his groin. She feels it pulse from soft to hard beneath her palm, growing, just like him. ‘No, don’t,’ he whimpers, not believing he’s quite ready for this. But she is belligerent, and she knows better than him. ‘It’s okay,’ she hushes him. ‘It’s just me.’ After a moment, she feels his body relax, and she slips her hand into his pants, finding his penis. He grows harder by the second. She manoeuvres it from within his underwear, letting it spring up and out over his waistband, and begins to gently massage. The softening base of his belly contracts in spasmodic twitches beneath her left hand as she rubs its tender fullness. ‘So,’ she muses in a soft, teasing voice, ‘you’re pretty full now, huh?’ Eyes pressed shut, he nods, as his breaths make a startled jump. ‘I fed you a lot of food, didn’t I? All nine of those delicious bagels, and croissants, that you made… All stuffed inside you here,’ with a careful pat of his lower belly. His fingers dig into the sheets. ‘Feels good, doesn’t it?’ His breathing lifts higher, and he clenches his teeth, nodding. Part of her wishes it could be her in his position. The other part of her knows that if it was, then her life would be on a road to utter ruin. Little hills of his belly’s flesh appear between the kneading press of her fingers. She rubs, kneads, lightly pinches the blanket of chub covering his bloated stomach and gives steady, measured strokes up and down the length of his penis, exposed for her, up and down in an easy rhythm like rowing a boat down a stream to watch the reeds pass by, up and down, onwards and onwards towards wherever it takes them, until body-wracking convulsions of explosive pleasure like an atomic blast exhaust all motion. . . .

In the aftermath of that night, it’s as if the piece of a puzzle has finally slipped into place, rotated desperately to one side in a last ditch effort; and in a moment of forehead-slapping revelation, the full panorama of their intimacy erupts at last, unfurling freely into the range of colour it had been waiting in shackles to become all along, much the way his cooking, amplified, will soon come to resurface in the fullness of Matilda’s bust, backside and body, adding just enough girth to her stomach to help it break over the confines of whatever fabric it encounters, and push the elastic with whimsical ease down under the bulk of its weight. Meanwhile, the song in the air between them rises to a positively charged note of intensely raw honesty, and as they move around each other in the privacy of cabin number 14, they are sucked back into the thrill of each others’ secrets and animalistic glances in public places that only they know how to decipher. Overnight, the rigidity in Carlile’s shoulders softens, like butter melts in the pan that morning, and his habit of flinching away from being vulnerable disappears so thoroughly it’s as if it never existed. In its stead emerges a purposefully vague obliviousness in regards to his appearance. As in – it appears he no longer cares how he appears. Perceptive, Matilda notices this first thing in the morning, and she smirks inwardly. Beginning now, she lets herself sit, move, walk and glide in exposed freedom around him, reflecting his newfound openness back at him. But now that she knows for sure what she had only suspected about him, it all seems so clear and obvious. So, so humiliatingly self-evident. The way he feels about her body… the way he looks at it… the plain, honest need to spread his hands all over her squishy, soft, malleable flesh, and not be sorry for it, as if trying to push his skin into hers and fuse together, bridging some impassable ontological gap between their physicalities. Spotting an opportunity to toy with his desires, Matilda begins keeping her stomach concealed, faking modesty, as a way to tease him along. For the time being, at least. Her belly’s pudgy shape won’t be around forever. Once it’s gone, it won’t be coming back. He’d woken first, and slipped out the cabin to grab ingredients from a general store within walking distance to make them a quick breakfast. Matilda rolls her head across the pillow, squinting with swollen eyes and yawns at the ceiling as she hears the sliding door in the kitchen area roll open and then closed. She listens to the thud of groceries being placed on the bench. ‘Are you a-wakey wakey?’ he calls out to her through the half-open door. Her eyes feel gritty and her mind seems clogged with the mud of unresolved dreams in which she was struggling to run through a soccer pitch made of endless whipped cream sucking her ankles into the earth like swamp water. But now, awake, she crawls out of the blankets and stumbles into the kitchen, plonking herself on a stool to watch him work. He catches her looking and smiles at her as he ignites the gas stove-top, his mission being to whip up a quick meal of scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice and coffee with added cream on top. Once she downs the first few sips of her coffee, her senses resolve, draw together like a tightened knot, and she finds herself staring with heated eyes at the impression Carlile’s butt cheeks are making in the back of his black boxers. It gets her thinking about last night. With everything prepared, he arranges their breakfast on the small table beside the TV, where a window looks out over the shoreline through beach pine trees. He beckons her over, and she sits down across from him, staring at a breakfast so large it barely fits on the plate without bread corners hanging off the edges of the plate and sauce drooping off the sides. ‘Babe!’ she exclaims in pretend shock, ‘are you trying to make me fat?’ ‘No.’ He shrugs. ‘Maybe.’ He reconsiders, and shrugs again. ‘No.’ She gives him a long stare of interrogation, then her eyes smile, creasing delicately at the corners. ‘You are, aren’t you?’ He sits down with his own plate, ignoring the question. ‘Admit it, you are.’ ‘No.’ ‘Yes you are.’ ‘Nope.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Nuh-ah.’ ‘You like it when I get fatter.’ ‘It makes me want to cook everything in the whole wide world for you.’ ‘Well,’ she says, taking up her cutlery and cutting into the toast, ‘that’s sweet of you.’ She holds up her index finger. ‘You get one last time to try that on me. But after that,’ with serious wide eyes, ‘no more. I’m gonna get back to being fit.’ He makes a clownish, sad face. She snorts and laughs. ‘Okay, well, if you’re really so sad about it, maybe I’ll just fill my belly up with water now and again, or something, and you can dirty your hands on that instead. I’ll be a big bloated-ass-bitch for you, from time to time. Your personal water bag.’ Posing suggestively in her seat, she touches her belly with one eyebrow cocked. ‘You, however…’ She picks her cutlery back up and points the knife at his chest. ‘You have to be a good boy and eat up.’ He hesitates momentarily, sending her a mysterious glance from under his eyebrows. More than one thing had surfaced, last night. Things lurking on the periphery. When one thing had led to another, she’d spilled the beans stuck at the bottom of her mental tin; that she really did want him to get fat. She’d said “yes”, a hundred times over, and a million more, just to convince him she wasn’t taking the piss. Yes, but it’s the exact opposite of a joke. Yes, she’d wanted it all along… Yes, she was serious… Yes, she’s wanted this for a while now… Yes, she wants him to grow fat… And the two of them, in a wild, hedonistic chorus of sexual momentum neither of them could apply brakes to, simply lay locked in each other’s bodies, mid-intercourse, dumb, silent and stunned. It had taken some time for Carlile to process what she’d confessed and to then accelerate over the emotional speed bump in his heart. First he’d dealt with the shock, then a short episode of denial, but then an acceptance, with such charged erotic energy that they’d spiralled into a third round of sex that left their genitals sore, bruised and empty. There was nothing left in the closet after that. All was in the open. All was lovemaking. All was sex. And now, in the bleary-lensed light of the morning, it is time to begin sorting out the mess. He knows that. She can see in his eyes that he knows it. And he knows that she means what she confessed late at night. All of it. They couldn’t lie to each other, couldn’t retract it now, if they tried. ‘Sorry if I haven’t said much. I’m just relieved, I guess,’ Carlile admits after breakfast as they lay on the couch to have a look at the entertainment options on the TV. A Netflix subscription, a Stan subscription, and a Foxtel subscription with five empty channels for the elderly folk, and that’s all. Her stomach feels big and full carrying the breakfast, but Carlile looks even fuller than she does. Sticking her hand up his shirt, she fondles his belly, feeling for the squeezable layer of flesh. ‘You’re relieved?’ she croons, probing for more. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, nodding slowly. ‘Yeah. About us.’ ‘Good.’ She pinches the space under his belly button, then investigates the depth of a squishy part of his hips. Breathing slowly, she runs her fingers around the side, feeling the layer of flesh on his belly that wraps around to his sides. ‘I’m glad you’re relieved,’ she hums. ‘I am too.’ ‘You’re relieved too?’ ‘Uh-huh,’ she nods, fascinated by the sensory experience of his body. ‘I’m relieved because you’ve got nothing to lose. Not anymore. You can let go now.’ He snorts, flicking through the Netflix menu to see what’s available. ‘What…?’ she demands. His head twitches ineffectually. She narrows her eyes. ‘Are you still afraid, then?’ ‘Afraid? Of what?’ ‘You tell me. Afraid of, like… if you got fat again…?’ ‘No. Well…’ He sighs. ‘Sorta. But not exactly, either. Look, I…’ ‘But I told you I like it. You know that, now.’ He nods. ‘That I do.’ ‘You better watch out, then.’ She slaps his stomach, dismayed that it doesn’t yet carry very much of its own jiggle. ‘You might end up with a bit of a tummy.’ Placing her hand atop of his belly, she taps her finger upon its surface with each word. ‘A little. Round. Gut. Or big, maybe. A big beer belly.’ She gives a low giggle. ‘Can you imagine how big it could get?’ He sighs, squirming a little. ‘There’s just a lot to dig back up. That’s all.’ ‘It’s okay. It’s okay, baby. Here.’ She grabs his free hand and puts it on her stomach, pushing it out for emphasis. ‘If it makes you feel any better.’ Then she laughs, and sitting back with her arms limp by her sides, she lets him enjoy her belly, lets him play with its filled-up softness and pliable flesh. It’s only fair. It won’t be around forever. His, on the other hand… . . . A little later on, they change into breezier clothes and go for a walk through the town, with the sun making its way up into its midday mark in the sky. She feels liberal. Shockingly so. It isn’t until they’ve walked to the town proper that she realises how careless she can afford to be. The fact that her out“fits” are starting to feel like out“growns” on her body doesn’t come to her conscious consideration unless she happened to catch her reflection. Which she avoids. Instead, she can merely stroll forth with heedless ease, as if everybody around her is as blind as she is to herself. Beneath the surface of her awareness, even her bikini bottoms feel different than she remembers, hugging her lower body with intimidating strength, and the straps are finding their way into grooves of flesh that weren’t detectable until now. But whatever conflict is happening between her flesh and her swimwear is hidden out of sight, because she’s wearing an open, oversized white canvas shirt over her like a draped curtain, while the sun is being kept out of her eyes with a wide straw hat. Beyond the caravan park, out along the main strip of the town, they find two fuel stations right next to each other swapping petroleum fumes and customers, then a thrift-shop wafting thick incense from its front door, fluffy-tailed dogs with bells on their leads being walked by couples young and old, a general store with fruit stalls out front, a Thai takeaway parlour called All Pho You, a fish tackle store that reeks of salt, and a cute little coffee shop with so many plants and succulents crowding the front that you have to come around the side to find where the entrance is. Still feeling heavy in her stomach, Matilda’s insides nevertheless seem to twitch and gurgle at the smell of fish and chips wafting in from nearby, heralding a shop around the corner, followed by the acidic smell of sunscreen on the salty, cool breeze. It makes her want to pull her clothes off and run straight towards the water. It’s been a long time since she went to the beach. Feels like years ago. ‘Where should we go, then? You want coffee? Or should we hit the beach?’ Carlile asks. Slowing down to think, the weight of undigested breakfast inside Matilda’s belly begins to shake at her slow, deliberate steps. She quickens her pace again to obscure the feeling that may not actually be food matter, attempting to forget about it, and to mentally move onto something else. She sneaks a glance at Carlile’s stomach, but can’t tell what it looks like behind the undisturbed drapery of his loose shirt. She should do something about that… ‘Let’s get something to eat?’ she suggests. ‘And yes, I know. I know we just ate,’ she defends herself against his surprised facial expression. ‘It’s just, I think a small snack would be a good idea, maybe. I’m rumbling inside even though we just ate. I don’t know why. We’re not here for long; we can party up this opportunity while we’re here, you know?’ Carlile shrugs. ‘Sure.’ ‘Let’s go here.’ She turns towards the coffee shop. ‘Then I wanna walk down the beach.’ Inside the shop, they stand with hands held ponderously under their chins, surveying the food behind the glass display and looking at pastries they’ve never seen before in their lives. ‘Whatcha thinking of, mister chef-man?’ she asks. ‘Maybe one of those plum jam tarts?’ Carlile decides. ‘I think that’s what they are. But that’s all I'll have.’ A young lady stops chatting with her colleague by the espresso coffee machine to come over with an open smile and take their orders. Leaning forward to place her bet, Matilda feels the edge of the counter push into the bottom of her belly, and the unexpectedness of it almost throws her out of focus. ‘Hi.’ She blinks, performing a hard reset on her mind. ‘Hi there! Can I get a…’ Just then, as she looks down to point to the food, she notices a row of raspberry-vanilla slices in her peripheral vision, and without knowing how it happened, is utterly transposed, as violently as waking from a nightmare, back to a time long ago, when she was very small, a child… Her aunt – a kind, fun woman who was so enormous that Matilda’s only memory of her is an exceedingly large planetary orb of stomach, with a head on top of it, staring down at her – this aunt would buy raspberry-vanilla slices for her and the cousins as a treat. She would do it every single time she babysat. The flavour of raspberry and vanilla defined entire summers of her childhood, encompassing remembered smells of sunscreen, sounds of lapping pool water, happy squeals, memory vignettes like a lense of coloured cellophane over a photograph… Now, in her early twenties, staring down at the same raspberry-vanilla slices, a spike of thrill coils through her soul, and she tries not to bite her lip at the idea of filling Carlile up with slice after slice of those treats… with mouthful after mouthful of her childhood favourite… She smacks her lips and looks up at the cashier, pondering. ‘Can I please get, um… two– wait no three– actually four of your raspberry-vanilla slices?’ ‘Sure thing.’ ‘Hang on.’ Carlilke brushes her hand with his fingers and cocks his head, ‘four?’ Matilda glances at him so swiftly that he barely notices, then turns back to the cashier. ‘Anything else?’ the cashier asks. ‘Yes please.’ Inspecting the rest of the items and listing them on her fingers as she speaks, ‘Can I get a plum jam tart, two gluten free cookies, a caramel cake slice, and maybe… a slice of German apple cheesecake?’ ‘Sure–’ ‘Oh and also one sprinkle-coated doughnut.’ ‘Y–’ ‘Sorry, sorry, just one more thing; two cannolis. A-and also can I get two soy lattes, please? And that’s all.’ ‘Alrighty,’ the cashier murmurs, quickly jotting the last items down with an unreadable expression that could be either astonishment or disdain. Transferring each item into a paper bag, the cashier lines them up on the bench top, lets Matilda pay, and then the young couple move to the window to wait for the coffees. They watch other townsfolk and beach tourists filter into the ** and line up at the counter. Struggling to hold all the items of food between them, they swap a smile and listen to the espresso machine grinding away, the steamer hissing… And then, standing there, Matilda suddenly realises how microscopically aware she is of her bikini bottoms. The way they’re holding onto her. She can tell without looking where every seam is. They don’t feel right. They keep wanting to slip down towards her crotch. Opening one side of her canvas shirt, she pinches the fabric of the bikini bottoms and hoists them as far up her stomach as they’ll go. Better. Matilda presses her lips into a thin line as she waits. She can’t even attempt to resist the undercurrent of craven hunger that has come over her, full-force, sucking her into its gravity. She stares down at the vanilla slice peeking up at her from within the open mouth of the paper bag in her arms. ‘Hmm… Babe…’ ‘What did I forget?’ Carlile asks, nervous. ‘I thought I could wait. I really thought I could. But I can’t. I’m gonna have one of these– I’m sorry, these were actually for you, but I need to. I can’t keep waiting like this. And to be honest, I’m not even going to ask if it’s okay.’ Carlile squints at her sidewise, then down at the slice, then back up at her again. ‘Well don’t leave me out. I want one too.’ Matilda’s lips stretch into a dark smile. ‘I thought so. Can’t help it, can you, little hungry-boy?’ she jeers. ‘Who’re you calling hungry?’ he snorts, raising an eyebrow. She scoffs. ‘Can’t argue with that. Fuck you. Anyway, you like it.’ Needing no further permission, she passes one of the slices over to him, then re-juggles the food in her arms and takes her own slice out of its bag. Together, they stand at the window, side by side together, eating and looking out at the passing beach-goers. After they collect their coffees, they exit back onto the road and figure out how to walk with the over-order that they’re about to over-indulge on. The sidewalk peels off into a foot path that runs alongside the beach in a long, stretching esplanade, and they walk along it until they come across a bench where they can sit. As she settles down, she feels her stretched bikini bottoms pull even tighter across her belly. The waves on the shore, meanwhile, curl into the sand, immolating, and they watch the surf break into foam while they eat their snacks, sharing the moment with each other and sipping their coffees, the thrill of open air filling the cups of their hearts. Carlile reaches over to brush a strand of hair that has blown across her eye in the breeze. She gives him her cutest smile. That’s when an empty paper bag beside her slides off the seat from a gust of wind. Just before it can run away and turn into litter, she leans forward to snatch a well-timed save – and is bombarded with immediate awareness that her belly has rolled over her bikini bottoms. It shouldn’t surprise her, but it does. This is how her body wants to behave, even after a loss of four or five pounds. And yet, in the blink of an eye, the already stretched-out nylon has given in and slipped under a roll of blubber too firm to contain. ‘Fuck,’ she swears, glancing down at herself with poorly-concealed helplessness. Panicking a little, she pulls her bikini bottoms’ elastic away from her belly with one hand, and uses the other hand to push the softness back, only for her upper belly to spill out over her pressing fingers. ‘Shit.’ She abandons the situation, letting it all go – and thus her pastry-swollen belly drops back down to its resting state with a humiliating little wobble upon touching her thighs that causes sympathy vibrations all through her middle. Her cheeks have never felt so hot in her life, and she can feel the pressure of embarrassment building behind her eyes like hot air. ‘How am I so fucking fat?’ she hisses through clenched teeth. Carlile is watching her with great interest from the corner of his eye, not even trying to hide his amusement after last night’s spillage of secrets. ‘You think this is funny?’ she asks – then raises her eyes into the distance, confronting the realisation that she already knows the answer… Giving a short glance left and right to make sure nobody has seen what just happened, she stands up to hoist her bikini bottoms back up her belly, then sits back down, everything held tight and secure once more within its nylon girdle. But the bikini bottom has reached the limit of its stretch. She can feel the truth of it pinching her waist, and knows she’ll have to be careful from this point forward. Sucking in a little and twisting her lips at the discomfort of restricting her growing fullness, she continues to eat her food, making sure to chew slower than Carlile so that, in the end, he’ll have to finish eating whatever she didn’t get to. And so he does. Biting back a smile, she pats his small paunch once he’s eaten it all, wiggling her toes at how round and full it already feels through his shirt, and then coaxes him to eat just one more. Not much later, having devoured all the delicates, Matilda kicks her legs out and crosses her ankles with a pat on the side of her belly. Under the layer of softness, it feels so taut and inflexible, rocking gently from the thud of her hand, that she wonders how much of her belly’s shape is just bloat and how much is weight. If you eat enough food, the focus of your eyes will take on a thickened fog – Matilda stares through this very glaze, licking her lips like a ** predator. She feels Carlile’s arm settle across her shoulders. They nestle into each other, and the sun bathes their skin with heat. Even sitting up straight, she can almost feel her belly brushing her lap. But she knows it won’t do that forever. The moment she starts shedding the weight, it’ll be straight road, and there’ll be no more body parts coming into contact with one another. Eventually deciding to stand up, they discard their rubbish in a public bin nearby, and turn to stroll along the boulevard, looking for a footpath that will let them descend to the shoreline. ‘So,’ she asks out of nowhere, ‘are you gonna take your shirt off, then, or what?’ Carlile makes an uncertain noise, half discomfort, half pretending he didn’t hear. They stop at the entrance of a thoroughfare leading down to the sand. In a childish tone, she complains, ‘I wanna see. I wanna see your bod in daylight.’ ‘I don’t know– I– uhm…’ Matilda’s face grows serious. ‘Seriously? Is this happening? After everything we said to each other last night? After everything I told you? And everything you told me? Come on, ple-e-ease…’ Carlile ducks his head, nodding reticently, and spreads his hands in defence. ‘Yeah, I know, but…’ He hesitates, casting a glance around them, at all the people are down there on the shore, beyond the grey-green foliage of the sand dunes separating the beach from them. He looks back at her, appealing for sympathy with his eyes. She lets her shoulders drop. ‘You’re worried about them…’ she suggests, not bothering to mask the heavy disappointment in her voice. His shrug says yes. An abrupt stab hits Matilda in the heart of her impatience, flaring like a coal ember provoked by a stoking rod. ‘Oh come on,’ she scowls. ‘Are you for real?’ Carlile glances to the side, frowning, about to say something. ‘Carl, I deal with “people” watching me all the time. Every step of the way. Every match I play. You think anyone here gives a fuck about us? No. People watch me–’ ‘Hey, turn the heat down a moment–’ ‘People are always watching me, and yet here I am, constantly under scrutiny ever since I got chubby, and having people question everything I do, now, and you’re just–’ ‘Babe–’ ‘No. No, you don’t get it. What have other people got to judge you about? What is the problem with taking your shirt off like every other person here–’ ‘Look at this!’ Carlile cuts her off with a cringing shout, flattening his shirt against his stomach. She finally stops ranting, stun-smacked to a dead halt. With the fabric pulled tight against his stomach between his hands, she can see the fullness of his ** belly, how drastically the food inside it has expanded its shape. ‘I’m getting fat…’ he pleads at her with his eyes, then adds, ‘Again… Do you understand that?’ As fast as it had arrived, the wind of anger leaves her sails like a hot air balloon shot out the sky. The chasm of emotion left inside her is quickly flooded by a flurry of reasons why she should never have begun snapping at him. She closes her eyes, resets, and opens them again. ‘Carl. Babe, I’m… I’m sorry. I’ve just…’ She presses her tongue against the inside of her cheek. ‘Look. I’ve been pressured. I've been feeling it. More than I’ve been telling you, I think. With all the club stuff going on, and me trying to lose weight. Maybe it came with us on this trip. I’m sorry– this was meant to be a break!’ She takes a heavy breath and shifts her weight to one leg, looking off to the side in remorse. ‘This is all so fucked.’ She lifts her eyes to the line of the horizon, her expression reduced to a dejected, battered scowl. ‘I was supposed to be able to leave it behind, for a while. Behind both of us. This stupid club shit– and the people– all my problems. My stupid, bitch-faced, child of a coach. It’s all so hard. And I took it out on you. I’m supposed to shed this weight, but we just stuffed ourselves on carbs, and my bikini already barely fits. Like, I’m not even sure I hate this weight. It’s just that I have to get rid of it. Margery won’t fuck off and get out of the club, so I need to play again, but I can’t play with a body like this. As much as I’ve kinda loved being able to eat whatever I want… As much as I’ve loved eating all the amazing food you cook for me… I have to stop now. And if I’m being honest, it sucks. That’s all. I just love you, and I want to walk around the beach with you in the sun and be shirtless, just like everyone else. Otherwise I feel like we’re the odd ones out. You know? Everyone else is in their swimwear. So why not us? I’m sorry.’ Carlile nods and puts a hand on her left shoulder, then lets his touch slide down to her forearm, which he holds in an affectionate squeeze. She smiles at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says again. ‘No, it’s okay, I…’ ‘…So you aren't going to do it,’ she concedes. ‘I didn’t say that. I was going to say… I’ll do it if you do it.’ He gives her a sly look, scanning her body up and down like a cut of steak. Matilda boggles her eyes up at him, shocked but impressed by his sudden willingness to play reciprocation-games. ‘Pfft. Well of course I was always going to…’ she white-lies. ‘Yeah, I’m sure you were,’ he snorts. ‘What, you think I’m ashamed of the way I look?’ ‘Perhaps I do, perhaps I do not.’ ‘Do you think I should be?’ ‘Hell-fuck-no,’ he blurts. ‘Does a baker cry about a nicely raised ball of dough?’ ‘Are you calling me fat?’ she squints, half teasing, half serious with the question. ‘No, I’m calling you perfect.’ Matilda turns, hiding a big bloom of pink blushing across her face. They both look at the path leading down to the sand. ‘Alright, then, lover-boy, let’s go,’ Matilda says. ‘Just hold this bag for me one sec.’ Unbuttoning her canvas shirt, she slips it off her arms, and rolls it up into the beach bag as Carlile holds it open for her, noting the fact that his eyes are glued to her body, and have not departed. ‘What?...’ she asks, instinctively folding her arms over her waist against her better judgement. He shrugs. ‘Nothing. Sometimes I just like to admire the artistry in the cuisine.’ Fulfilling his end of the deal, he crosses his forearms and grabs the underside of his shirt, lifting it up over his head. With his body stretched, his exposed paunch seems as if to expand out from his lower abdomen, soft and slightly swollen. He lowers his arms, and as he stuffs his shirt into the bag, his belly gathers back into a cushion. Matilda’s face fills with ridiculous heat, and she can’t decide whether to grab his paunch in her hands or to just pass out from excitement on the spot. Then it occurs to her that she’s used to his stomach looking a little more pronounced than this… And after a moment of processing time in the forefront of her mind, Matilda realises that she knows exactly what’s going on. ‘You’re sucking in,’ she says all of a sudden. ‘You are, aren’t you? Stop it. You have to stop sucking in.’ ‘You’ve got that wrong.’ ‘If I’m not sucking in, that means you can’t either. I’m doing this for you, remember?’ ‘But I’m not.’ She leaps towards him, stabbing a finger straight into his side, where she knows he’s most sensitive. He immediately crumples sideways, elbow tucking into his ribcage as his defensive instincts override his control, and before he can stop, he lets his stomach go. Matilda’s eyes almost water. There it is again – just as it should be – with a rounded, full appearance of bloated heft, instead of that pathetic, shrivelled-back look of flesh that has retreated in on itself with those telltale, faint dimples of embarrassment. No, it must be let free. Always. Always liberated to its proudest point of distension. Giving into one last sadistic impulse, she gives the flesh of his stomach a little poke-and-flick as he stands straight again, that bulge of softness around his belly button reacting with a terse, sideways little jiggle. He bats her hand away. ‘Piss off.’ ‘Ho-hoh!’ she hoots, taken aback in awe at his uncharacteristic flash of aggression. ‘It’s a trigger point, okay?’ he explains in an annoyed voice. ‘Look, babe…’ Matilda sighs as they start walking off the pavement and onto the sand. ‘I’m the fatter one here out of the two of us, so… shut up.’ ‘You’ve got me worried, though. You’d fill me with self-raising flour if you could.’ And you should be, Matilda replies internally, before scolding herself for having such indulgently dark ideas. She makes her way down the path with him. After a moment they link hands. When they reach the bottom, the sun-baked sand burns the soles of her feet, forcing her prance on light feet until they reach the cooler part of the beach. Lo and behold, nobody has turned to watch their arrival, and they are free to go forth unobserved, just as she had predicted. Matilda, in all honesty, cannot manage to suck in while trying to walk through soft sand without getting out of breath, so she surrenders control over her body, lets it relax into whatever form it wants to take. As she shuffles along the beach, her protruding stomach, her breasts full and hanging in the supports of her bikini, and her barely covered ass cheeks, all wobble in a unified orchestra of jiggling movement that continues to compound upon itself as she stumbles and lurches through the soft sand, shifting and slewing beneath her heels. There are piles of seaweed and sharp rocks underfoot that she has to dodge and sidestep. The more she does so, the more her distribution of her gravity alarms her. It doesn't feel the way she expects it to, and it causes her heels to slide harder than usual into the sand. More and more sensitive to this, her heart brushes against the sharp edge of self-consciousness. To distract her mind, she glances at Carlile from the corner of her eye, wondering how much longer she will have to make him overeat until his weight begins to throw him off balance as well. . . . They stay at the cabin in the park for four more days. They swim, they eat, they take languid indirect walks to nowhere, sight-see, eat, sunbake, visit brunch shops, cafes and diners, fuck on the bed, eat, fuck on the lounge, eat, go down on each other on the kitchen counter, and continue to eat. Always eating. They eat so much that they become experts at it – so proficient in the art of consumption that they forget what they’d eaten just a moment before moving to the next thing, thoughtless in their appetised freedom as they follow their taste buds and stomachs’ slightest hint of a whim, whether full or not. On the fourth and final afternoon, they decide to soak up the last of their opportunities to sunbake on the beach. Laying on their towels in the sand, they watch the daylight through their sunglasses as it falls away honey-red behind the horizon. Matilda is sitting with her knees up and leaning back on her hands, the gritty sand damp between her fingers. She’s close to shutting her eyes under a wash of drowsiness, when all of a sudden a ball comes sailing through the sky. Perfectly spherical. Size 5. Patterned in technicolour but unmistakable. She knows it anywhere, any time. Her instincts activate, and she leaps up to her feet with a grunt of exertion that she was not expecting to have to make. The ball rolls lazily to a stop a few yards away from her, and a lean young man is already making his way towards it from some distance down the shore. Carlile lifts his glasses to look at the ball. ‘How do you even manage to kick a ball that far away by accident?’ ‘You’d be surprised. Guy probably had good power-technique and just missed. Don’t worry, I got this.’ Carlile has visible amusement on his face. ‘I do,’ she insists, worried he doesn’t believe her, then takes a few steps backwards. A soft jiggle-wave plays up her thighs and into the flesh of her hips. She leans her body slightly towards the ball, then takes one, and another, gut-shaking step, and swings her foot down into the ball. The contact is solid. It launches with speed, but sails slightly to the left of where she thought she aimed. It’s at that moment that she realises her balance is nowhere to be found. As she stutter-steps to stop herself from falling forward, it sends her thighs and belly into a fleshy wobble, and she finds herself tripping down onto one knee, the side of her belly squashing into her thighs and making her look fatter than she ought to, and more embarrassed than she’s ever felt before in her life. She hears a suppressed giggle from behind her. ‘Don't,’ in a low, dangerous voice. Face swelling with red, she watches the ball arc into the sand off to the man's left. Bad placement aside, the guy sticks a thumb in the air in thanks before veering away to collect it. Matilda grimaces and keeps her head down, too thoroughly smacked by frightened humiliation to deal with the risk of eye contact. With her chest feeling tight, and her ego scolded by hot coals, she stands up and walks back to her towel, gingerly lays down on it, and refuses to make eye contact with Carlile’s almost derisive smirk. . . . The next day they pack up and embark on the road trip home. The drive back feels longer than it did on the way in. They’d been too busy that morning to stop and eat anything for breakfast, and even though a roundness from the previous night’s meal still hasn’t departed from their midsections, an intense hunger is beginning to itch at the insides of their stomachs, heralding its return. By the time they pass through a small township with grain silos and two old churches, the hunger develops into aggression, unable to be ignored any longer. Without needing to be told, Carlile stops the car in a parking space near the first bakery they come across. Matilda leans out of the car and stands up to stretch, arching her stiff spine. Lulled into half-conscious sleepiness from watching the same thing go past the windows for the last hour, she forgets to pull her shirt down, and now a band of soft midriff is bulging out slightly where her sweatpants sit no higher than her belly button – the small, pudgy sinkhole of flesh which shakes up and down, thrown out of hiding, as she bounces on her heels as if warming up before a match. Blind to any self-irony, she side-eyes Carlile and pokes her tongue into her lower lip when she sees the roundness of his small gut impressing its shape inside his shirt. She wants to touch it, to expose its tactile spring to her fingertips. But she can’t – not in public. She walks into the establishment without fixing her ridden-up shirt, and barely notices the way a few people here and there keep taking second glances at her exposed belly button and its chubby housing. The first of many things they eat that day is a large, thick sausage roll coated in sauce, and then a pie each, plus a custard baguette roll shared between them, which she makes sure Carlile eats the final mouthful of. Back on the road, she licks the last flakes of pastry from her thumb. ‘Didn’t we eat a bunch of crap just last night?’ she wonders out loud, absent-mindedly watching the farmland pass the cruising car. ‘Uh, we did,’ Carlile says hesitantly with a curl of curiosity in his voice. ‘Why’s that?’ ‘Well I think maybe I forgot about that,’ she admits in disbelief. ‘You know what I mean? Like, my seatbelt hasn’t been feeling comfortable until I put two and two together.’ She cradles her enlarged stomach in one hand, feeling how stiff her tights have become across its swell, and pulls the seatbelt away from herself to gain a finger’s width of space to work with, and some relief. ‘Fuck. Should we really have eaten like that?’ ‘Last night? Or just then? Or all week?’ he asks obtusely. ‘Just then.’ Matilda twists her lips into a discontented grimace and rubs her stomach with her hand, sliding from side to side. Then she asks, hoping for a certain kind of answer, ‘What about you? Is it just me, or do you feel as bloated as I do?’ She glances down at his stomach, and is disheartened to find less size than she was hoping for. ‘You can be honest,’ she adds. After a delay, he shoots her a look out the corner of his eye before turning back to the road. ‘You know what? I guess I do.’ ‘You don’t look very bloated…’ she lies, hoping he’ll try and prove her wrong by lifting his shirt or something perverse. ‘Rubbish.’ Carlile quickly glances into his lap, then looks back up to concentrate on the road with a ghastly, confused expression in his eyes. Concerned, Matilda frowns. ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘Did I… have I already gained weight?’ His belly sits in his shirt like it has been subtly but actively expanding every hour. With her breath stolen away like the vacuum of space, Matilda takes in a shaky lungful of air. The words just uttered by him are going to make her explode with arousal. Her eyeballs roll up and around as she considers whether or not to tell him a white lie – then gives into her salacious urge for connivance, and says, ‘No. I think you might just be bloated.’ ‘But I don’t feel full. That’s why I’m asking.’ ‘So you mean you could eat more?’ she teases. ‘No,’ he shrugs. ‘I mean, probably. But, no. Well yes. But I don’t think I will.’ Disappointment thins her voice down to a skeleton of itself. ‘Oh come on. Seriously? What’s so wrong with making sure I’m giving you enough to eat?’ He sighs. ‘I’m still… I am a bit unsure about myself.’ He re-adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. ‘Like, I know that…’ Struggling for the right words. ‘I know I was big in the past. But that was the past.’ She stares out the window of the car and grows morose, deflating a little into herself. Her voice is resigned as she says, ‘Alright.’ A few beats of silence pass. Then, unable to stay relaxed, Matilda turns to him and says, ‘But you know I love you, right?’ A grin breaks out on his face. ‘I love you too.’ ‘Even if I turned into a tub of lard?’ ‘Depends. Would you love me if I turned into a tub of lard?’ he asks, already knowing the answer. Her heart goes into a flurry, and she slides her hand across the handbrake, over his thigh, and onto his groin. Feeling it throb, she gives him a deep stare. ‘Who knows.’ Carlile shrugs, acting cool. ‘Maybe I’m outta luck. For all I know, you’ll make me eat my own chef’s portions, and force me to finish your leftovers. Sometimes people don’t notice it happening. It’s not unheard of, you know. Maybe I won’t even notice.’ Her chest floods with desire. She wants to squeeze his cock in her hands. ‘As you get older, your metabolism slows, anyway.’ He throws his elbow up on the door casually as he drives, smirking at the way she cannot pull her eyes away from him. ‘I’ll have to be careful. Maybe for every pound you lose, I might accidentally take over ownership of said “pound”.’ ‘And you’ll look after them? You’ll look after my lost pounds?’ she asks in a voice that sounds almost like a child, leaning across his side of the car to rub his belly and stare up at him. It feels both incredibly soft, and tender underneath, at the same time. ‘If they’re yours, I’ll look after them for you. Do you need me to look after them?’ he teases. ‘Yes,’ she purrs. ‘Hmmm.’ He chews his upper lip in thought. ‘Okay, then. Who’s to say what’ll happen? If you’re going to lose them– well, you might accidentally, maybe, almost possibly, happen to, perhaps, pass them on to me, by accident. Who knows. I might even end up having to look after this.’ He takes one hand off the steering wheel quickly to land a slap square on the front and middle of her belly, the impact sending a jolt throughout the soft layer of her body. For some reason she doesn’t feel offended by the touch. Instead, she is overcome by the onset of an unforgettable energetic charge that rushes through her body from head to toe as her mind’s eye inflates the proportions of his body in front of her. She presses her thighs tight, squeezing her crotch, and runs her hand up onto his belly, giving the few rolls she can find of it a loving, lustful squeeze. They drive on towards home in a deep, sexually-charged silence, its gravity building, building like a collapsing star, until they get back to the city, the suburbs, and then finally Carlile’s house almost two hours later, and lock themselves in his room without bothering to unpack first, sliding into each other’s bodies with stupid, thoughtless ease, full of kissing, desperate groping and – as they over-excitedly reposition themselves with each passing second – small unexpected jiggles in body parts they are not used to seeing play out across the deepening flesh of their bodies. . . .

At home, Matilda burrows down into her bed with a swampy weight in her chest, and she sulk-stares at the wall, deciding she’ll simply wait out the grey light of the afternoon until Carlile finishes work so she can drive over and pretend she’s never had anything to do with the club. Around the time she should be venturing out of her room to join her parents at the table for dinner, her phone buzzes with an incoming call. It’s none other than April. ‘April?’ Matilda inquires into her phone, as if in doubt, annoyed with herself for having picked up her phone when all she really wants is to let it buzz away, as long as it needs, even until the battery dies. ‘Hey, Tild…’ says April, as if uncertain how to approach an injured pet. ‘It’s me…’ ‘Hi.’ Matilda frowns. She has no idea what to say, and no idea what April is calling her for, at this time, other than the elephant in the room. She doesn’t want to speak about it. She wants to pretend neither of them know about its existence. But she can feel it coming. ‘I guess I’m just calling to make sure you’re okay– you know… after all that.’ ‘Oh,’ Matilda sighs. ‘Yeah. That. No. I’m fine.’ She squirms to sit with her back against the bed’s headrest, then gazes at the ceiling. There’s a little gap where the frieze has detached from the wall in the far corner. She wonders if there are any insects living in it. She should find the bug spray. ‘Are you sure you’re alright? I mean that was awful. Nobody liked it.’ ‘Thanks, April. I really appreciate it. But I think I’ll be okay. I’m kinda used to that sort of thing now.’ ‘Ah. Okay. That’s not good, though. We’re here for you, you know that? If you need help with anything, we’re here. The girls, I mean. I’m being honest– I know what it’s like.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Well I used to… you know. I went through a rough patch, remember, last time I got injured? I know what it’s like to feel like a gross slob, but you don’t need to–’ ‘I don’t feel like a gross slob.’ ‘–Uh, well I mean, that’s not what I meant,’ April rushes to explain. ‘Just saying, like, I’m here to help if you need. We are.’ ‘Naw. Thanks, April. But listen… don’t worry. I’m fine. I’m starting to lose it anyway.’ Unable to stand on the strength of her words and believe them herself, Matilda lightly rests her free hand on her stomach, cups underneath its roll, and feels the weight of its chunk. Sitting with one knee up, her thigh squashes one side of her belly into itself, causing it to push into a lopsided twist. ‘It’ll be so easy,’ she lies out loud, as much to April as to herself. ‘I’ll be back to normal in no time, trust me.’ ‘Hmm,’ comes April’s doubtful voice over the line. ‘Not to be a doom-sayer or anything, but I think I have to disagree. It’s not just… it’s not exactly that simple, is it? I remember thinking I could just lose it, too, but it was so fucking hard. The smallest slip-up and it would all come undone, I felt like I was starving myself for nothing. It never seemed like I was making any progress until it really hurt to keep going. Just… keep strong, Tild. And keep going. Be patient with yourself. Don’t beat yourself up about it. Go in small steps, but don’t give up. And one day you’ll be back in shape.’ Matilda looks away from her stomach, and stares down at her unmade sheets of her mattress instead. She tries to imagine what that would look like. Her body wrapped in veneer-thin flesh. Her hips narrowed back to her hip bones. Her stomach without this soft, fleshy bulbousness to it. But all she can see, even in her mind’s eye, is what lies right there below her eyes. The fact that it’s so hard to imagine herself thin, imagine herself as what was once a matter of fact, almost stops her heart with fright. Sensing her silence, April says, ‘We can change the subject, maybe. There was something else I wanted to mention, anyway.’ For the next while, they fall into complaining about the poor tactical decisions being made by Margery, and soon it’s an emotionally-charged chat about all the things going wrong with the club, their words frothing with frustration. Matilda is glad someone else can see how things should be done better. She says as much, and then April makes a surprising confession. ‘You know,’ April says, ‘we kinda wish you were our manager instead. I know, I know, it sounds silly but it’s true.’ Warmth spreads through Matilda’s heart. She smiles and begins toying with the drawstring of her sweatpants, twirling it around her finger. ‘You’ve been a part of this club longer than any of us. You were the best. And we do believe in your ideas, even if, you know…’ ‘I’m fat?’ ‘N– no.’ ‘It’s okay, let’s be honest.’ ‘…Well, anyway… we like your ideas. We might not say it out loud, but we do. We just can’t say it because. You know. The coaches and all. It’s scary in there.’ A long, protracted quietude of agreement. The phone line emits faint static. ‘Mmm…’ Matilda hums. Feeling her spirits buoyed by affirmation, she sits up a little straighter and smooths down the creases of her sweatpants, then says, ‘Hey, April.’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘Thanks so much. Really. What you said means so much.’ ‘We are teammates, Tild. We’ve got to be there for each other off the pitch, too.’ Later on, looking down at her belly, Matilda pinches the biggest chunk of it she can acquire through her shirt, and twists it up to examine the roll of pudge, pulling on it until it feels tight. If only she could pull it off like a detachable ornament. She can’t help but wonder if she’ll ever see it shrink in volume. It doesn’t look shrinkable. It just looks there, stark and definite in its presence, jiggling faintly whenever she accidentally bumps it. It wasn’t long ago that she was still thin. That fact, however, doesn’t concern her as much as it once would have. What really concerns her is that she’s already starting to forget what it was like. . . . In the laundry space, across the other side of the small corridor outside Carlile’s bedroom, there hides a set of scales. One warm and sunny morning, washing her hands after using the toilet, Matilda eyes the laundry cupboard she knows the scale is stored within… and then, after a moment’s deliberation, pulls the machine out and steps onto its platform. The resulting number contradicts all the pessimism she’s been feeling about her results up until this moment. She has to double, then triple check just to be sure – but sure enough it shows up the same. One-seventy-seven. She was one-eighty pounds last week, meaning that as of this morning, she has successfully sent three of them packing. Confidence fills her lungs with renewed air, and she feels herself stand an inch higher. So, she’s actually managed to do it. She walks back into Carlile’s room with a satisfied little shuffle in her hips and makes her way into the partition where he is laying on his back on the fold-out lounge, absently watching some foreign news channel while he waits for the grogginess of sleep to drain from him. The blankets still cover his body, peeled to one side where Matilda had been sleeping. With a smug little smile, she props herself up on the back of the fold-out lounge, lifts one leg up onto the arm of the lounge, and looks down upon his relaxed form with smug satisfaction. ‘Guess what?’ she says. He cranes his neck up to look at her, his face upside down, and yawns. ‘S’too early to guess. Am I allowed a clue?’ She squints. ‘No.’ ‘Well you look happy about something…’ Matilda grins and wiggles her head. ‘Someone finally lost a few pounds.’ ‘Oh… okay… wow, nice, good job.’ Hearing less excitement in his voice than she’d been expecting shoves a spike of disappointment through her. ‘How much?’ he adds. She cocks her head with another satisfied smile. ‘Three pounds.’ ‘Well done.’ ‘Oh my god– I feel starved though.’ She sighs, looking aside. ‘It’s been like living in hell, not eating.’ His voice is suddenly weak. ‘Does that mean I’m not cooking us breakfast?’ ‘Aw,’ she laughs, bemused, ‘you sound so sad about that!’ ‘I look forward to it. It’s something I do.’ ‘I know.’ Slipping herself off the lounge, she comes around the side and lowers herself back down onto the mattress, crawling close to his side and cradling his face as she speaks to him like a puppy dog. ‘You can cook us breakfast if you want, my little honey bear. That’s very sweet. I would like that very much.’ Then her voice lowers, and she concedes to herself, ‘I just won’t eat too much, is all. I can’t wreck my progress; I only just started seeing results this morning.’ He nods assent. She watches his face. They stare at each other for a moment. Then he forms a smile and begins to draw his feet up. ‘Alright. I’ll get cooking, then.’ Pleased, she rolls onto her back and pays close attention to detail as he throws the blankets off his body. When he sits up and bends forward, his stomach rolls over itself, poking out towards his lap – and that one simple, astonishingly uncomplex physical development is all it takes to remind her just how instantaneously, like a flash of lighting, he can spark an unbearable shot of arousal within her. ‘Hey, wait a minute–’ He pauses and looks over. ‘What is that?’ She grins mischievously, not wanting to show her cards but not exactly feeling in control of herself either, as she reaches out to pull the blankets completely away from his waist. His belly button, pressed flat as he leans into his raised knees, sits between a swell of flesh circling his lower stomach. ‘Oh my god,’ she giggles, overwhelmed by a tornado of fluttering down inside her pelvic floor, ‘He-llo. What happened here? Did you take some of mine?’ Without a word, he turns his face away and swats her hand off. Confused, and beginning to feel a little hurt, she watches him swivel his feet onto the floor and stand up. He pulls on the nearest shirt before showing another inch of his vulnerable stomach and says, ‘I’ll come get you when it’s ready.’ Trying to ignore the irritation surging all hot and fast into the centre of her scalp, she looks over at the television, only half perceiving the images of the world. There are disasters. Many of them. There are political phrases about those disasters. Economies and famines. Borders and wars. She wishes Carlile would let her explore his body more often. But he never does. She has no idea why. She doesn’t even know how to begin talking about it. . . . The girls play a home game that weekend against Soltown FC, who, because of their white and black striped kit, like to think they’re the Juventus of local football. They’re not. Despite the excess weight still impeding her body, Matilda comes into play feeling ambitious and prepared for her body to meet that ambition. She actually convinces herself she’s regaining a sense of fitness again – until halftime comes, and her lungs and legs throb with a slow, numb ache. Margery’s new ultra park-the-bus game plan awards them a painful, scoreless draw that leaves them feeling disillusioned and bored, out of love with the game they once lived for, all the artistic potential of it now sapped and rearranged into a rigid, binary nature that results in nothing but the slow death of imagination. The only positive she encounters comes afterwards, while changing back into her day clothes, and pausing when something feels different. She shifts her tank top side to side, concentrates on the difference as she tests its movement… and comes to realise that the fabric isn’t grabbing her belly as much as usually does. Frowning, she twists her torso back and forth inside the top, trying to gauge the change, and feels a small freedom of movement she hasn’t felt for a long time. She must have lost another parcel of weight. Giving a pleased little ‘hmmh’ under her breath with a look of surprise on her face, she finishes packing her bag. When she gets home, she weighs herself out of curiosity, and discovers two more pounds missing from her total weight. . . . Every year, the league season grants two bye-rounds to each team, scheduled so that a pair of teams get a break at the same time while everyone else continues playing their weekly matches. The sixteenth round of the season gives The Purple Vale Strikers their second bye of the year – meaning a fortnight without a game to play. Thing is, for Matilda, it feels more like hitting a pothole in the run of her week-to-week regularity than anything else. She finds herself rising from bed later than usual, slipping into a later and later sleeping schedule, and not really knowing what to do with herself. Carlile gets a block of days off from his work, and together they come up with the idea of getting away somewhere. Just for a few days or something. It would be nice to rent out a little shack somewhere and show their eyes new, unseen landscapes. After all, Carlile is the one out of the two of them who most deserves some time to rest, to fly away upon a route to switch off from the all-consuming intensity of his job in the kitchen. There's something about the thought of open sky, screaming seagulls, shops with flaking teal paint and broad windows reflecting the dark intensity of the ocean's blue, gleaming white dots of charter boats far offshore, the odd tourist looking over-tanned and out of place – something about it that enchants the mind’s eye into feeling bigger than its stomach. And so, getting carried away with the idea of pressing the pause button of life’s demands, Matilda and Carlile decide at the last minute to extend their little trip out to seven days; an entire week. For their destination, they choose a semi-popular strip of beach in a town by the name of Ballaroo Harbour two and a half hours up the coast where the climate takes a steep turn towards hot. At home the next morning, she fusses around packing, then unpacking, then repacking, then impatiently rearranging her bag with needless bother until Carlile comes past in his car to pick her up along the way. Having left the front door unlocked for him, she hears the latch twist and clunk down the other end of the house from her bedroom, and then the sound of his voice greeting her dad and making some brief small talk. When Carlile finally comes into the living room, he finds her shoving a few remaining items into her suitcase, and when she looks up at him, the first thing she notices is that it looks like he hasn’t shaved in a while – resulting in a slightly rough darkening from his jawline down to his chin. ‘Oo,’ Matilda coos, lips pursed, pausing with her hand halfway inside the suitcase. As she peers closer at his new facial hair, an unusual shine develops in her eyes. ‘I like that, actually,’ she admits. ‘What– this?’ he asks, touching his face, as if he has no idea. She looks at him appreciatively. ‘Hmm… Makes you look like a bit of a daddy.’ He flashes her a startled look. ‘Didn’t know you were into that…’ She shrugs, trying not to laugh. ‘Neither did I. Not until you walked through the door like that, anyway.’ She pouts, deep in thought. Then her eyes smile and she beckons him over with one finger. He takes a step forward, then hesitates, and cranes his head to look around the corner of the kitchen entrance and through to the entertainment area. ‘Not here,’ Matilda reassures him. ‘It’s only dad, in the front room.’ ‘What, again? Jesus, I feel like I never see your parents. Your mum may as well live in Argentina.’ ‘Shut up, you. Come here.’ She closes the remaining distance herself, then stands up on her tippy-toes, chin raised to his face. She feels the warmth of his breath and the early prickliness around his mouth as they kiss. She smiles against his lips, then drops back down on her heels, feeling her backside wiggle a little flabbily, and comprehends the fact that things still haven’t shrunk as much as she might imagine, back there. But the acidic thought deflects off the armour of her rediscovered confidence, and she goes back to her suitcase to zip it up without falling into a self-sour mood. ‘I’m almost ready– just got to fill my bottle, and then let’s go.’ Leaning down to pick up her bottle, she takes the opportunity to steal a quick glance at his stomach. The shirt he’s wearing looks sort of snug around his middle, with the front of his belly sticking out just enough to make her want to reach out and poke it like a little balloon. ‘Had any lunch yet?’ she asks cheekily, letting one hand drag across his belly by purposeful accident as she walks past him to the kitchen. The way it felt soft against the side of her knuckles lingers in her mind. ‘Can you please not?’ he sighs, pulling away. Ignoring him, she fills her bottle and continues, ‘I was thinking we should get something along the way.’ ‘Sure thing. What do you want?’ ‘What do you want?’ She screws the cap on and moves past to fetch her suitcase, throwing hints at him with her eyes. She watches the realisation slowly dawn in his expression. ‘You,’ he says. ‘That’s the correct answer,’ she smiles, moving close to him again. Lifting her hands up around his neck, her eyes flitter up and down his chest and face, and they share a kiss again. ‘Come on, we should go,’ he urges with a low giggle. She nods, her wide eyes angled up into his like lasers. They’d better go. This is going to be an interesting trip. . . . The world pulls away, like stage props drawing back into themselves, all left behind to fade out like the ending of some loud, over-crowded song. It isn’t until the expansive paddocks of wheat and barley are smoothly gliding past outside the window that she comprehends just how free she suddenly feels. Wire fencing and wonky timber stakes flash past like a steady, consistent drumbeat. She can see cows out in the field with their heads down to the yellow grass, and she watches as a few raise their heads to watch the car pass. They don’t have anything else to do. Not now. Not on the road. She feels as if she understands them – the cows. Her reasons, her motives, her instinctive feelings and routine thoughts, her day-to-day sense of attachment to her responsibilities… none of those things are here with her, as though she’d forgotten to pack them, somewhere back there, in the city, abandoned. The cows swing past her trajectory, growing small, vanishing behind the car’s interior beams. She watches trees sweep by. Small ones, tall ones, wide ones. The level of the grass goes up and down. About half an hour ago, they’d stopped by at a small bakery – one of those classic little shops in almost historical buildings that rural towns are famous for. The pastries she’d eaten for lunch feel too big inside her stomach, now that they’ve settled in, making her midsection feel large and awkward, weighing down on top of her bladder. She’ll need to pee later. Ahead in the distance where the road vanishes to a point, just off to the right, low mountain ranges wrinkle the horizon, hazy faint purple. What could be past them? Anything. She knows she’ll find out. She’ll know when she knows. She meditates on this, sleepy, hypnotised by the car’s rushing momentum. Closing her eyes, she touches her stomach, forcing it to relax. She massages its roundness against the flat of her palm. Then she wonders if Carlile looks round. Curious, she rolls her head to the side and opens her eyes languidly – to see that, sure enough, the lower roll poking over his pants is matched by a largeness forcing his upper stomach to extend forward. He drives casually, one arm on the window sill, appearing to be in a state of road-enchanted obliviousness to the way his belly looks so round. She squeezes her lips together to hide a grin she wishes she could let off the leash. She wants to reach over and poke him there, but keeps her hands to herself. She can wait. They have a whole holiday to get touchy. If he lets her. . . . By the time they arrive at the caravan park, it’s already growing dark. Carlile gets out of the car to sign in at the little reception building by the boom gate and collect the key to their cabin. Matilda blinks sleepily, shaking herself awake to look around. It’s too gloomy to make anything out, though a few lights here and there create tiny islands of light. They’ll have to explore the place tomorrow. When Carlile gets back into the car, he puts the handbrake down, and the car rolls around at a slow 10 kp/h while looking for a cabin numbered “14”. She winds her window down and hears the crash of waves through the open twilight breeze. Their cabin is at the far end of the site, down the end of a small cul de sac. They park and get out, taking only their essential luggage inside, too groggy from the long drive and their bodies physically aching for a bed to lay down on. With a quick look around, they see they have a small open kitchen space, a TV hoisted up in the corner, two small lounges beside the kitchen space, and a shower in a cramped room opposite. Matilda dumps her bag in the bedroom where a double bed sits up against the wall with a sliding-door view out to the ocean – too dark to see. She draws the curtains on it for privacy, then lays on the sheets, unleashing a deep sigh. It isn’t long before the coziness of the blankets and the deep privacy of the room lulls them into a swoon, which then ramps up into arousal, and suddenly they’re making love like they know nobody’s watching. That is, right up until Carlile goes distant, all of a sudden. Again. An irritated hiss from Matilda. ‘Okay. No. Stop. What is it this time.’ She says it more like a statement than a question. But Carlile avoids answering, opting instead to reach for her chest, intent on groping the pillow of her breast. ‘No.’ She bats his hand away with her forearm, the movement causing her breasts to wiggle where they hang on her chest. ‘Not until you answer me. What is it?’ Then a thought clouds her eyes, and her visage grows dark. ‘Wait up, this isn’t about your stupid brother again, is it?’ He begins to speak, but his words catch in his throat, and his eyes slip to one side as the cogs in his mind visibly spin. ‘If it is,’ Matilda glares, ‘I’m going to do something about it this time. I’m sick of this.’ ‘Sick of what?’ ‘This! Every time we start to have fun, you back out at the last minute. You go weird. You withdraw.’ ‘No, I–’ ‘Yes. You. Do. And I’m over it.’ With eyes showing visible hurt, Carlile rises on his elbows until he’s sitting, and she can’t help but watch as his belly appears, bulging over his lap, rolling out in real time, all of its soft mass pressed into the same vicinity. Sitting up to mirror him, Matilda looks into his eyes, and sees genuine hurt beneath their grey hue – but it’s not enough to dislodge the frustration from where it sits stuck in her heart. ‘I’m sorry babe, but I just don’t get it,’ she pleads. ‘You’re always fixated on your fucking brother.’ She feels her chest overheating as she speaks her mind. ‘We’re out in the middle of nowhere. I’m here, practically sitting on you, naked as all fuck, and you’re there, distracted by some other bullshit? You’d be the worst teammate. No, wait– I’m sorry, look–’ She stops, plants her hands on the sheets to ground herself, and blows air into her cheeks. ‘I just want us to be us. You know? Carl? Please. Just us.’ He gestures with his hands. ‘You don’t understand, I’m not distracted by him, not at all, it’s–’ ‘Bull-fucking-shit, Carl!’ raising in volume, her anger stoked straight back into flaming life. ‘Every time we do this, you’re the same. You fade away, just go all limp and distracted, like you don’t know I’m right here trying to get you to fuck me until– God! I just want us to fuck right now, so bad– don’t you get that? Why aren’t you jumping on me? I can’t believe I have to tell you I want to be fucked! Fuck me, you stupid silly dumb boy; fuck me in the pussy, fuck me in the ass, fuck me in the fucking face! Fuck me in the mouth for all I care! My parents aren’t here! Neither are yours! No one’s here! You fucking brother isn’t! I’m horny as fuck and I’m yours for the night, and the next goddamn fucking week! How do I literally have to tell you that? I’m here. This is me! Here! Naked! Fat! And getting f–’ She freezes, then barks, ‘–Fatter!’ Then her shoulders sink as she visibly delfates. ‘Because I can’t help myself fucking eating too many custard tarts at a town bakery… Or is that it? You secretly can’t deal with it? All this fat all over me? Is it because of what I‘ve become?’ He doesn’t respond immediately. In the three heart-beats it takes for him to come up with something – too long – she verbally launches at him, eyes wide and gleaming with frustration. ‘Oh my god! It is! You do! You do hate it, don’t you! I can’t believe this! Why didn’t you fucking say something before?’ Suddenly his eyes turn animalistic like a reactive black flame, and he turns to yell at her, ‘I’m the one getting fat here! You’re doing it to me too!’ ‘What!’ she spits, then pushes herself backwards to sit further away from him on the bed, legs folded defensively beneath her. Her eyes are ringed with intense lines of spite. ‘I have not! You’re the one who used to be an obese fuck, remember? The school-fatty, the kid who got fat as a fuck off his own cooking, he was so greedy–’ ‘No way! Have you seen yourself? You always make me eat shit when I don’t want it! As if you can put this on me!’ Matilda’s eyes narrow. ‘You love it,’ she sneers, leaning forward to drive the words home, ‘don’t you…? You’re actually just a greedy fat pig who can’t say “no”. Ever. I’m not even “enabling” you– you’re just weak in the first place. Admit it– you eat whatever I put in front of you, I don’t even have to tell you to, that’s why you’ve grown that chubby little beer belly on you in like, five fucking weeks,’ reaching out to slap his paunch harder than she planned, leaving a pink mark to appear after the quick jiggle of his blubber mutes itself. Carlile scoots away and pulls the sheets up to his waist, holding one hand out to fend off her attacks. Getting on all fours, she crawls towards him, feeling her tits hang with their added weight. She reaches out to grab the sheets, trying to tug it free. ‘Look at you,’ she taunts as she tugs and pulls, ‘you’re such a weak man-boy.’ She sits up on her haunches beside him, facing him frontally, and lets her belly grow with her diaphragm, inflating it, to make herself seem bigger, more imposing, and sticks her chest out so her breasts hang liberally. ‘Stop covering yourself up like a fucking nun. I already know what you look like naked.’ She jabs her hand forward, the movement causing thirty pounds of layered blubber to jiggle, and grabs the sheet, ripping it away from him as he looks up at her with suspicious, guarded eyes. Without the sheet, he makes no attempt to hide himself, and resigns to his fate of exposed nakedness in front of her. Throwing her fingers across her open lips in pantomime shock, Matilda gasps. ‘Look at that,’ she says in a low tone of appalled marvel. Leaning forward from her haunches, she spreads her hands on each side of his belly, shakes it so it wobbles from side to side. ‘Look at your tummy. Look at that fatness. Look how big it looks. You’re making it bigger with all your eating, you know, baby– and it’ll keep happening, too. You can’t fucking resist it, can you? Don’t lie to me about it. You’ve been fat once; you can do it again. I don’t even need to tell you to eat, you just do it anyway.’ ‘Please get off me.’ She gasps again. ‘What?’ When she slides onto him and tries to straddle further up along his body, he outmuscles her and gives her a sharp shove, sending her backwards, off balance with her weight and momentum, onto the end of the bed where she catches her fall on her elbows. With rage in her eyes and a sneer twisting her lips, she pushes herself up and tries to launch another attack. But he swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits there in a slouch, watching her out the corner of his eyes with solemn dejection on his face. He looks down at the carpet. She bites the inside of her mouth. ‘So. Here we are. This is a random bed, in a random room. In a shack in the middle of nowhere, without anyone around, and you decide to go and be fucking distant again. Just straight-up reject me. That’s just great.’ He watches her. ‘What now?’ she gestures with her hands. ‘What are you even thinking? Just fucking tell me. You never tell me what you’re thinking. Are you thinking I’m too fat? I’m ugly now? Yeah, well I am! Look at all this!’ Holding eye contact, she grabs her stomach, feeling its cool, thick flesh fill her fingers, and jostles it around. ‘But I didn’t do this for you, did I? Maybe I would do something for you, though, if you goddamn reciprocated for once!’ Carlile watches her for a moment longer, then lifts his head to the ceiling and sighs at its blank white nothingness… something desperate and imprisoned beginning to surface upon his face, rising up from the deep. She groans. ‘You always do this.’ ‘I’m sorry…’ ‘For fuck sake, Carl, just stop it! I’m waiting here. All I wanted was for you to fuck me, and now you don’t want to be in the present moment? Do something for me, just for once. Tell me. That’s all I want. Tell me what it is and I’ll do anything for you.’ A long stretch of silence while Carlile pulls at the skin of his wrists, deliberating, and struggling, and trying. At last, in a small, dejected but renewed voice, he says, ‘Fine.’ ‘Fine?’ she asks. When he turns to face her, as suddenly as a murderous barn owl, Matilda almost has to look away. She’s never seen him look at her so sincerely, so viciously. His face is firm, nostrils constricted. The shadows in the geometry of his eyes look deeper than ever. When he speaks, his lips barely move, and his voice drives from low down within his throat. ‘You,’ he says, eyes turning to dark, glass orbs. ‘It’s the way… the thing of it is… it’s how you’ve been getting… fat,’ he says, licking his lips. His chest heaves as his breath comes in and out like the lungs of an industrial furnace. Her face flattens in an instant like a raised shield. ‘What about it?’ Carlile’s eyes are narrow, but his pupils are so heavy and black it makes her heart shudder. Then he says, ‘The way you’ve– the way you’ve been getting fat… you see…’ He looks into the epicentre of her eyes, her heart, her soul. ‘It has to be the single hottest thing I have ever watched in my entire life.’ Matilda’s tongue moves behind her teeth. She stares at him, unsure how to respond or what to feel. Did he say what he just said? If so, did he mean it? Frozen like a broken computer, she blinks a couple of times, raises one finger to scratch under her nose. She blinks again, eyes focussing back together. ‘You… you uhm…’ But she can hardly speak. She twists her face like she’s just snorted lemon juice, disbelieving. ‘Wait, what?’ His breaths run deep and slow. She can hear them. Something dark and roiling-black as an Oceanic wave has broken in him, flooding his presence with something she’s never seen him possess before this moment. Her heart begins to swallow itself with each pulse, and she puts the end of her thumb between her lips, biting her skin. ‘I said,’ Carlile reiterates with great deliberation, looking at her like a teacher telling off the same student for the third time in a row, ‘that it has been the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.’ It takes a long time for her to say anything. ‘You’re not serious.’ ‘I’m serious.’ ‘No you’re not, stop joking.’ ‘I’m serious.’ ‘Fuck off, Carl, no you’re not– it actually isn’t funny.’ ‘I am serious.’ ‘But… no… I… You’re… serious?’ ‘I said,’ and this time he leans forward, bringing his face close to hers, almost threatening, ‘I’m serious.’ ‘You…’ Squinting in confusion, Matilda looks down between her softened breasts at the full curve of her stomach, remembering that inside that pudgy parabola is her body, and around it sits the layer of fat. ‘Are you saying you like this?’ He stares up at her from the floor of a depth of hunger that cannot be described – and could not be misinterpreted either, even if one tried to. It is clear what he means. The understanding screams at her. They share a spell of revelatory stillness together. A long, muted span of silent regard. Decrypting each other’s surface thoughts. Cracking the codes of inner worlds. ‘Okay, then.’ Her voice is quiet, gentle, and reasonable. ‘So, then… if you’re being serious… if you’re telling the truth about liking… this… then why are you always shying away from me?’ ‘I was stuck.’ ‘Why?’ she asks, even though she’s beginning to understand that she already knows, through the ironic reality of her own experience. ‘I didn’t think I could admit it.’ ‘Oh. Okay. But why?’ He shakes his head, still glaring directly into her eyes. ‘I don’t know why. Something stops me from sharing it.’ ‘Bullshit you “don’t know”.’ Matilda’s shoulders drop. ‘Here you go again, just when I thought we were getting somewhere.’ Chewing her upper lip, she gets on all fours, crawls towards him and pushes him down by the throat. He stares up at her, and his eyes trace down her neck to her hanging breasts, and lower to her stomach softly drooping with its weight like a full hammock. He sucks his lips through his teeth, his eyes glued to her gut, severe with arousal. ‘I… don’t know why I couldn’t,’ he says again. She closes her eyes and sighs. Shaking her head, she lifts one chubby thigh over his torso and plants herself on his stomach. ‘Say it.’ ‘…’ ‘Say it, you weak-willed little piggy. You know you want to.’ She slides back a little, resting her groin on the top of his pelvis, feeling his upright cock stand to attention against the back of her ass. ‘Say it or I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t cum again in your life.’ His voice escapes from lungs trembling with pleasure. ‘I was worried.’ ‘About what?’ Lifting her plump hips up to sit on the tip of his cock, all of it standing so stiff it barely bends under her weight as she presses her hot groin down upon him. He gasps and arches his back. ‘Worried about what you’d think,’ he admits. ‘And what would I “think”?’ she asks, running the lips of her wettened pussy up and down the head of his cock. He stutters, ‘That you’d hate it– and– and hate me.’ ‘Here you go again; getting distant. You stupid boy.’ She presses her hand into the centre of his soft stomach. The layer of squish slides around a little, anchored by the firm bulge of his distended stomach muscles beneath. Holding him down, she runs her free hand up her own flanks, letting her adipose layer curl under her fingers, then feeling up under her own breast and up over her stiffening nipples. Her breast slips out from her hand, dropping with a tiny smack against the flesh of her ribcage, causing a brief shockwave down her torso. He tries to raise his hand in sudden objection. ‘I haven’t got protection–’ Gazing down at him, she reaches past the swell of her stomach to take his cock and nestle it between the lips of her overheating pussy. Wriggling to make smaller adjustments, she lowers herself all the way down, swallowing him, and leans into his body. ‘You silly boy, stupid boy.’ She leans back, and he moans. Then she leans forward again, a rhythm in her hips beginning to take form, and then gather speed, a steam train building thrust after thrust as it comes into motion. Pushing her hands down into his stomach and leaning her weight onto him as she kneads his belly, she looks down into his helpless upturned eyes with a smirk. ‘Don’t have protection? I already told you,’ she says, ‘I don’t fucking care.’ . . .

Why Margery would visit an ice cream parlour, of all places in this city, is a question that tangles itself around her mental ankle and pulls her subconscious down the cracks of its unresolved contradictions until two days later, when it’s time to prepare for the weekend’s game, and she is finally given a distraction that isn’t just playing Football Manager and snacking on shortbread biscuits, cheese soufflé, gourmet yoghurt packs, chocolates, muffins, and various other caloric bombshells. The Purple Vale Strikers are entering their thirteenth consecutive match week of the season against the Riselda Cats, who, that Saturday, turn up in their black and pink uniforms to challenge them at their home grounds. The Cats had been subtly booked-in by locals as favourites to win outright – but in a contradictory spark of magic, things turn out differently for once. The game kicks off, and almost immediately descends into a deadlock. The two teams suffocate each other with constant pressure and attacking runs that are neutered faster than anyone can get the ball past the first line of defence, quickly devolving into a scrappy match of missed shots, clogged passing lanes and scuffed kicks. Matilda’s heart throbs under the effort and shame narrows her vision as it becomes that much more obvious how far behind she’s left her athletic ability, somewhere back at home, beneath all those boxes, wrappers and plastic trays. Last year she would have been able to break the deadlock and influence play in their favour with the deft flick of a faked shot that sends a defender the wrong way and then bomb through the defence line. Tonight, though, her body’s momentum refuses to switch directions at a moment’s notice like it used to, insisting on lagging a split second behind her best efforts to change it, and every lunging step of her sprint sends a new jolt up her legs. It’s not long before she’s blowing chunks from her lungs sprinting just halfway up the pitch. It’s all too clear, now, she understands, having to slow down and gulp lungfuls of air with her hands on her knees. It’s not her ability she’s lost. Not her knowledge, nor her intuition. Not even her skillset. What she’s lost is her fitness. Her agility. To get her body to do whatever she asks it to do, for a concentrated, sustained period of time, is no longer hers to take for granted. What she had, there, is beginning to disappear. Halftime arrives like the deliverance of some biblical advent of grace she thought would never arrive, and she literally hits the wall of the change room with her back, chest heaving, sliding down like a wet rag until her backside hits the floor. The girls try their best not to stare at her. When they run back out onto the pitch, she walks with legs so stiff with lactic acid it feels like someone else is moving them for her, as if the connection between her legs and her mind has been severed. Her thighs feel bloodless and invisible as she wobbles up and down the pitch in chase of the play, none of her teammates looking to pass to her except when they’ve got no other choice. Each minute groans past the next, one by one, as the game proceeds from one agonising play to the next. It’s like waiting for paint to dry to put the next coat on, and the next, and the next, and the… Out of a sudden nowhere, there comes a desperate goal, followed by another, and then two in retaliation – Purple Vale 2, then Cats 2. Then at the eighty-seventh minute, Matilda finds herself lagging behind the rest of the team who have packed themselves into the opposition’s 18-yard box after a bout of sustained pressure. She floats behind everybody, aimlessly crabbing left and right so she looks busy, in truth hyperventilating as she watches and hopes others do the hard work. It’s a high-intensity passage of play, right now, with the Cats squashed like sardines into their goal square trying to stop a shot from slipping in, Matilda’s team passing around and around until somebody finds a gap to exploit. Then an enemy defender lunges forward to block a pass, but scuffs it wide. The ball spits out of play towards Mandy, who sticks her leg out so far she has to land on her ass and hands… But the ball skids just beyond the read of her toes, and comes rolling out across the patch of grass in front of Matilda. All heads turn towards her as if they’d forgotten she was even there, and two nearby Cats girls are already turning to sprint at her. Twenty yards ahead of her, the goal posts are a bright white rectangle, the leftmost portion of the net as open as a hungry cavity, left by a goalkeeper still trying to get a line of sight on the ball’s confused location. Matilda is launching on instinct. She leaps towards the ball, plants her left foot in its path, bringing thirty pounds more weight than she’s used to down on her ankle, pulls her right leg back and swings her foot down against the ball, wrapping the inside of her boot around its bottom hemisphere and sending it arcing right up over everyone’s heads, curling left, and down into the top corner of the net, shortly followed by the goalie’s desperate green glove reaching for it, too late. The back of the net ripples and the girls all scream in celebration, turning to run towards Matilda. All except Elisha and Margery. The icey-eyed captain looks towards the goal official to make sure there’s no foul, then looks across at Margery, who simply stands with her arms crossed and an expression of sensible, contained pleasure on her face. But it’s flattened by disregard. She cannot afford to feel happiness, of course – not when her most hated player is still huffing and puffing on the field. The girls run in and surround Matilda, yelling and laughing, grabbing her hands and pulling her into a hug. She stands in the middle of it all, getting rocked and bumped around, half stunned by the feat of instinctive technique she’d just pulled off. She can feel her midsection bumping into their hard bodies, and it makes her want to writhe into a puddle of embarrassment. Feeling a smile grow on her face nonetheless, she lets the girls knock her about like a ship in the wind, then stumbles and winces as her left ankle shouts pain at her attention. As the girls disperse and jog away one by one, celebrations giving way to resuming play, Matilda reaches down to feel her lower leg. There’s a spot on the back of her neck upon which she can feel Margery’s eyes glaring at her. She flexes her left ankle, and feels it twinge with a round, deep pain. She’s definitely done something to it. Hiding a grimace, she straightens her back and returns to her starting position with the rest of the girls, her walk developing into a small limp that she has to conceal by pretending she’s skipping. The last five minutes go by like a fever dream of rushed attacks and panicked defensive manoeuvres before the official makes the whistle screech, and the girls let out a shout of relieved victory. Purple Vale Strikers 3 - 2 Riselda Cats. The teams mingle and shake hands before departing. Matilda can barely breathe, her lungs are so sore. Evangeline and Mandy come over to pat her on the shoulder and congratulate her, faces falling into a fraction of doubt as they realise how out of breath she is. In the locker room, there is an atmosphere of sensible, contained excitement, with the girls chatting happily and sharing bouts of laughter here and there for what feels like the first time all year. As usual, Margery cannot stand to be anywhere near Matilda, and keeps her distance across the other side of the room. But later on, when Matilda is on her way out of the club, Margery finds a way to corner her like a rat. ‘You may have scored the winning goal,’ the manager says without giving Matilda a chance to recover from being startled, ‘but at what cost?’ But Margery doesn’t even wait for a response, her eyes flat and grey as lost coins. ‘At what cost, Matilda? At the cost of enjoying a Sunday stroll with yourself across the back line? For the entire game? You seem to forget I see you. You were lucky, understand. You almost caused us to concede– yet again– and lose another three points from our standing in the season. You were lucky to find yourself in the right place at the right time, and be given, essentially, what was, in reality, a free kick. Hmm? You should have scored from that. I think you know this. You were lucky. Lucky to still be here, at this club, I’d think. I never believed anyone could get so out of shape in such a short amount of time, but here I am, learning that it’s possible. What did I tell you the last time we had this conversation, Matilda? What did I say about this specifically?’ Margery’s hand descends, coming forth, almost reaching down to Matilda’s overfed middle – the ovular shape of which seems to be sticking out in her blue-grey tank top, the fabric tighter than usual. Something unreadable, and entirely out of place, moves like the shade of a passing cloud across Margery’s eyes, and she holds her hand back. She clasps her hands behind her back, becoming cold and contemplative. ‘Never mind. Never mind what I said. You heard what I had to say to you. I have said it countless times now. It was all I needed to spend my energy on. Don’t make me spend more, Matilda.’ Then she scowls. ‘I’m so sick of looking at you.’ And with that, swoops around her cornered body and stalks away, off into the facility’s corridors. . . . ‘I think… I think Margery was going to touch my belly today,’ she says to Carlile as they laze in their underwear together on the lounge. She has her head on his shoulder as she speaks. He screws his face up. ‘She what?’ ‘I think she tried to feel my stomach. It was weird. I mean, I know I look chubby enough to poke like a balloon, but I never thought something like that could happen… And I was still out of breath, like all drained after the match, which probably means I wasn’t paying attention. It’s happened to me a couple times now, I think. Like, I’ll forget that I need to suck in, and it’ll make me look fatter. It… sucks.’ ‘She really did that?’ Carlile frowns, a strange, troubled expression dirtying his brow. ‘That’s really strange…’ ‘I know.’ She lowers her eyes to her stomach. Lying up against him with her torso angled at a sideways twist, the soft bulge of her belly slopes sideways. Bribed by her curiosity, she sucks it in and pushes it out a few times, watching it retract and grow, retreat and expand, then gives it a poke so that her fingernail sinks down, deep, pressing even deeper than her buried abdominal muscles. She watches as her fingertip gets folded away in between two slopes of pudge. ‘But I was thinking,’ she wonders, moving her idle hand away, laying it to rest upon Carlile’s knee and caressing him, ‘remember the story your uncle Trevor told about her? About Margery? Maybe she’s triggered by me, or something. If it’s true she used to struggle with her weight, and all, then…’ He peers down at her. ‘Is she like that?’ ‘You mean triggerable? You only need to get yelled at by her once to know. But she was chubby, once. If it was that traumatic for her… maybe never moved past it. Felt like she failed. The Margery I know is stone cold most of the time. Like, you’d think she’s a walking dead woman. But then she freaks out over the smallest things, like she’s built up all this pressure in herself– maybe I remind her of when she used to look like this, and she pops. Like I’m gonna pop if I keep fucking eating like this.’ An awkward moment of silence from Carlile. Matilda rolls her eyes up at the ceiling. ‘Oh my god! Will you stop that already! I’m trying to lose this thing now anyway, remember?’ She underscores the declaration with a firm pat on her stomach, feeling the fleshy surface around her belly button jitter with a terse wobble that she doesn’t bother moving her eyes to look at like she usually would. No response from Carlile. She can sense him letting out air with uneasy slowness, like a balloon with a microscopic hole in it. ‘What is up with you?’ she asks. He exhales fully. ‘I find it weird– Margery doing that.’ ‘I know,’ she sighs, ‘I know,’ running her hand up his thigh until it meets his hip. ‘So do I.’ Her eyes fall to his waist, and she sees that the underside of his belly has started to fill up and come over the drawstrings of his shorts. . . . The team’s next match, away against Kilamanara FC, is as scrappy as a match can get, and resolves in a 1 - 1 draw, with neither team producing much quality. At the halftime whistle, Matilda can barely play any longer, plonking her backside on the grass to gasp for air before gathering enough strength in her legs to stand back up and stumble back to the change rooms. Margery avoids coming anywhere near Matilda, and her teammates glance at her with eyes that attempt to disguise pity behind something unreadable. Everyone is secretly holding at bay feelings of disappointment that she hasn’t matched last week’s surprise goal. When it’s time to return to the pitch, she lets herself be the last one out, gathering a few final breaths of rejuvenation. But Ilda comes marching along and pulls her up by the arm, slapping her lightly across the cheek. ‘Straighten yourself out!’ Ilda’s bark bounces off the ceramic walls, causing the last of the girls to scamper out of the room at an accelerated trot. Nobody wants to be around to hear what they know is coming. Matilda stands on weak legs, feeling deserted. ‘Listen to me,’ Ilda pleads, her thin eyebrows pinching upwards into the middle of her forehead. ‘You must do something about zhis!’ splaying her fingers with helpless anger at Matilda’s body. ‘You need to fix zhis. You are letting the team down. Over, zhen over again. How can you not see? She is fürious– Margery is fürious– do you understand what I tell you?’ The coach looks into Matilda’s eyes. ‘You will be kicked from the club, Matilda!’ The night air outside is cold as death. It makes her skin feel dry. She makes her way back out onto the pitch in a state of moodless neutrality, abstracted from her emotions. It’s been happening more and more, each time hell comes down on her like this. She can’t feel their rage fully anymore, the edges turned blunt from overuse. She can only see their faces contort, watch the tirade spill out like a landslide she knows the start, middle and end of already in advance, and simply wait in subdued silence until it’s over – she watches their lips peel, mouths eject spittled words, teeth flash, noses tense with disgust, eyes wide open and ringed with lines of fury. Twenty minutes into the second half of play, she actually gets substituted off for Rhianna Crossman. Being swapped out like this has never happened before. The only time she’s ever been subbed in her career at the club was a year and a half ago when she was feeling ill, a separate time when she was sick again, and then a year before that when they were leading by seven goals, four of them hers, winning so comfortably that Kendra had given her and a few others an early rest. So at home with playing the full ninety minutes is she, that when the ball goes out of the play from a pinched kick, and coach Karen starts yelling out from the sidelines, it takes Matilda far too long until she realises the name being called is her own. She looks over her shoulder, confused, and sees both Karen and Ilda beckoning with their hands for her to come off the pitch urgently. Their faces are tense with frustration, and Rhianna is standing beside them jumping up and down on her heels nervously to warm up. When Matilda comes close, Rhianna leans into a run and sprints past, while Matilda trots out on knees that feel like concrete hinges. She barely pays attention to Karen criticising her efforts as she walks past the bench and down the corridor, with the sounds of the game fading behind her, and into the changerooms where she can catch her breath in peace. Nobody is in here with her. The reverberations of her panting bounce off the walls, booming back into her ears. Once she’s caught her breath, she decides to simply sit and wait, incredibly still, almost buddhist in her silence. She hears the final whistle blow from outside, and sits like a rock among rushing water as everyone filters back inside to change in an apathetic mood. . At night, as she drives through the city, it is so peaceful in all its irrelevant business and leisurely commotion that it makes her want to stop by the river that cuts through the metropolitan parklands, find a place to sit at its banks, watch ducks waddle past in silence, and cry. Back home in the solitary safety of her bed, she becomes inexplicably aware of her ankle all of a sudden. She rolls it around and feels it yelp in pain. She must have injured herself again, without knowing. Or maybe compounded the same damage from last week when she landed on her ankle after kicking that last-minute winner. Despite all the things Ilda had yelled at her today during half-time, and all the threats of expulsion from the team over the months, Margery has never followed through. Nor has Matilda received any calls or messages about it. If it was ever going to happen, she would have found out by now. What she does know is that it’s all become an impossible knot. She knows she’s weighing the team down. She can feel it, not only as a figure of speech, but physically, all over her body. Perhaps she’s already reached the limits of Margery’s loathing, and to make the manager hate her any deeper while still being kept on the team is like asking a balloon to hold fast against the press of a needle. What is there left to do? She contemplates Margery’s hidden past. The failure imbued in it. The self-loathing oozing out into the rest of the woman’s life. The level of hatred the manager has for Matilda is probably less to do with her efforts than her physical form – a living reminder of Margery’s own failures, her own loss, her own punctured dreams. So therein lies the answer of what to do, Matilda thinks. Remind her. Frighten her. Scare her with fatness. Taunt her with living images of her past. Make her crumble under the weight of her fatphobia. Drive her kicking and screaming away into the night from whence she came like a vampire under the approach of a rising sun. . . . The beeping phone alarm screams straight into her ear canal early the next A.M., a gunshot of adrenaline directly into her nervous system. When she wrestles her eyes open, the pillow against her cheek feels damp, and so does her hair. The act of rolling over to push herself up delivers a rush of blood to her head that takes a moment to depart. Her blurry vision slowly sharpens to the sight of half-eaten packets and wrappers; the same ones she now remembers accompanied her to bed last night before she’d turned the lights out and been woozed into an aching post-binge coma. Something about the grey, washed-out flatness of the morning’s drizzly light holds her captive to seeing things with melancholic honesty, with nowhere to hide from truth. Leaning forward to gingerly touch the plastic wrapping, she cannot dodge the confession; she’s betrayed her willpower again. How many times now? This has been happening every day. Snacking, eating a meal, snacking, then eating a full meal, and then snacking again on the pretence of “hunger”. But she isn’t even sure she knows what it is to feel hunger anymore – there’s just this vague feeling that something is not there inside of her. Anything could be “hunger”. She could push a whole parmigiana down into her stomach, and the moment the smallest pinch of it gets funnelled along, her body would detect the absence and “hunger” would rush in to fill the void. Having cemented a habit of over-consumption on a never ending basis has probably skewed her body’s rader so far off balance that if she had one breakfast, lunch and dinner, it would feel like starving. It would feel like wartime rations. It would leave her jonesing in the dust of starvation for the first bit of food she lays her eyes on? Would she salivate at the mere sound of the word “food”? With a cynical grunt, she slides off her bed and hops up onto bare feet, sensing her waistline react with a terse jiggle. She cringes. Is this recent? Well, everything is recent — it’s a question of how recent. She’s been discovering changes in such rapid succession that it’s becoming difficult to place changes on a timeline of discernible events. Down the hallway in the bathroom, the window is open just a crack, letting in a cold but calm breeze. She stands on her tiptoes to pull it shut, then drops back down on her heels, a shockwave shooting up the back of her thighs and her torso. She won’t look in the mirror, this time. There’s no point to it. She already knows all there is to know. But, feeling her thoughts suddenly plunge deep into curiosity, she does shoot a glance down at the cupboard containing the scales. She stares at it with a distractedly doubtful frown, and after a moment of slack-jawed indecision, squats down to retrieve the scales. She chews on her upper lip and peers over her shoulder to make sure the door is closed for privacy, then rises, and steps up onto the ricketty plastic square. After a moment of needle-wagging calibration, the dial condemns Matilda’s body to 180 lbs of gravity. She takes a sharp breath with a bolt of shock that hits her in the jaw hinges like a child’s first sugar-high, washing through her face, into her chest, down into the soles of her feet. Quick mental maths tells her she’s somehow three pounds heavier. Fantastic. Three butter-blocks’ worth of fat, welcomed straight back onto her body, just like that, seemingly overnight. Shoving the scales back into the cupboard, sending them out of sight like an embarrassing photograph, she gives the fat on her body an experimental pinch through her pyjama shirt, trying to see if she can tell where those returned pounds have shown up. But it’s all too ambiguous. Back in her room, she finds all her clothes except the new outfits she bought last week are tight. Muttering one swear-word after another under her breath, she cycles through all her pieces of clothing until she finds something that fits — but item after item becomes stuck, to varying degrees, on different areas of her body, and they all end up chucked into a resentful pile on the carpeted floor. But she’s done this to herself. It’s a fact she knows as well as what day it is. There were days, not far over her shoulder chronologically, when her body looked like a glove wrapped on bone structure and muscle, when she was as fit as a leaping gazelle… a time when her breasts were almost half the size they are now… a time when her ass didn’t take up nearly an entire seat’s padding… a time when it was so rare to think about her belly that she barely knew she had one. Now it sticks out from her with a small gravitational mass of its own, with obnoxious, round geometry; a semi-sphere of soft skin suffused with sensitive nerve endings she is able to gently run her hands across, and shudder at the warm ooze of feeling and sensation that proliferates across it… It’s possible to starve and exercise her weight back down. But it’s just as possible to let it go, and watch it continue to grow, simply by… doing nothing. Left to its own momentum, her body is going to grow. The thought chills her entire body, just as much as it excites her… scares the living shit out of her as much as it intrigues her. It feels like a sign that says “Do Not Touch” in capitalised lettering so offensively bold and red that you could not miss even if you tried – but you cannot stop yourself from ignoring the command. That one thing you’ve been told not to do, just makes you want to all the more. . At around ten o’clock later that day, her shift with Dr Goodwynn at the clinic results in a sort of miniature counselling lecture. Must have been something in the way Matilda carried herself into the building that morning — perhaps a subconscious drooping of her shoulders, a subtle dodging of eye contact, clasping her hands — that eventually triggers Dr Goodwynn’s body-language detector, diverting that magnanimous woman into her therapist-mode. Without realising it, Matilda has been sitting in her chair like a bag of sand, even as she watches Dr Goodwynn speak and gesticulate with a black pen. Never eschew someone’s words when their hands and an object mediate their words and your ears – their thoughts hold enough meaning to need a conduit for translation. But Matilda cannot give the entire scope of her attention to what Dr Goodwynn is saying. Her low spirits make her feel drugged and foggy, leaving her too dull in the mind for anything too philosophical at the moment. From the few pieces she pays attention to, it’s Dr Goodwynn’s idea that we are all burdened with a “self”. Something about how it’s a “cosmic tragedy” to have an “identity” at all. Something about how sad it is that we have to endure the feeling of self-inflicted shame — “if ” we choose to. But all these ideas are bleeding into one, lately, like spilled paint. All the coaches’ shouting, all the criticism, all the averted eyes of peers — even the helpful diatribes of a benevolent mentor such as the Doctor herself… It’s all different shades of the same grey sludge. She’s heard it all before. Nobody can say anything she hasn’t already thought about herself. By the time day’s closure rolls in, Dr Goodynn’s words have the opposite of their intended effect. What occurs – far from the spiritual liberation Dr Goodwynn wanted to send Matilda in the direction of – is instead a renewed falling sensation. When Matilda gets home, she decides she must begin starving herself. Much to her surprise, she actually manages to do it for longer than she expects. . . . A few days of eating nothing but bare basics go by. Matilda never knew hunger could hurt. She skips breakfast entirely, has a lunch so small that it could be folded into the size of a baseball, and makes sure to have no more than one serve of the risotto her dad cooks for dinner. The waves of hunger are so intense that they begin creeping into the realms of stabbing sensation. Through the week, her mood takes a head-first dive, tainting everything around her with a stain of acidic irritation. Anything unexpected makes her feel pissed off. Loud or sudden sounds make her want to yell at whoever made them. Things that don’t look right seem purposefully arranged in such a way as to bother her, as if their creator knew what to or not to include in the arrangement to make it look stupid. In her more reflective moments, she knows Carlile is suffering for it, undeservedly. But then, when the hunger hits again, she’s suddenly in the wrong mood to even think about formulating an apology. By the end of the week, a night spent in her bed by herself sends her into the bathroom, unable to fall asleep due to an uncunabating swirl of agitation mixing her chest’s parts into themselves. It’s late at night, well past the a.m., and the hallway’s carpet feels cool beneath her feet. She feels her way along the walls into the tiled bathroom and its blindingly cold light. If starving herself is going to bring such out-of-character bouts of instability, then she needs to know the results are coming along with it. She needs a reason to keep putting herself through this soul-wrecking self-abuse. When she steps onto the scales, she locks her fingers and fidgets as she waits for the number. One-eighty. Just. She expels a lungful of air she didn’t even know she was holding and pleads thanks to the ceiling with such gratitude that the bathroom walls might as well be the stained glass windows of a cathedral. She steps back onto the scale once more, just to be sure, then packs it away back under the basin. So, that’s almost five days with no visible increase in her weight. No loss, but no gain. She looks down at herself, then collects two handfuls of her belly, measuring them in her grip. For the first time in weeks, this mass of blubbery matter hasn’t grown. It’s just stayed the same, frozen like a dog waiting for its next instruction. If she can just stop herself from eating a little longer, and force her stomach capacity to shrink so her appetite begins demanding smaller and smaller portions, then maybe the growth of her belly won’t just stop – it might even begin to reverse. When that happens, she’ll know she’s succeeded. . . . When she arrives at training, she’s late again. Not out of lethargy and laziness, this time, but out of stubborn belligerence. Even though the blubber is about to leave her body, Matilda knows her message cannot afford to go nowhere: the message that she does not want Margery at her club. Never has, never will. An excruciating hunger eats away at her insides as she parks her car and slips into the back corridor of the facility as stealthy as possible, poking her head through the door of the locker rooms to look around and make sure nobody’s around. It’s just her. The tiled walls echo softly as she opens her locker and takes out her folded training kit; the purple shirt, the ivory white shorts and socks of the club. Holding the familiar shirt up before her eyes, she takes a moment to exult in the grandness of its meaning. The emblem. The number 18 on the back and the sleeves. The particular lines and shades of its design. On the outer seam of the shorts, she spots a loose thread. If that splits any further, it could unravel all the way down the line. It’s something she can fix by asking admin to order a new pair – but the subject of waist measurements and new clothing is not something she wants to talk to anybody about. Not right now. Maybe when she’s thinner again. Bending over to slip her feet into the shorts, she lifts them up over her knees, up her thighs, until finally – at this far end of a quest to accumulate flesh around her hips – she feels the elastic band reach the end of its stretch. It’s opened as wide as it can go. When she lets go, it grabs her just below her upper hips, cutting into her body’s softness. Every last fold and rumple in the shorts’ fabric has tightened into a series of sharp creases; nothing much remains for the growing circumference of her thighs. She can feel the back end seam cutting into the three-point intersection under the rear of her groin and her ass cheeks. After putting the shirt over her head, she finds herself tugging the hem down multiple times, unable to rid herself of the feeling that something isn’t sitting right. Inside the locker’s door is a small, dingy mirror that she hasn’t looked at in probably as many days as pounds she’s gained. Biting the corner of her lower lip, she pulls the door open wide and angles it so she can see her reflection. The structure of her belly is so obvious that she could use it to create a sculpting cast. It bulges into the space left in the front of the shirt, the dark purple fabric matching the spherical slope of her paunch at nearly a direct 1:1 ratio. And what’s going on up here? She rolls her shoulders, testing the fit; even the sleeves are beginning to grip under her shoulders. The merest two or three extra pounds would be enough to cause her upper arms to develop bulges around her sleeve-ends. Matilda sits down on the bench beside her locker and rubs her eyes. She takes a few slow, unsteady breaths she’s not sure she can call anxiety. She feels more abstract, more amazed. Anyway, it’s temporary. It’s going to shrink back to nothing. She simply has to be patient. Returning herself to the present, she puts on her shin guards and socks, then laces her boots. When she jogs out onto the pitch, Elisha can barely conceal her disgust. Margery doesn’t look at her, nor share a word with her, even as she barks orders at the other girls. The manager’s hair is different, today, all uncombed and agitated by the air into a cloudy frizz of dirty silver. The sky is blue and cool, with a few clouds passing over a distant sun – and yet she can’t make it even halfway through the training session without dipping out for a spell so her body can catch up with what she’s asking of it. A part of her actually expected things to be easier since she stopped gaining weight, and now she feels like an idiot. Nothing has actually changed yet. The only difference is that she finds it easier to ignore the stares of Margery and the coaches, those owl-sharp eyes pinned to her body as she jiggles around the pitch, panting loud enough for everybody to hear, and pausing every two minutes to wipe her brow as sweat drips down into her eyes and from the end of her nose. It’s all become second-nature, now. A well rehearsed act she is able to flip on like a switch in front of an audience. During a break in the change rooms, Elisha approaches her in an unprecedented act of good nature. Any other day, Matilda would cast a sceptical eye on this out-of-character kind of surprise – but her lungs are too empty, her legs too sore and her thoughts too scrambled to arrange any kind of question and ask what the fuck this acting serenade is about. ‘Hey,’ Elisha gives her a bashful little wave of greeting that is so clearly fake it makes Matilda want to punch herself in the eyes. ‘So… I thought you did really good out there today. I know, I know. I’m sorry for being such a bitch sometimes. But I thought you might want these?’ She opens her bag to let Matilda see inside. ‘My boyfriend packs too many snacks for me – I’m trying to offload them, you know how it is. I was wondering if you wanted any?’ When Matilda sees the food, she nearly folds over herself beneath a bomb of hunger, her spirit collapsing like a thousand tons of rubble inside her stomach. Elisha opens the bag a little wider still, forcing the snacks further into Matilda’s line of sight. She gestures for her to reach in. Without thinking, Matilda shoves her hand in and grabs a donut and a few custard tarts wrapped in brown and clear packaging, then sits back down, food in hand, and finds herself deeply unsure what to do with the items now that she has them. She doesn’t even want them, really. An artillery shell of self-awareness cracks down over her head. Tight-lipped and cynical, she twists around and shoves them away in her own bag, then looks back up at Elisha to offer a hesitant, confused, and entirely unfelt, “Thanks!” But Elisha has already turned her back and walked away across the room. Matilda glances down at her bag and frowns, sneering. Why would Elisha decide to come over and talk to her like some dopey school girl who just wants to be everyone’s friend? Why the sudden shift? It’s not as if the apology was real. It makes Matilda wonder how much malicious intent is at play. Hunger rocks her body. She can feel it in her arms and legs – in the curling tips of her fingers. She feels a murderous headlong drive. She could kill Elisha. But she needs to kill this hunger first. Kill it so it doesn’t come back. She needs to sustain her self-starvation with a hard, deliberate smack on the wrist of her nervous system. Pulling her gaze away from where she was staring, Matilda decides to throw Elisha’s snacks in the bin the moment she gets home. She can’t even look at the snacks without her fingers being tempted to twitch slowly in their direction. On the way to the restroom for a quick visit, however, who else but Ilda should stop and corner her, yet again, redirecting her to Margery’s office for another “private word”. Bowing her head, Matilda visits the toilet, then re-hoists her duffel bag on her shoulder, and sets off for Margery’s office. The administration wing of the club’s facility had been constructed in the ‘80s – something you can tell by the walls’ reddish brown brickwork and functionalist architecture that makes you feel like you’re walking through a Baptist church rather than a football club facility. She remembers a few times in past years when she’d seen delegates from various sponsor companies visiting this end of the facility, standing and talking in suits and ties and polished shoes, but not really knowing the first thing about the sport they were sponsoring. Only the physical education staff from the university affiliated with this club know what they’re talking about, but even their interests are angled slightly elsewhere. She wanted to ask Kenda, when she was still here, whether she thought sponsorships were even necessary. Margery seems to think they are. Some of the walls were painted a light grey, some time five or so years back. Dragging her fingers along the brickwork, feeling each divot and groove of mortar, Matilda wonders if she should be doing so in a manner of savouring the moment. What if this is it? Will this be the day? Is Margery about to cut her lifeline? A week after being substituted in the middle of a game for the first time in her playing career? But no. By the time Matilda comes to stand in the doorway, she is simply made to listen while Margery verbally beats on her, then comes round for a second attack just for good measure. Matilda listens with a blank stare of tired distance. Maybe it’s just for Margery’s own sense of fun, at this point. An opportunity to let a valve burst in catharsis. She can’t even figure out what the manager’s problem is, this time. Then, all at once, she remembers how she saw Margery at the ice cream parlour. Remembers the way her gunmetal grey plume of hair had appeared in the queue. Remembers that tall, overly lean, giraffe-like poise of body, waiting in line for that one particular treat packed with so much fat and sugar that just one bite would have sent her BMI sliding one atom at a time towards the heavier end, where, as a young girl, she'd almost drowned in the failure chubbiness had brought down upon her. Matilda watches the hypocrisy ooze from Margery as she blathers some incoherent drivel about being disappointed in her. So why go get ice cream, of all things? If nothing else, it must have been a slip up. A slip of willpower. What else could force Margery Hartwell to contradict the seemingly omnipotent powers of her fatphobia, except the very last dregs of desperation? Maybe the club is finally doing something to her head. Matilda feels this idea as an growing epiphany, dawning on her with a tumble of pleasure that injects adrenaline straight into her stomach. Now that she thinks about it, she notices Margery does look different — the way she sits with her shoulders forward, eyes withdrawn, her complexion a shockingly clayish shade. Margery's words blur into a muddy slew of soundbites as Matilda thinks of all the ways she could trigger her mental illness by standing here and letting herself look fat… look large… maybe let her belly stick out for added effect… maybe reach down and… maybe touch the underside of her bloated stomach and… ‘Are you listening to me?’ Matilda blinks, eyes dancing aside involuntarily. ‘I see, then. I see how it is. Get out of the doorway. Come in– come in further. Further. I said further. Now get out of the doorway. Now why don’t you sit down, so you can listen to me properly. No not there–’ Feeling mischief sparkle behind her eyes, Matilda hesitates for a moment, then comes fully into Margery’s office and moves to one side against the wall where a chair sits beside a tall fig leaf plant that wasn’t there two weeks ago. Is Margery trying to make herself at home? Margery waves an impatient hand. ‘Hurry on, then. Do you think I have all day? You seem to have all day… and more. I do not.’ Wishing she could scream the manager’s hypocrisy straight back into her face like a deflected jet of flame, Matilda makes an irritated sigh and sits down in the chair, looking up into the corner of the ceiling, refusing to make eye contact. The network of her stomach’s nerve-endings tell her that the tank top she’s wearing is a close fit, leaving her midsection’s paunchy form in the clear. The fact that she doesn't even have to look to make sure makes her feel a million ways she cannot even begin to analyse. ‘Now,’ Margery collects herself. ‘I’d like to know if you listened to or heard a word of what I just said.’ ‘Yeah, I know.’ Margery cocks her head, waiting for an answer. ‘And?’ She shrugs. ‘Yeah– it’s cool.’ Margery’s gaze intensifies. ‘It’s “cool”?’ Matilda settles into the chair’s back, trying to make herself as visibly comfortable as possible, and gives off another large, lengthy shrug of careless ease. ‘Yeah,’ she says, simply. Then she harnesses all her sadistic energy before it disappears, and channels it into a self-derogatory display of shameful slobbishness she knows will make Margery want to either run or die. Letting out a laid-back, ‘Oof,’ Matilda lifts her arms up over her head and leans back to stretch her hands toward the ceiling. She feels the hem of her tank top do exactly what she’s learned it tends to do in situations like these, departing obediently from her trousers, rising as she arches her lower back, with her stomach pushed deliberately out. A small smirk twists the corner of her lips, and she has to smother it fast. She feels the skin of her underbelly, just above her sweatpants, come into contact with the room-temperature air. Then she expels her held breath in an effort to cover her smile, and lets her arms drop back down to her sides. The front of her tank top returns to rest, tucking itself across her paunch. Without looking, she knows her navel is suddenly out on show – a dark sinkhole indent with miniscule divots where her bellybutton becomes belly flesh. She knows that the bulk of her underbelly is a soft curve of pudge that pokes over her tightened drawstrings, a round band of blubber that wraps around the sides of her waist to meet the thin triangle of chub on her hips denoting lovehandles. And so Matilda sits like this, knowing how it must look. Sickened horror explodes from Margery’s face. Jerking backwards in her seat, her intense gaze falters momentarily as she looks at an empty spot on the wall beside Matilda’s head. She continues to ramble – this time mindlessly – as if speaking through layers of brick. But the conviction behind her words comes through a filter of distraction, and there is a ten-thousand yard stare in her slightly-parted eyes. ‘Listen.’ Her lips press thin and tight, her face dark red. It’s odd how quiet Margery’s voice has become, given the explosive rage Matilda knows is ticking towards doomsday beneath it. ‘In two minutes, Matilda– two minutes,’ she says so low it’s almost a murmur, ‘we are going to enter a tactical overview session. We will be in room 2-A. We will be drawing up new defensive plans. I am informing you now, ahead of time, that I will be moving you to a centre-back position. You have…’ Margery presses her eyes, and sighs. ‘You have failed us too many times. Far too many. Your last chance is now. Now. Understand? Now get up.’ Leaning forward, she feels the lip of her belly run into her lap… which gives her an idea… She rises from the chair with exaggerated force, then comes back down on her heels – and is pretty sure she can feel her belly complain with a light jiggle. Riding upon the surge of malicious glee poisoning in her heart, she even decides to make the most of the scene by allowing her stomach to relax as far forwards as it wants. Without looking, she can sense the bulge of blubber cushioning her navel swell out to match her breasts. But it was for nothing. Margery isn’t even looking at her anymore. ‘Go,’ the manager snarls at her desk. . In room 2-A, which in truth is simply a pretentious way for Margery to say “the conference room”, Matilda reverts back to cowering modesty the moment she passes under the doorframe, sucking her stomach way up into her ribcage. While she might possess the spite required to trigger Margery’s past traumas by being a slob in front of her and showing off her chubby she got – if she doesn’t behave herself in front of the girls, what’s left of her credibility will die like a popped balloon. Every player in the club, even those from the reserve team who have been called in, filter in one after the other to find somewhere to sit around a loosely-arranged set of tables facing the portable white board. Practically sucking her lungs up into her throat, Matilda places her bag across her lap to help cover her midsection, then glances around the room with dopey eyes as if nothing has happened. Once everybody has arrived and arranged themselves in their chairs, coach Karen and coach Ilda stand on either side of the tactical whiteboard, where they begin drawing badly-sketched defensive diagrams with black, red and blue markers, scribbling little circles and drawing arrows to indicate intended trajectories, positions and movements. The idea, they tell the girls in deeply condescending tones, is to adopt a brand-new defensive formation in order to wrangle their points deficit away from the sub-tens. It’s clear they won’t be ending this season in the top half of the table. Not anymore. From now on, they will keep a 5-2-2-1 formation, the middle player in the defensive line being a central agent who sweeps in out front of, and behind, the two centre backs. The coaches’ line-form diagram shows: ____________________Evangeline(CF)____________________ ____________Kelsey(LW)__________Elisha(RW)____________ ____________Beth(CM)____________Stacey(CM)___________ Talina(LB)__Grace(CB)__Matilda(CB/DM)__Mandy(CB)__April(RB) ______________________ Nysha (GK)_______________________ ‘That’s a cluttered backline,’ Talina dares to observe. ‘We have not much of a choice,’ Ilda says, flicking her eyes in Matilda’s direction. Karen points a finger at the five-player backline. ‘This is a terribly unfortunate necessity. We need a player to plug between the two centre backs, to crowd out attackers, to sweep the lanes in front, and be available for ball-recycling on corner kicks. And that player has to be you, please, Matilda– you are being called upon,’ Karen concludes with an ineffectual fling of the hand as if dismissing the importance of Matilda’s presence in the room before turning to facing the board again. Heads turn upon tired necks to look at her, then turn away again, in a pause of almost surreal silence. ‘Talina and April…’ coach Ilda cuts in, pointing with a red marker at the two fullback positions on the diagram. ‘With five at zhe back, this of course means you will have some opportunity to press high and overlap when we are attacking. Do so if you feel the need– however… always remember that we are now reduced to a team which has at its disposal only counter attacks.’ Matilda wriggles in her seat, trying to dispel a rebellious energy inside her coming to the boil. This won’t work. They’ll get steamrolled without any depth in midfield. Coach Karen clears a space on the other side of the board and begins to draw up an attack-phase formation. Kelsey_________Evangeline_________Elisha Talina_______Beth______Stacey______April _______Grace____Matilda ___ Mandy_____ ________________ Nysha_______________ Karen takes the lead again, indicating various parts of the diagram. ‘So, if you look here; once the counter attack begins, we essentially go from a four to a three-line deep block. Talina and April, you can both run ahead to support Elisha and Kelsey. Beth and Stacey, maintain your positioning in line with the fullbacks, drop between your opponents, but squeeze into the centre lanes to make space for a ball through. Kelsey and Elisha, as our only mobile wingers, you must be on the constant lookout for any opportunity to break forward. I don’t care if it happens or not, just be ready please. Zig-zag backward and forward like idiots if you have to. If you do break out, don’t bother passing unless you must– we can’t waste any time– just sprint with the ball as hard as you can. Evangeline, sprint like your life depends on it and try to run in behind any defenders tracking your movements, and be ready to take the ball, and do your best from there. Matilda, stay back with Grace and Mandy, please, but spread out to create a wide triangle.’ Matilda squeezes the straps of her bag in her fists. No. No, not at all. No. This is all wrong. She puts her hands on her face and presses her fingers into her eyes until stars and the aurora borealis begin to take form against the backs of her eyelids. ‘Do you have a problem with that, then?’ Karen calls out to her. Lifting her head, Matilda blinks the glare from her eyes and looks around the room, seeing that the entire team’s attention is fixed upon her. Their faces look embarrassed. But as she stares for a moment longer, a layer peels back, and she realises they actually look confused. Helpless. Like soldiers whose expressions are sunken beneath the weight of a dread they cannot lift no matter how passionately their commander’s speech thrums the air… Because they all know it’s just a false, hopelessly optimistic rhetoric. Defeat waits at the end of every courageous attempt, a string of broken confidence as inevitable as the heat death of the universe. ‘A problem?’ Matilda starts up. ‘Do I have a problem? Yes– I do, actually.’ The fire behind her chest gutters under a cold gust of stage fright as she comes to her senses, seeing what she’s about to launch herself into like the approach of headlights coming in the opposite direction. But then her engine kicks back into life, and her thoughts begin to spew out her mouth. ‘How are we meant to “become” a counter-attacking team, anyway? We already are a counter attacking team. It’s all we ever do. It’s all we’re set up for. And it’s still not working. It’s just not. Stop trying to tell me– tell us– that is. Or even can. I’m sick of hearing it.’ Coach Ilda’s face remains fixed and studiously neutral, while Karen on the other hand raises her eyebrows in an almost amused display of surprise as Matilda goes on, feeling all the weight of her anger unfold like the brakes cut on a semi-trailer speeding ever faster downhill. ‘I don’t understand why we can’t go back to playing a more passing and chance-creating type of game. We’re skilled enough. We have great players here. But we keep getting steam rolled, because we race the ball upfield so fast that we can’t keep up with each other– we’ve been given no other instructions but to just “run”– and then we lose track of each other, where we need to be, when we need to be– and then when something goes wrong, we get choked up inside the opposition’s half with no ideas, and the pressure builds up, and we buckle because our passing lanes are a blocked-off mess, and then they’re the ones counter attacking us! I mean what the fuck? Now you want us to be even more defensive? Parking the bus against the opponent? That is the worst. So we do it even more? Why? We’re not even playing the game anymore. Sit back with five of us doing absolutely nothing for the attack? Now, not only do we have literally no attacking pressure, but we don’t even have a midfield? Really? Is this serious? Oh, and reshuffling on the counter attack doesn’t mean we suddenly have an attacking presence out of nowhere, by the way. Does no one get that? Going from four lines to three in our block? Really? That means we go wide but lose depth, and one long ball over the top goes straight through us– and then not having any midfield puts so much pressure on the backline, I don’t know how you expect us to hold off that kind of pressure for ninety minutes without losing!’ Karen blinks once, then twice, and then a third time, keeping her eyes shut as if to maintain composure. Ilda is staring straight at her, and the entire room is suffused with trembling, terrified spirits. When Karen opens her eyes, she stares at Matilda for a beat or two with a look of sneering aloofness in her eyes, then says, with utterly casual disdain, ‘Matilda… I’m sorry, but please… you couldn’t even sprint the full length of the pitch anymore.’ A solid weight swings like an axe into her stomach. ‘Ex-cuse me?’ she retorts. ‘Yes I can.’ A careless shrug. ‘Prove it.’ She sucks in harder, even though nobody can see it. ‘I–’ ‘You what? You “can’t right now?” You “won’t let me treat you like that”? Do you want to stall, Matilda? You either sprint the length of the pitch and back, right now, or you don’t… No? So you’d prefer not to? M-hm. Right. That’s exactly what I thought. You see? You go and blow up into a fat pig of a thing in the span of four months, refuse our requests and demands to fix yourself, and then you ask “oh, why-this” and “why-that”? Well, I’ve got a “why” for you: why would you know what’s good for this team?’ Cold heat fills her neck as she tries to come up with a response. But nothing surfaces. She’s spent her load all at once, and all that’s left is the jetstream of her anger blasting against a blank wall. ‘Look at you,’ Karen begins to conclude. ‘You’re completely unfit for this game. Maybe you’ll shape back up one day– I’m not saying you won’t– but right now, if we’re taking any recommendations, then it won’t be from the likes of you. You’ve lost too much credibility. You’re a centre-back now, Matilda. You will sweep behind and in front of the defence. That’s how we’re playing from now on, please– and mostly thanks to you, I might add. So sit down, shut up and deal with it, not against it.’ And with that, Karen turns to face the whiteboard again as if the whole tirade had cost nothing upon the economy of her emotional bank, and continues outlining tactical plans with the marker in her hand. . . .

There are some events in life that will hold you at gunpoint and force you to confront a moment of self reflection. You perform a stock-take of yourself in the nearest mirror; not only mentally, but physically, too. And that’s what she does in the morning. The sun has come up particularly bright and joyful today, but the sunshine feels at odds with her ashen apathy. She doesn’t even feel sad anymore, just… colourlessly neutral. At some point during her sleep, her agonised heart had slowly mutated into a grey sludge of disappointment, and it has left her with nothing to greet the morning. An evaluative, clinical coldness has draped over her, and with it, she decides it’s time to face the dawn chorus. For the first time in weeks, she will finally look directly at herself. It’s overdue. Making sure her parents aren’t anywhere nearby, she ducks to the bathroom with her towel, pudgy parts of her body shaking in her pyjamas as she hurries the short distance down the hall, then shuts the bathroom door behind her. Spinning the shower faucet on at the wall, she turns to face the mirror while the pipes heat up. Her face looks puffy from sleep. Or does it always look that way now? She feels better once she sees the light is still in her eyes. Her pyjamas hide her body, but it’s obvious she’s getting a bit chunky for them. Oh, boy, she looks so fucking chubby. Putting her thumbs under the waistband, she drops her shorts down her legs. They slide down, folding up on the tiles beneath her feet. Then she lifts her feet out and kicks them aside, her thighs wobbling on their bones. Her legs are almost completely devoid of muscular definition, coated in unstable, pliable softness. Only a ghost of her original musculature remains in her lower legs, but even her knees are beginning to develop this line of padding on their insides, and her calves are no longer pronounced, just silky and smooth in appearance. They’d almost pass for elegant if not for the rest of her body. Meanwhile, her upper thighs seem to have expanded an inch outwards in every direction – softer in the front, wider out the back, thickened inwards to touch each other with a shallow hint of cellulite, and fattened outwards with little pink marks where her skin hasn’t been able to keep up with the speed of growth. The underside of her ass hangs just below the back of her pyjama top. She leans to one side and reaches one hand down to hook her fingers under the fold of one cheek, a deep crease of tender flesh enveloping her fingers. It feels far too soft to be normal, giving in to her fingertips without resistance until she tenses her glute and feels the firmness of the muscle underneath the roll of blubber. Her heart skips a beat as she realises just how much fat has actually settled in around her ass, the old firmness gone under a handful of flab she can cup in her whole hand. She runs her hand beneath her pyjama shirt and up the side of her softened pelvis, over her underwear, and across the swell of one lovehandle, fingers puncturing its soft pudge as she digs into herself. There’s not much room for her hand between skin and shirt, with the fabric hugging so close to her midsection. Her lower lip pulled back in distaste, she looks at herself in the mirror and begins to undo the buttons of her pyjama shirt. When it opens up, she casts it off her arms, and the spherical protrusion of her paunch bulges out into view, its bulk wiggling unsteadily at the jerky motion of her arms. This is not what she expected. All she can seem to focus on is her belly button. Seeing it from up above, she cranes forward to look down upon it. It sits out in the open, front and centre – a dark, squishy sinkhole in the centre of the swell of her belly. She knows nobody can see her, in this room, and yet she feels exposed to some unseen gaze of judgement. Maybe it’s only her own, externalised somehow. Her body looks nothing like it used to. No wonder she’s been getting out of breath. Touching the surface of her belly, she lets her fingernails dig in until they find the ocean floor of her stomach almost deeper than an inch below – but even her abdominal wall itself feels outwardly-curved, when she pressed around, feeling for its terrain. Maybe it’s permanently bloated now. There’s no other reason her belly should be looking this uncharacteristically round. Did she gain another package of weight in the last week? She can’t have. That’s not meant to be happening anymore. She gets down on her hands on the floor, the tiles bitterly cold under her knees, and retrieves the scale from the cupboard under the sink. This time when she stands back up, she realises, with a rush of self-awareness, that it’s slightly more convenient to help herself back up with one hand holding the edge of the sink… When she steps up onto the old, rattling, dial-and-needle piece of junk, the wheel goes spinning under the force of her bodyweight. The needle wiggles back and forth across all sorts of numbers until it finds stability. The number which the red line hovers above reads 177. Matilda grabs the back of her head in open-eyed shock and bites her bottom lip as she blows air out her mouth in one prolonged hiss that comes out as, ‘Ffffffuuuck!’ She spreads her fingers over her eyes, slowly dragging them down her face, eyelids sagging like a ghoul. What was she at, last time she was weighed in? One-seventy? One-seventy-two? There’s no way she’s added five pounds just like that. Where did they come from? Why are they here? Blinking, flustered, her hands fall to her sides, and she steps off the scale, then on again, her belly bouncing at the movement. But the same result shows up again. 177. She brings her hands back up over her mouth as she stands there looking cluelessly from side to side, thoughts going all over the place like spilled paint. Then she spots herself in the mirror from the corner of her eye, and the image of her body puts a final pin in her struggle to grope for plausible denial. Turning her head a fraction to look at her side-profile, she exhales in a gasp of shock at the tear-drop shape of her belly, bulging forth from where it sits between smooth, swollen hips. With hands still covering her open mouth, her forearms press her breasts into one another. When she opens her arms to let them go, they fall and sway a little under a new heft. She hasn’t seen them grow since puberty. They must be at least two or three cup sizes heavier now. Her brow narrows with confusion. She should have noticed them as they were changing. Perhaps that collection of flexible sports bras she wears all the time have been obscuring all this development. She turns her body around and lifts one foot back, looking at her reflection over her shoulder. When her eyes drift down, they grow severely wide at what she sees. She’s lucky her ass still has a round shape at all, given how flabby it looks. Two softened ass cheeks stare back at her, each perched upon a deep fold, and a roll of faint cellulite, enlarged sideways with thickened flesh. Her hips bulge outwards, then cut back into her waist, forming twin shallow folds before jutting out again in two smooth little rolls above her lovehandles which curl up, pointing towards the middle of her back. She follows the valley of her spine with her eyes, right up to her shoulder blades, each of which look soft and smooth, the tips of her shoulders rounded, and the delineation between each muscle group in her arms totally obliterated, a generalised, uniform thickness taking their place instead. How has she gone for this long without noticing? Without seeing herself? Without comprehending what she really is? How many showers has she had, how many brief spells of nudity between changing outfits, how many naked nights under the blankets, how many clothesless hours, skin-against-skin, with Carlile? Behind her, the water has been running all this time. She turns her back on her reflection. The images she’s just seen feel burned into her eyes like pornographic snapshots. Pulling a shaky breath into her chest, Matilda steps into the shower before the water bill runs through the roof, and she stands under the hot water in a state of immobilised shock, trying not to touch her body too much, lest her fingers feel at an even more intimate level what she just saw. Later on, when she steps out, she wraps herself in a towel and hurries down the short hallway to her room, shutting the door with her back against it. For extra measure, she even crosses over to her window and closes the blinds so not a soul in the world has to be cursed by the sight of her chubbiness – not even a plane in the sky. The reality of the situation wheels around for a second sucker-punch when she tries to get dressed. Nothing fits properly. Nothing. None of her button-up shirts are usable without making it obvious. She does the buttons up over her chest and swollen belly, testing shirt after shirt, but they all show stress creases around the openings now, the blubber of her stubborn paunch forcing the middle two buttons to open up in vertical slits of various sizes, showing little coins of buttery skin. Every last one of her crop tops are out of the question, now – unless she sucks in for an eternity and an enchanted pair of pants with magic properties of concealing her chubby round waist show up out of nowhere. All her tank tops just feel stupid, and make her look like a slobbish trucker, their fabric sticking to every square inch of skin, each curve and roll of her body displayed no matter how big or small. The bulge that her belly launches in all directions doesn’t allow a single pair of jeans to button unless she wants to feel like she’s being cut in half by a strangling cord, and all her shorts make her thighs look separated from her midsection like squeezed-out playdough. ‘Aaagh!’ she growls at herself, ‘why am I fat as fuck!’ jarring her hands with each word in the air. The empty, indifferent room absorbs her words into muted silence as she stands on the spot, rubbing her cheeks. A washed-out striped green camisole is the only thing that covers her stomach, and only because it drapes (just barely) below the level of her belly button. The only pants she can find that feel normal are a light-blue pair of jeans made with just enough slack around the hips to accidentally fit past her swollen lovehandles. But in spite of this small step forward, it’s been a while since her midsection was narrower than her hip bones, and when she tries to secure the fly, she finds herself in a war. Shoulders hunched, elbows stuck like wings out with the exerted strength, she battles to bring the tags of the fly far enough past each other to latch – but her belly’s swollen curve heaps itself into the available space, blocking the way – a dome of blubber that shifts and oozes beneath her knuckles, but never forfeits enough room for the button to slip in. She gasps as she lets go, her sucked-in belly expanding, reclaiming space and pushing the fly apart with a faint jiggle to finish it off. ‘Fuck,’ she spits under her breath, then sits down on the end of her bed. The fly is pressed flat as her paunch spills out over the top of it. Staring at the carpet, she puts one elbow on her knee and rests her forehead in her hand. She focuses on her breathing for a while, feeling the stress and adrenaline slowly begin to circulate out of her body. Then she glances at her haphazardly messed-up wardrobe. This is it. This is really it. Her clothes no longer fit. If she doesn’t hit the clothing outlets to restock her wardrobe, then she’ll have nothing at all. Not until she loses this weight. That’s if there’s even anything for her chubby ass. She spends some time rustling around in the back and sides of her wardrobe. One of her black Adidas sweatpants and an unattractively baggy white T-shirt lies in a pile at the bottom near the floor. Looking at them, she knows she has no choice. It’s the sloppy aesthetic, now. That’s what she’s come to. At least her collection of sports bras will always have room for her chest. At least. . . . She drives to Carlile’s feeling a bit better about her body now that it’s hidden from view. But god help her if she has to be seen in public – the black three-stripe sweatpants with a small stain on one side and a baggy white top hanging off her shoulders like a canvas sack combination. No way. When Carlile greets her at the lower back door near the stairwell, all grins and beaming eyes, she can tell he’s scanning her up and down. ‘You’re comfy, today,’ he comments, looking at her clothes. Then he moves aside to grant her entry into the corridor. When she steps in past the threshold, they grab each other’s hands and pull towards each other. Feeling his warmth once again for the first time in what feels like forever, she sighs, expelling pain through her breath, and collapses against his body. She wraps her arms around his back and presses her cheek into the heat of his chest. The condensed storm of frantic energy inside her evaporates into the room as the weight of her heart drains out of her, into him, leaving her feeling like a hollow husk, empty of all but the residue of her grey emotions. She feels the strength of his arms pause, as if uncertain, then slowly wrap around her back, clenching tight around her. ‘What’s wrong?’ She feels his voice hum through her skull. Then she feels him leaning down to press his lips against the top of her head. ‘You alright?’ She shakes her head. ‘What’s wrong?’ She wonders how to phrase it, then laughs under her breath. The absurdity of it all seems so stupid to her now, even though she feels like she’s been asked to cry since the moment she woke up. How could she even begin to explain these sorts of emotions? Taking in a huge lungful of air, she lets it all out, then slides her hand further up his back, feeling between his shoulders. She shakes her head again, nuzzling into his sternum and squeezing him tight. ‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘Only mum’s home, and she’s up in the TV room.’ She sniffs and takes another stabilising breath. ‘This week has been the worst,’ she confesses quietly. ‘It’s been awful, you know? It’s all just… coming down, now and… last week we drew against Brentwood. And remember how I said someone wrote fatass on my windshield?’ She feels him nod in silent sympathy. ‘I tried to forget about that. But I went to the internship the next day and I think Dr Goodwynn could tell something was up. I tried to hide it, but she knew. She was being really choosy with her words. Then training. That was the worst. I got moved to centre-back. Ilda said Margery wanted her to be the one to tell me, because Margery couldn't look at me, or something. Told me I was “that poor now”. Then we played the Ringhill girls, and we were up one goal. But I fucked up, and we conceded right after. I felt so shit. You don’t even know. Then Beth and Talina made me have drinks with them after the game. I thought they wanted to make me feel better, but… I don’t know. Maybe they did. They asked me if I was pregnant. I couldn’t take it anymore. I went home and I couldn’t take it. Then this morning I found out I’ve gained five pounds again. I didn’t even try. I didn’t even realise it was happening. And none of my clothes fit. None. Fuck, I’m so chubby now. I feel fat as fuck, and none of my clothes fit– all that fits are these stupid daggy things I’m in now, and it’s all, like, the last nail in the coffin or something, and… I mean, how could I possibly look hot right now? I don’t even look good. I can’t possibly be attractive like this–’ Carlile grabs her shoulders like he’s just been shot, pushes her back, and looks down into the centre of her eyes. His face is in a twist of shock and dismay. ‘No.’ He shakes his head and squeezes her shoulders as he says it again, firmly. ‘No.’ ‘But look at me,’ she says, head drooping. ‘I’ve managed to gain nearly thirty pounds since we first met. I fucking suck now. I’m so sorry I did this– I must look so gross– I…’ Matilda’s voice dies off. Carlile lowers his head into her line of sight, then says in a low, strong voice, with his jaw set straight: ‘No.’ He says it once more for good measure, then begins planting kisses all over her. She tries to shy away from his physicality, but he won’t let her get away. ‘Can we go to your room?’ she murmurs, turning her head away so that he has to kiss down her neck. One of his arms hooks around her back, and he pulls her down the corridor towards his room. With his arm still wrapped around her, he closes the door behind them before swinging her around, pushing her back and down onto his bed. The mattress sinks, and then sinks a little deeper as he sits down next to her and slides one hand over her chest, fingers gliding towards her shoulder and up her neck to cradle the corner of her jaw. He leans in with his face to kiss her left shoulder. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he mutters. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ ‘Come on, babe. You don’t have to say that. I’m just fat.’ ‘No.’ ‘But I am.’ ‘No.’ ‘Yes I am.’ He shakes his head all the way from one side to the other, then gently lays his forehead against her forehead. Their eyes are inches apart. ‘You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,’ he tells her. ‘Remember when we first met…?’ Her mood, eventually, finds a path back upwards towards the light. Even if only by a little. It takes a lot of work on his part, coddling her and reassuring her over and over again that there’s nothing to worry about. But it’s enough to get her head above water and grab some emotional breaths. He suggests that they go out looking for clothes together, then see a movie to take her mind off things. Offering to drive her like a chauffeur, he swings past her place so she can quickly change into an outfit approaching decency so she doesn’t have to worry about being in such grubby clothes. Nobody else is home, and he waits alone in the lounge room, sitting on a chair browsing Twitter on his phone while she gets changed in her room. ‘See? Look at this,’ Matilda complains, emerging into the lounge room. When he looks up, he immediately leans forward with his forearm over his groin, eyes wanting to bug wide instinctively. He suppresses the reaction. She notices something, but doesn’t think much about it, too preoccupied with her own problems. Having changed into the last outfit she’d tried that morning – the washed-out green top and light-blue jeans – things are looking strained. She’s somehow located the strength to zip the fly all the way up and close the button, however it’s at the expense of her stomach being squeezed in half like string cutting through dough. She can barely fill her lungs, with her chest so badly suffocated. The triangle of denim between the waistband and her groin is round and tight, full to its limits with the bulge of her lower belly, and the only reason Carlile can’t see any of Matilda’s upper stomach rolling over the top of the waistband is thanks to the green camisole’s drapery overlapping it by a matter of gracious millimetres. But then she lifts her arms to tie her hair back. Immediately she can sense the hem separate from the waistband. She notices Carlile perform a strange shuffle in his seat. Then her eyes catch on something noteworthy. As he leans forward, in the front of his black T-shirt, there is a roll that wraps around his stomach, spilling over his pants, precariously close to meeting the top of one thigh. Maybe he isn’t so far off from understanding her plight after all. Despite her swampy mood, Matilda suppresses an excited smirk and shifts her eyes away, trying not to show too many cards about how pleased she suddenly feels. She wonders what the fuck is wrong with her. Adjusting her hair, she lowers her arms, then glances at her phone, giving her camisole a swift tug back down over her jeans. ‘We should get going, then. Guess I’ll just have to deal with this.’ . . . It’s a busy day at the plaza. Must be the retailer sales, meaning they’ve happened to pick the right time to shop. She drags Carlile from one outlet to the next, from one playlist thumping from speakers to the other, racks on racks of walls of clothing. She expects him to develop a shitty temper, complain, and ask to wait outside at any minute now – but it never happens. By the fifth store, he’s still tagging along, even browsing between a few racks on his own. Putting down a pair of shorts that she realises are probably too small, she looks up, and scans around the store. She can’t see him. When she peers across the racks behind her, she spots him all the way across the other side of the place looking through sets of black slacks. She makes her way over with an affectionate smirk and gives him a little hip-check. He startles, looking down at at. ‘Watchya doin over here?’ she asks. ‘Oh, you know me, just bake’n.’ He picks up a folded pair of ankle-crop slacks with flared ends and unfurls them in front of her. ‘Here. Whaddya think of these?’ She cocks her head and looks them up and down. ‘Hm. They do look nice. Not exactly my style though.’ He holds them out in front of him to get a good look, then glances at her body before meeting her eyes. ‘How not your style?’ She scrunches up one side of her mouth. ‘Too… formal.’ ‘Really? What about these cookies? They have pin-stripes.’ He gives her a doubtful glance, then looks around the store for something else. ‘Okay. Or something more casual to go with it? Like that?’ pointing to a keyhole neckline top that hangs on display on a nearby stand. ‘Hey, that could work…’ ‘I think you’d look great.’ She looks at the slacks again, squinting. ‘I’d look fat.’ She rests her hands on the back of her hips, cringing as she detects the softness even through stiff denim. His eyes soften, then he looks away, shaking his head. She can’t tell if he’s bemused or annoyed with her. ‘It’s just not my style,’ she explains. ‘You know me, I’m more like… leather jackets and jeans, ever since day one – not the fashion store clerk with massive hoop-earrings type.’ ‘True. Fine. I’ll keep it in mind then, I just… I thought you’d look awesome in it. That’s all.’ A nugget of warmth blossoms in her chest, spreading through her like ink. ‘You are sweet, you know that?’ She looks up at him with a soft-eyed smile before moving on, giving his hand a squeeze as she brushes past. Her mind lingers on how sweet he is as she stops to browse through a row of coats. If only he wouldn’t try making himself skinny all the time. It’s selfish of her. So why does she want it so bad? The couple make their way over to another store, not really finding much, and thinking about leaving when Carlile reappears behind her all of a sudden. ‘What size are you?’ he asks. She hesitates for a split second, thrown off guard by the sort of question which should be taken as rude. She feels as if she ought to be staring at him with big, aghast eyes. But it doesn’t occur naturally. ‘Uh… I’m… trying to not think about that,’ she says. ‘I don’t really wanna know. If it fits, it fits,’ she admits with a dismayed cringe tugging on the corners of her mouth. ‘Oh, no, I’m not saying– I was just asking– like… in case I needed to get you something… What size do I choose?’ She senses a smile beginning to form on her lips, and she decides to let it be free. ‘Well,’ she grins, giggling, ‘that’s very conscientious of you, Mister Sainsblum. You could work on your tact with the questions, but I do appreciate it.’ She hips checks him affectionately as she sorts through a row of dresses. ‘But it doesn’t matter, anyway. Women’s sizes are all different. It’s stupid. You’ll just get confused. Even I get confused.’ ‘Well, if you say so.’ He turns on his heel and goes his own way. Matilda chuckles as she watches him wander off. He seems to be enjoying this. In the next store along, in an upstairs section, she finds a few items she likes the look of and takes them into a private changing cubicle. She has to peel her shorts off her legs. Once undressed, she is made to confront the visual reality of her body once again in the full-length mirror. The close, harsh white light of the cubicle washes every conceivable shadow from her skin whether harsh or soft. Her body looks pasty in this painfully objective illumination, and shockingly flabby. There’s no angle for her to stand at which she can make herself look fitter or slimmer in the mirror. It’s just her, bare in her underwear and sports bra, the visual fact of her chubbiness brutally shoved in her face with her legs and her belly jiggling around as she moves, her thighs showing hints of more cellulite to come, and her arms looking thick whenever they touch her sides. Shaking her head, she tries on a pair of caramel coloured leather pants. She reminds herself that these clothes will be temporary. It’ll be a brief excursion to the realm of the plus-sized range before she wrangles her waistline back to a narrow trim of musculature that she used to have. The caramel coloured pants slide up her legs, fitting close, but successfully. She looks at them in the mirror. Even though the fly zips up, and even latches shut, it’s clear how her midsection is too soft to pull this look off convincingly. The middle of her belly meets the waistband with a tiny outwards bulge that doesn’t want to flatten, no matter how high or low she adjusts the waistband. She pulls it higher up, but the soft indentation appears there too. Shaking her head in disbelief, she puts on a white top and tucks it into the waistband with deliberate looseness so that it rumples, disguising the bulge. There. Done. She pats her hips with a miniscule smile that almost looks sarcastic, then tries on a combination of belts, testing them to see which one matches the outfit as a whole. After swapping back into her own clothes, having to squeeze her body into a complexity of lines and seamwork that feels shockingly aggressive against her flesh after the liberation of clothes that fit freely, she grabs the store items and steps out of the cubicle – only to find Carlile standing right there in front of her. He’s been waiting for her with a bundle of fabric in his arms. ‘How about this?’ He holds up a cute camel coat with a shortened hem and double-breasted buttons. She looks it over, then nods a tentative maybe. ‘You could try it on right now, even, over the top of those,’ nodding at her too-small clothes. ‘Here. Give me those ones.’ They swap items and Matilda lifts the coat up to put one arm through, then the other. Adjusting it on her shoulders, she turns to face a nearby mirror on the wall. She lifts her eyebrows, surprised. He was right. ‘Leave it open– unbuttoned, I think,’ he suggests, moving closer to stand behind her. He stoops a little, resting his chin on her shoulder. ‘I think it looks great on you. This is you.’ Matilda runs her hands down the sides of the coat, then lets her eyes fall down to her tightly choked midsection. It’s almost amusing how much it resembles two separate sections of one body part. ‘Maybe if I didn’t have this,’ she says, tucking the sides of the coat behind her hips to let her belly come out. She tries to suck in. Her chest inflates, and she manages to make the double-bulge shrink back a little. Then she lets it go again with a gush breath, and the zone of belly between her crotch and waistband returns to its rounded state, her upper tummy bulging back over the top of the waistband. ‘I don’t know, Carl,’ she shrugs, ‘I mean, I’m here to find clothes that fit. Basics. Things I can wear around the place until things get back to normal. Not accessories.’ She gives the collar of the coat, which she must confess to adoring, a remorseful tug. ‘I do like this, though. You get double points for that.’ Someone comes round the corner, ducking their head as they move around them, to find a cubicle and close the door behind them. Carlile moves his chin off her shoulder and stands up straight. ‘Still think you should get it. How about… how about I buy these?’ He lifts the clothes in his arms. ‘And you just get any other things you want?’ ‘Oh, Carl, babe, you…’ Then he gets a look on his face. ‘Actually. No. Toss that. I’ll cover all the basic ingredients. Otherwise it’s not fair on you.’ ‘No, that’s…’ She turns around to face him, fed up with staring at her chubby stomach in the reflection. ‘It's not “not fair” on me– I did this to myself.’ ‘Well it’s just…’ he begins to appear nervous for some reason she can’t discern. ‘It wouldn’t be fair if you had to pay all this money for new clothes. That’s all.’ ‘Why wouldn’t it be far? It kind of is fair.’ She slips the coat off her shoulders and folds it over her stomach. ‘It’s not your fault nothing fits my fat chubby ass. It’s my fault. It’s more than fair.’ ‘Uhm… I dunno about that…’ She blinks. ‘What do you mean?’ He shrugs and looks away with a small shake of his head. ‘I always… Nothing.’ She blinks again and frowns. ‘I don’t get what you’re trying to say.’ ‘Don’t worry– seriously– it’s nothing– it’s just botched word salad. Just let me buy your clothes for you.’ She glances to one side, confusion jamming her train of thought. ‘Um. Well. Okay. If you’re being serious. Maybe try and tell me whatever it is later, then? And anyway, are you serious about buying me these clothes?’ He nods. ‘I am.’ ‘I still don’t get how that’s fair on you, Carl.’ ‘Come on, it’s fine. Which one of us is working almost full-time now, anyway?’ She follows that suggestion further down its path of logic, and realises he’s probably right. Her only source of income is that crappy fifty-five dollar allowance she gets for playing a game each weekend, and the hundred-dollar stipend for showing up to the clinic as an intern once a week. They move along to the next stage of the clothes-hunting quest. In a streak of chance, she finds a slew of shorts, skirts, tops and sweaters that she finds absolutely adorable, regardless of size. Carlile ends up bankrolling her in four consecutive fashion outlets before the sludge of guilt piles up in her emotional silo too high to tolerate any longer, and she finally pulls the pin, outright refusing to let him pay for even one more fibre of clothing lest she feel indebted to him. In need of one last simple standard outfit, she enters a long, brightly-lit store and rummages through a collection of miscellaneous items marked to go at half-price, where she finds a casual set of shirts and pants that don’t look sad or frumpy like everything else. She takes her time trying them on, feeling a little tired, and not totally pleased with the way they fit her body’s proportions – but she knows she’s not exactly blessed with a wealth of options either, because of what she’s done to herself – so she simply shrugs at her reflection, then takes them out to purchase at the till. When they walk out the store, carrying multiple bags in each hand, she’s about to ask what movie he’d like to see, when he forces her to slow down by lifting one of his bags up and placing it in front of her. ‘This is yours,’ he says. She stops beside a wide marble pillar and looks down at the bag. ‘Take it. They’re yours.’ She grabs the bag, opening it to peer down inside. A couple of patterned tops and a pair of blue shorts, folded neatly. ‘These aren’t the ones I got…’ She checks in the other bags. ‘Wait– did you…?’ ‘You wouldn’t let me buy you anything else, but what’s just a couple more things? You were in the change rooms for a while. I had some time to bake a little. You would have stopped me, otherwise. They should be the right size– and there’s the receipt too– just in case.’ A wave of hot blushes come over her, from her cheeks to her stomach. ‘Awwh!’ she cries out. It’s too much. She didn’t ask for this – she didn’t even want this. But this is love that she feels. ‘You didn’t need to!’ she pleads, smiling with an embarrassed wetness in her eyes, her cheeks pink. ‘I only needed something to get by until I’m not a fatass anymore. I love these.’ ‘You only let me buy four outfits. You’ll need at least six or seven. Think of all the laundry.’ ‘It’s like you want me to get comfortable and forget I’m a chubster or something,’ she laughs, butterflies in her chest. But Carlile doesn’t respond. He is suddenly quiet. ‘Oh my god, stop being awkward,’ she scoffs with glee, hitting him on the shoulder. Then, wrapping an arm around his waist, she tugs him along into a walk, and they set off towards the other end of the plaza where the cinema waits. . . . After the movie, they wander back downstairs into an ice cream parlour. Carlile buys for them both, then brings the cups of ice cream over to where she waits at a table, and they talk about the movie. She’s glad for a distraction to jump into, the horizontal strip of pressure across the front of her stomach from her waistband reminding her of its presence with the every slightest shift or intake of breath. It’s getting late in the afternoon now, and the outlets along the mall’s arterial strip are beginning to lower their shutters, an atmosphere of post-consumer melancholy coming down upon the place like a hungover dream fugue. The ice cream parlour itself, with many an hour of operation left, is situated at the very edge of the plaza, and faces out onto one of the main parking lots. Places like these are usually open till past dark, and people are only just starting to really flock inside as the sun lowers its molten red into the distance. Sitting near a tall indoor plant, Carlile touches one of its broad green leaves, twisting it in his fingers to examine it as if he’s found one of his thoughts inscribed there within its fibres and patterned filaments. ‘So,’ he contemplates, ‘were the father’s records from the psych asylum real, or fake, in the end? I don’t think I figured it out. That one ingredient kinda changes the whole ending’s recipe, you know?’ Licking her plastic spoon, Matilda suddenly drops her cup of ice cream down on the table with a reactive amount of force. ‘Fuck– why am I eating this? I shouldn’t be having this. It’ll just make me fat.’ She puts her hand under her stomach and waits for a burp to surface. ‘I think the psych documents were forged. But only coz, like, the real ones were way worse, so he had to make things look better than they were– or he was worried his son wouldn’t love him again.’ ‘Did finding the documentation kill the mystery of the film? Seven out of ten, for me.’ ‘Hmm… it did, didn’t it…?’ she ruminates, eyes drifting upwards in thought. Losing track of herself, she picks the cup of ice cream up and swallows another two spoonfuls before flinching and pushing it away from herself, releasing what she’s doing. ‘Oh, for fuck sake,’ she moans. Carlile looks up at her, alarmed. ‘What?’ He sees her looking down her nose at the cup of ice cream like a wet toad had just jumped up on the table. ‘You can have it.’ She turns her head away in distaste and shoves it towards him. He scratches the side of his head. ‘Nah.’ ‘I said have it.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because you so ski-i-iny,’ she teases. ‘No, I’m kidding– you need to have it because I’m a chubby piece of shit and need to not be.’ A frown comes over his brow. He glances nervously between her and the cup. ‘No you’re not.’ ‘You know, for a fact, that I am.’ ‘Matilda…’ ‘What…’ She deadpan stares at him. He’s close to giving up. ‘Please don’t be like this.’ ‘I’m being honest.’ ‘No, you’re being… horrible to yourself.’ ‘Yeah. I know. So be it.’ He scoots his chair a little further forward and plants his elbows on the table. ‘Come on. This isn’t really like you. Listen; are you not feeling too good?’ ‘Yes. No.’ ‘You were okay just an hour ago. It’s like I’ve come back to the oven after a minute and the bread’s suddenly black as ash. Did something happen? Did I say something?’ She shrugs. ‘I got fat.’ ‘Matilda, please, stop it. It’s not worth saying that to yourself. It’s a shit feeling. I know– I’ve been there.’ She smirks, snap-quick as lightning, before smothering it back down to a deadpan stare. Another shrug. ‘Yeah well… what’s the point in being nice to myself? If I don’t tell myself off, I’ll stay complacent. If I don’t stay focused, I’ll slip. I’ve played games on that principle for years.’ ‘That doesn’t mean being your own bully. That’s stupid.’ ‘No it’s not.’ ‘Matilda…’ Carlile implores. ‘I’m fine.’ This time, Carlile chooses not to say anything. He sits back and looks straight at her – and that’s all he needs to do. The hurt in his eyes and face tells her more than could ever be said with words. ‘Okay. Fine. I’m not “okay”. I’m fat. I’m fat, but I’m meant to be an example athlete. I should have stopped ages ago, but I didn’t. I’m hungry all the time, even though I’m not really. I’m eating ice cream like it’s automatic, but I’m trying to lose weight. I need to undo my jeans, but I can’t. I can’t because it’s too embarrassing, but it hurts. I really shouldn’t have had all that popcorn and soft drink in the theatre. That’s your fault by the way. And now I ate half an ice cream without thinking. What the fuck am I now?’ ‘I’m sorry,’ he shrinks back, jaw muscles bunching as he looks away. He looks so small and hurt. She didn’t mean it to sound that way. Her stomach already aches, and now her heart aches as well. ‘Oh. No. It’s not your fault– I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.’ Carlile shifts in his seat, then clears his throat, and says in a quiet voice as if it’s some big secret, ‘You know, if it hurts that bad, you… can just undo your pants, you know… I’d be fine with that– I mean, I think you should– I mean, I don’t really care.’ Carlile sighs and rubs his face, resetting. ‘Here’s an interesting fact. There are a heap of cultures out there in the world where it’s actually a sign of respect and thankfulness for a well-cooked meal if you unbutton your pants. It says you’ve enjoyed the food so much that you couldn’t stop even when it became too much for your pants. So if you need to do that, if you need to bust open to packaging so to speak, I really don’t care. It’s not worth causing yourself pain–’ ‘You really want me to sit here in public and just let it all burst out?’ ‘No it’s not that– I– I just don’t want you sitting across from me in pain.’ ‘But it would be so embarrassing.’ ‘You don’t need to feel embarrassed.’ She runs her tongue along the back of her lips, then chews the inside of her cheek. ‘I don’t know.’ Groaning, she slouches over herself and pushes the heel of her hand into her stomach. ‘Maybe. I’m already so fucking uncomfortable. I’m either in pain or I have to let everyone see my buddha gut.’ ‘No one’s gonna know.’ ‘You have to promise you won’t laugh.’ ‘Why would I laugh?’ ‘Because!’ ‘Well I won’t.’ She looks left and right. Luckily their table is hard up against the corner of the establishment, so there’s nobody behind her to see what she’s about to do. With a glance over Carlile’s shoulder at the rest of the patrons in the room, she lowers her hand under the table to locate her fly – a little taken aback when she feels the upper roll of her belly meet the knuckle of her thumb, and then give way with soft tenderness. No sooner than she peels the button just halfway out of its hole, do the two sides of the fly come apart with a pressurised flick. Half bathed in relief already, she gingerly peels the rest of the zipper down past her belly button, sneaking a glance down to see its flesh push forth like rising dough. She exhales as she feels her diaphragm sink back down to a comfortable level, forcing her belly to bulge between the fly’s splayed flaps. Upper lip curled back, she presses a thumb into her stomach, unsure how to feel about the little potbelly spilling past the confines of denim. ‘Don’t look,’ she says, lifting her head surreptitiously to scope the room for onlookers. But nobody even knows she exists. Carlile had been staring. He shifts his eyes away, then shakes his head. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t have x-ray vision.’ It surprises her how it feels to breathe normally again; an internal confession that brings with it a series of implications that she doesn’t like. But it does feel nice. Yet it also feels rude. It feels unwanted, exhibitionist, like she’s walked into a supermarket wearing nothing but a bikini. ‘This feels so weird,’ she mutters. Enveloped in sensations of open-bodied liberty, she suddenly gets the urge to take the ice cream back from Carlile and finish the rest of it. Perhaps she would have done exactly that — if, to make matters worse, she didn’t just spy a glimpse, through the leaves of the plant beside him, somebody very familiar. A certain gaunt, grey woman with cold empty eyes waiting in line. ‘Oh, no.’ ‘What?’ ‘Fuck,’ she hisses, ducking her head. ‘Oh, no. No, no, no. No. You’re kidding me. No way.’ Hot ice spreads through her chest as her stomach begins to ache again, this time with anxiety. ‘What’s wrong?’ Carlile demands, eyes widening. She cannot get a word out her mouth. Carlile turns to look slowly over his shoulder, following her line of sight. Then, equally as slowly, he turns back to face her. ‘Is someone about to rob this **?’ Matilda screams silently through tightened lips, then shifts her head sideways so the plant’s leaves hide her line of sight. ‘It’s her!’ she hisses under her breath. ‘It’s— it’s fucking her! Margery! What the fuck is she doing here?’ Understanding slowly unravels across his face, his expression growing blank, and he becomes very, very still. Still as an owl. ‘Has she seen you yet?’ he asks. ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘Do we need to leave?’ Peering through the gaps in the plant’s foliage, Matilda chews on the ends of her nails, then nods. She makes ready to stand up – but almost immediately plonks back down. ‘Fuck. Wait. I can’t stand up looking like this! I don’t want people looking at my gut. She’ll see me.’ Matilda feels extra naked now, as if her exposed belly is twice as chubby and round as a life-sized doughnut swollen with jelly. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck– quick– gimme that coat you found in the store! The camel coat.’ She reaches over the table with needy, desperate, grabbing hands as Carlile hurries to reach under the table and dig through the shopping bags beside his feet. ‘The tag’s still on,’ he warns, lifting it across the table. ‘I don’t care.’ She unfolds the coat, slips an arm in each sleeve, pats the sides down over her torso, then peers through the plant's foliage again. Margery is still there, obviously waiting in line, inert as a lifeless statue. ‘Why the fuck would Margery of all people be standing in line for ice cream?’ she hisses. ‘If she’s distracted, you should go,’ Carlile says in a low voice. ‘I’ll cover you–’ ‘No, you get up first,’ she says, closing the coat over her freely exposed stomach, clutching the sides of the coat in place like a woman concealing precious pearls from a robber. ‘I can’t see too well past this plant, but she might be looking. If she’s looking, she’ll see me get up, and I’ll be so fucking screwed it’s not funny.’ He begins to get up, then hesitates halfway. ‘Look– there’s a door right behind you.’ ‘Oh, thank god.’ Speaking to each other through body-language alone, they stand up from the table with careful stealth so their chairs don’t alert her by scraping noisily on the floor, then turn around to face the exit, and walk towards it as calmly as possible, Carlile following behind her to block Margery’s line of sight. Matilda pushes the door open and swings herself outside into the open air, side-stepping away from the window and behind the brick of the wall. Carlile emerges behind her, closing the door awkwardly, carrying all the shopping bags in his hands, then hurries along to follow her at a trot down the sidewalk. They speed-walk across the expanse of the parking lot, Carlile sticking to the near side, looking over now and again towards the windows of the ice cream shop as they zig-zag their way between the rows of parked vehicles. When they find his car, circle around behind it, open their doors and slip into their respective seats, Carlile twists around to chuck the shopping bags into the back seat, and then turns back around – freezing still as a paused film. He’s looking at her. His eyes, inch by inch, fall down to her middle, fixated on a spot where her hand hesitates in pulling the seatbelt across the upper curl of her belly, its roundness shockingly obvious in this position for some reason she cannot quite explain. Her heart is still racing. Her cheeks feel flushed and full of heat. She pulls the buckle towards the edge of the seat, but stops as it slices across her flesh like a sanding belt. Carlile is still looking at it. ‘What are you staring at?’ she asks. ‘I know I got chubby, okay?’ Then a particular shape catches her attention. She lowers her own eyes a few notches. Carlile’s own stomach is trying to sit in his lap, appearing just a little bit like a marshmallow. So he’s got a little belly. And so does she. Why is he looking at her like that? With his eyes all weighted and glazed over like…? The stuffy intimacy of the car’s interior, the closeness of the air around their bodies, the belt strapped uncomfortably across her belly, their quickening breaths, all at once becomes too much to bear, as sudden as a boom of thunder. He grabs her first, pulling her closer by her shoulder, then lets his hand slide down over her breast, feeling its softness meet his palm, his other hand touching her neck. They lean across to each other and lock mouths. Giggling under her breath, she slides her hand over his shoulder and squeezes the back of his firm neck – and then something overpowers her, surging up from her stomach, and she slumps backwards into her seat, jutting her jaw at the ceiling with a gasp as a surge of raw arousal kicks her straight in the guts. Suddenly Carlile pushes away from her. ‘I need to drive. We’re in a parking lot. My windows aren’t tinted.’ ‘I know, but…’ she pants. ‘We’re in a parking lot.’ ‘But–’ ‘Five minutes away from home.’ ‘I can’t believe you still want me like this.’ Carlile looks at her very seriously. ‘Five minutes.’ ‘I want you.’ ‘Five. Minutes.’ . . . They’re on his bed quicker than they know how they got there. She’s pulling his pants down his legs even as he reaches behind himself to make sure his door is properly locked. ‘Wait,’ he says. She tugs at his pants, trapped around his knees, stopping him from wriggling away. ‘Wait!’ he says again, laughing, wrestling with her wrists. Matilda withers. His hands are surprisingly strong – powerful, knife-holding hands. They make her feel weak. Shoving her prying fingers away, he shuffles to the door with his pants around his ankles, tests the handle, then stumbles back to his bed where she waits with her legs splayed provocatively, and without waiting he begins rolling her shirt up. She keeps tugging at his pants, feeling ** on arousal. ‘Actually, wait,’ Carlile says, pulling her shirt over her head as she lifts her arms up to make it easier. ‘Wait one second; I got a better idea.’ Rolling off the bed in his shirt and underwear, he moves into the partition of his room and begins extending the fold-out bed. Growling at having to delay her gratification, Matilda slides off the mattress of his bed and tries to saunter over, looking sexy, but gives up when the shirtless freedom given to her body’s flesh sends it into bouts of unwanted jiggling, her belly given open licence to shake around. Doused with wet embarrassment, she launches herself onto the foldout bed in an effort to distract herself just as Carlile has barely managed to straighten it out, and it concerns her to feel the springs retaliate against the impact of her landing more than usual. She twists around on her side to admire her lover, and watches as his hands flicks the light off, leaving nothing but a moody glow from the afternoon light through the small windows. Feeling hot and bothered, she rolls over to let him fall down beside her, then begins working on removing his shirt while he works on her bra. Her boobs fall free to one side as the strip of sports lycra falls away. ‘Lift your arms,’ she says. He does so, and she pulls his shirt up, immediately copping an eyeful of his belly and the pudge accumulating upon it, split into two sections from being sucked in. ‘Stop that,’ she commands, flicking him in the stomach. She grins as it offers a weak jiggle in retort. But he doesn’t stop sucking in. So… he’s doing this thing again. This strange withdrawal whenever she comes anywhere near his waist. Annoyed, she flops onto her back and glares at the ceiling as she lets his hands fully unzip her pants and pull them down her legs. She reaches up, moving a hand towards his belly, wanting to feel the roll curving out from his navel and around the side of his underwear. He pushes her hand away before she even gets a finger to it. ‘Carl!’ ‘...What?’ ‘Oh for god sake. Look. Look at this. Watch.’ She arches her back so her own belly looks even rounder than normal, sticking it up in the air, and delivers a hard slap against its side, forcing it to react with a tight, angry jiggle. ‘If I can look like a fat, bloated bitch in front of you; then you can stop pretending you’re even close to being one in front of me,’ she says, touching him in the stomach. One fingernail gets to sink in briefly before he flinches back. Annoyed, she sits up in a hurry, pulling her feet up under her legs and pushing herself backwards to stare at him from across the sheets. He reaches out for her, then lets his hand fall into his lap, a dumb, stunned look slackening his face. ‘Why’re you acting so weird?’ she asks. ‘You always do this.’ He looks like he’s about to speak, then his shoulders drop. ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Are you feeling alright?’ ‘I thought I was the one asking you that before.’ ‘That was at the ice cream shop.’ Matilda gives him a flat look. ‘Now you’ve gone all weird. What’s the matter? Are you hungry?’ He hesitates, then shakes his head. ‘No.’ ‘You’re hungry, aren’t you…’ ‘I’m fine, I just…’ ‘You haven’t eaten since breakfast. I think you’re hungry. No, you know what?’ She raises her eyebrows and flashes her eyes at his stomach, ‘I think that skinny tummy of yours needs something to eat.’ He drops one shoulder and looks to the side with an indecisive groan. ‘I shouldn’t.’ ‘You’re clearly starving.’ ‘Not right now. That’s a bad idea.’ A cat-like shade comes into Matilda’s eyes as she purses her lips with an erotically sinister idea. Then she second-guesses it. No. She shouldn’t do that. It would be mean. But she can’t help it. Or maybe she can – but she won’t. But this is her only chance. ‘Okay, then,’ she says, giving into the temptation of power in bribery. ‘I guess you don’t want this,’ flourishing her almost naked body like bait on a hook. Disappointment slowly absorbs his face, eyelids drooping until there’s nothing left but a you-can’t-be-serious stare. He looks down at her waistline. She pats it, laughing spitefully at the chubby tremble it gives over its bloated surface. ‘I’ll need you to eat my fill so I can slim down,’ she says, pinching the fat beside her belly button, amazed to find a roll thick enough to keep her fingers an inch or so apart. ‘Come on– I never see you eat, ever,’ she whines. ‘I wanna see you eat, just for once. You’re a fucking chef, and you barely ever eat! Look– I’ll go upstairs and get some snacks, then we can keep doing this. Or at the same time even! Come on, it’ll be fun. What do you feel like?’ He gives her a lop-sided, wonky smile, and shrugs. ‘Okay…’ She grins savagely as a shadowy pleasure flares to life below her stomach and rises up to dominate her body as everything inside her reaches boiling point. . . .

After her newly-crowned chef boyfriend has cooked a breakfast meal of pancakes, spinach and ricotta with bacon, Matilda makes her second deliberate effort in months to be punctual for practice. Close, but no cigar. She turns up a few minutes overtime, stuck in a limbo between not-as-late-as-usual, but not quite on time either. Elisha doesn’t seem to like this one little bit, throwing languid, resentful stares at her while the girls change into their gear, then jog outside, up onto the training pitch and into the chilly, dew-laden air. None of the girls want to say more than a single word to her during the session. It’s not as if they’re trying to avoid her – they just believe they have to act with caution around her, the way you would an injured stray dog that needs to be left alone and must be felt sorry for. It probably has something to do with the way she’s feeling out of breath during warm ups before most of the girls have even jogged the morning chill from their limbs. Margery strolls around like a vulture-necked sentry among them with her whistle in hand, using her voice and hands to bark directional instructions as they rehearse set plays and practice cut-back sprints. She never looks at Matilda. Not once. If Margery has to say anything to her at all, she speaks to the air around Matilda, eyes averted, never addressing her directly – and all while, Elisha somehow manages to worm her way into the centre of the pitch, sticking her foot into all the action as she struts around with her captain’s armband around her upper arm, fastened with obsessive precision as if to make her title as clear as possible. The real trouble comes after training in the change rooms. Kelsey, who is sitting on the bench beside her locker, huffs with lips pressed shut and drops her towel in her lap. She glances across at Talina, her defensive partner on the left wing, with an expression that suggests there are words trying to escape her mouth. Talina clocks onto her teammate’s searching gaze and squints at her, one brow raised inquisitively. With a quick glance over her shoulder, Kelsey licks her lips and then leans in confidentially. ‘I know we aren’t meant to transition until a counter-attack,’ she says under her breath, ‘but I can’t hold onto the ball forever. It doesn’t feel right. How do I move it into their third when there’s nobody to pass to when I’m getting pressured?’ Matilda overhears the two of them. ‘You could just long-ball it across to Stacey,’ she suggests, finding it a bit annoying to lean over her knees and slip her shoe off her heel, with the way her belly keeps wanting to remind her it’s there all the time, now. The two girls turn to her, then swap a strange glance with each other. But they return their eyes to Matilda, nonetheless, and wait. They’re listening. ‘Stacey should be mirroring your runs, right?’ Matilda reasons, leaning to one side and placing her shoe on the ground. She feels a fold develop under her ribcage as she does so. ‘Just like I was before Margery moved me to the backline. So if you’re waiting for us to move up the field, then just lob it straight over their heads. Straight to Stacey. Switch the play. She can do it. She’s a good controller of the ball. Not really that fast, but she can make the ball stick to her, you know? They won’t expect it. They’ll have to turn and chase her instead – so, if you let her dribble it up a bit, then get her to lob it over back to you again, it wastes the opponent’s time. By then some of us should have enough time to be making runs in behind for you to pass through to.’ Talina bites her lower lip, a sequence of thought making her eyes narrow. ‘Sounds risky. Won’t that allow the opposition to regroup as well?’ ‘Yeah. Our counter attack would die– but not all of it. That’s why our back line stays back; to get ready for a turn-over, if that happens. Only our midfield players are meant to make those forward runs anyway.’ ‘Not according to Margery.’ ‘Who cares! Evangeline should already be there ahead of you. Beth runs ahead of me, cuts inside towards you. Elisha runs up too. The rest of us stay back and guard the turn-over, or otherwise just sit as an anchor if nothing opens up and you need to recycle the ball. But in attacking transition, if you need to, just keep switching play to the other side of the field, between you and Stacey. Make the opposition shift side to side. It might annoy them. Then, if you get far up enough, our fullbacks can run up, and overlap, or underlap.’ ‘That’s sounding an awful lot like an attacking style of football,’ Kelsey says, laughing. ‘Again– who cares what Margery wants anymore? Talina; you and April can run up from your fullback positions and overlap. Grace and Mandy stay all the way back ready to stop a turn-over if it happens while I sweep in front of them like a traditional defensive mid. You can boot it back to me if there’s an emergency– I should be more or less isolated, and I should have a bit of space to work with. I’ll redistribute it to you from the back and you can try pushing forward again.’ Kelsey’s eyes glitter. Talina exchanges a glance with her, then looks away to examine the wall as she sucks her lips between her teeth. She’s visibly turning the ideas over in her mind. Then she tilts her head a little and says, ‘You know what? I can… actually see how that would work, but… Margery would kill you for suggesting it, for one thing. For another; doesn’t that mean you’d have to do more defensive work than usual?’ ‘Yes and yes. But again, who cares. If I’m not marked by an opponent, just send it back to me and reset. I won’t have long, but I’ll be able to think up something on the spot and spray some kind of pass forward. Just get back into an open space and I’ll pick someone out for a pass.’ Kelsey nods as understanding slowly unfurls in her mind’s eye. It’s not rocket science. As a matter of fact, it’s pretty basic football when it comes down to reality. But Talina still has one last doubt. ‘And if they counter-attack?’ ‘Everyone should be marking their nearest opponent’s run and shadowing them anyway. If they have the ball, pressure them. If they’re on the move, cut in front of their passing-lanes. You’ll have to do some sprinting, obviously, but when everyone’s running into our third, I’ll come forward and go up against whoever has the ball, force them to make a pass, or I make a tackle, either way I waste their time. Grace and Mandy should backtrack to shadow the opposition forwards when they run past me in case they’re looking to make a sprint into our box. Talina; by then, if the player you’re shadowing doesn’t have the ball, you and April just keep marking them so they don’t get to run out wide. And bam– we’re back into formation before they’re even in our final third.’ With a sly squint, Talina slowly nods, and is about to say something when she senses movement and looks over her shoulder. ‘You’re not seriously trying to give tactical suggestions, are you?’ Elisha butts in, stepping into their corner with one foot forward, looking inquisitively between the three of them. She shoots a down-the-nose frown at Matilda, an expression of disgust twisting her facial features. ‘You know that’s not what Margery has asked us to do. And you should be the last one to be saying anything to begin with, Tild. Look at you. How is anyone meant to take you seriously right now?’ Silence echoes like a propagating wave. Now everybody in the room is listening. Matilda sits on her bench like a child with nothing good to say and a rush of heat making her ears feel like they’re swelling. ‘I take her seriously,’ comes April’s voice all of a sudden. But her support had been too soft-spoken. Elisha’s attention is aimed on Matilda so telescopically that nothing else matters, and April’s voice behind her fades as if it had never spoken. Matilda feels her own face contort. She should be able to defend herself. Why can’t she talk back? Oh. She knows why. She doesn’t want to know, but she does. Elisha is right. Who is ever going to take her seriously? Her out of shape appearance has pulled any credibility she had out from under her feet. Anything she chooses to say is only undermined by the obscene lump of overfed softness in the front of her shirt, the strain of her hips against her shorts, the meaty thickness of her soft thighs against the edge of the bench. Elisha takes a few steps back to stand against the nearest empty locker so she can face and address the whole room. ‘I hate to do this, but I’m speaking on behalf of Margery, and as your captain when I say we have to trust the plan. I know we aren’t getting results, but we will. We will if we do this right. Stand straight. Look up. Suck it in, and commit to the boss’s tactics. Whether any of you like it or not, they will work.’ Matilda can’t help herself anymore. She’s about to lose her mind. She puts her hands on the edge of the bench and begins to rise. ‘But that’s–’ ‘Shut up, you fat ass,’ Elisha snaps, barely turning to acknowledge Matilda before continuing. In spite of herself, Matilda feels body-slammed to the floor. She slouches down with a heavy chest and tries not to make eye contact with the few girls she can tell are awkwardly glancing in her direction. ‘We have to believe in the plan,’ Elisha declares, planting one foot forward in assertive triumph. ‘If we all commit, it will work. Counter-attacks are about patience. We all know that. I know it might not be pretty, but it’s what we have to do for now… Not at all thanks to a certain someone who let themselves go, nooo, not at all… But, all we need to do is to stay focused, be patient, wait for the counter attack to properly present itself, don’t lose our cool by rushing in just to make an attempt at goal, and then eventually we will be able to do it right.’ Matilda can’t stay like this any longer. Her lungs are too full of fire. She hangs her head and hisses under her breath, deflating. Elisha notices. ‘Oh,’ swinging around, ‘and I guess you still have a problem with that, don’t you?’ She throws a hand at her in angry gesticulation. ‘You. You, who’s just sitting there like that. Don’t you get it? You’re half the reason these counter-attacks haven’t been working in the first place!’ ‘Oh, right,’ Matilda lifts her head to glare at the captain from under raised brows. ‘So you at least admit counter-attacking doesn’t work–’ ‘Only because of you!’ Elisha spits. ‘You’re such a let-down! You’re too fucking slow! How the fuck are we meant to get the ball through the midfield with you slowing it all down? Honestly, I don’t understand why you get all these chances?’ Elisha’s body leans into her words as her repressed rage begins to unravel itself in a verbal mess. ‘Why the fuck are you even still here?’ Her eyes are hugely wide, bright and icey like marbles, hatred tightening her facial features as she gives her head small erratic shakes left and right to punctuate her words; ‘Honestly, I don’t get it. I try but I just don’t. Actually, no, you know what? I don’t care anymore. I’m done.’ She turns away. ‘I’m so done, I’m so fucking done. I’m so through with this, I’m so done.’ She wheels back suddenly. ‘You are the worst; you let yourself get this fat and never do anything about it? Like– are you in denial? Is that it? Are you fucking ignoring it? Because I’m not. We aren’t. You’re so fucking chubby and out-of-shape, just some fat-ass now, I don’t get what your problem is. Oh I’m so fucking done.’ Elisha turns away once more, but then decides to wheel back a second time. ‘Like, what is honestly your deal? Did you sign a fucking contract with someone else? Did your daddy pay your way into a position here? You a trust-fund kid? You got dirt? You got dirt on someone? What did you ever do to deserve this? I’m so over it.’ Elisha turns and takes a step away. ‘So over it.’ Then turns back for yet a third time, one hand carving the air in gestures of furious articulation. ‘I don’t get how you let yourself get fat and still play this game. Like no, seriously. You can’t even play this game anymore. Look at you, you fat fucking pig; you don’t even fit your shorts anymore– and– and what the fuck is with this?’ She grasps around her own thin waist at an invisible paunch, ‘You look pregnant! Who in their right mind lets a woman play at four months pregnant? You need to go on a diet. Like. Right, now.’ Elisha shakes her head and turns on her heel for good this time. ‘So disgusting.’ As Elisha’s tirade snaps to an end, she finally stalks away. She packs up the last of her stuff into her bag and leaves the room. When all is silent again, Matilda finds herself unable to make any meaningful movements with her limbs. Everyone is looking at her. Left stung and beaten, she knows she ought to have something to say. Something to do. But she’s trapped. A great, sinking weight like a waterlogged rag wraps around her soul, holding it down low. She’s anchored to the bench upon which she sits. Her upper back aches. Her shoulder blades feel strained. The insides of her thighs feel hot and itchy against one another, and heat prickles under her arms. Kelsey is staring at the closed door through which Elisha has departed. There’s a doubtful shade in her eyes. A crease appears under her lids, tensing briefly just before it vanishes – just a momentary thought about something. Matilda slowly reaches for her bag, puts the last of her items away and closes it. The zipper’s length seems to stretch for as long as a highway into the desert. Keeping her eyes averted in what she hopes looks like stubborn defiance, she gets up and leaves. She can tell Kelsey is watching her go, and in those grey eyes is something that might be sympathy. But, oh god, no, that’s not what she needs right now. She wants to tell Kelsey to stop. Dragging her bag behind her, she exits the facility, walks out to her car, and gets inside, dangerously close to the precipice of a flood of angry tears. . . . Carlile cooks dinner for her that night. He listens to her in silence while he prepares the food. It’s well into the evening and most of her fury by now has been vented out her mouth, nose and ears, dispersing like smoke to join the kitchen’s ambient steam, and her throat is sore from talking for too long. She’s been sinking further and further into the stool as she runs out of words to say, and now she’s leaning across the bench, slumped over her elbows, her hair over her face in an un-combed mess. The anger is all gone, strangely. Now that it’s gone she just feels tired. Tired and hungry. But Carlile is right there across from her, glazing potatoes in her kitchen. He silently coats the vegetables in marinate, saying nothing, just listening. She lays there with her head in her hands and breathes sleepily, eyes looking up at him from under heavy lids. Something inside her slows down to a steady lethargic rhythm of peaceful safety. Her heart settles into place as she watches him work. Like a ball, spinning as fast as a wheel burning itself out against the tarmac, finally hitting the brakes and slowing down to eventual stasis. She feels like a downy feather tossed in the wind, floating down, swaying gently to eventual rest. It’s comforting to watch him work, his skilled movements satisfying to observe as they play out one by one. His hands are long and strong. He cuts the potatoes evenly, holding the knife in the same gentle, firm way he holds her hand. She wants to reach out for him, touch his fingers, lace them around her own and slowly rub her hands into his reassuring warmth. Ever since his induction week ended, Carlile has begun to change. Physically. He turns away from her to carry the sliced potatoes to an oiled tray beside the pre-heated oven, and that’s when she notices the roundness in the back of his shirt where his hip bones used to sit sharper. A filmy wash of desire sheathes her eyeballs as she scans his body up and down. She can’t see anything below his stuffy grey sweatpants, but something is different higher up. His stomach bends out against his shirt somewhat, moreso down low than up high. But how has she only just noticed this? Is it really that sudden? Oh. God. She lets her eyes flit up to the back of his head, then back down, eyelids droopy with desire, and she stretches her body over the bench to crane towards one side for a better view. Then he turns around and catches her. She glances up and gives him a guilty, filthy smirk. ‘Hmm,’ she hums, pressing her lips together and still smirking. ‘You must be eating whatever you’re cooking at the kitchen.’ She swears he’s quickly sucked in, the overt shape of his stomach shrinking back. The soft imprint of his hips remain there, however, too stubborn, unable to go anywhere else. ‘What’re you talking about?’ he says, looking away. Matilda sits a little straighter and shrugs, still smirking. ‘Nothing.’ . . . The Purple Vale Strikers visit Brentwood FC’s grounds that Friday to play their eleventh match of the season. The game goes all whack with stop-start motion that doesn’t really go anywhere. It turns out Elisha ratted on Matilda to Margery, thoroughly stomping on any chance she had at kindling a tactical flame in the girls’ game plan and forcing Kelsey and Talina to apologetically put Matilda’s ideas to the side. Despite being shoehorned back into Margery’s stiff, unfluid counter-attacking routine, the girls play without making any drastic mistakes, and everyone sticks their foot into the match with a growling fight that leaves them bruised and grazed for 93 minutes. Everyone except for Matilda, who can’t keep it up with that anymore. She is technically a defender, now, and she is stuck playing down the back line of the park. Except that every time she gets the ball, she fails to keep the momentum going forward down the lanes, either losing the ball to a tackle or running into a gang of opposition midfielders who find the time to rocket back into a defensive wall and force her to backpedal before she can cover any ground. She can hear angry locals yelling from the sidelines, but she doesn't allow herself to tune into what they’re saying. Around the 80th minute, a loose ball rolls away from a tackle eight yards from her. Elisha and Kelsey both converge on it, and Matilda sidesteps into some open space in case they need to pass the ball back to safety. As she moves out, she can hear her own breath like grinding rocks, and now an opponent jogs around the side to start man-marking her. Elisha gets to the ball first, and turns with it towards Matilda. The nearby opponent puts hands against Matilda’s arm and jostles with her. Instead of passing the ball, Elisha hoofs it clear up over Matilda’s head, all the way back to Nysha in goals. When Matilda tries to untangle herself from her opponent to run down the pitch, the girl gets in front to push off her body at a head start – her hands slipping down to accidentally push against Matilda’s waist, copping a fingerful or two of soft pudge. ‘Oh my god, what happened there?’ Matilda hears the girl laugh as she runs off at a jog. Once the game ends with a 1 - 1 draw, she doesn’t hang around for any longer than it takes to change back into her clothes. The atmosphere in the change rooms is thick with invisible poison, gloom, and the threat of a managerial outburst closing in on all sides like an approaching stormfront. So she’s dashed out the door and into the unfamiliar parking lot before anyone can stop her. Sweat still coats her forehead, turning cold as the night air meets her skin. Her silver Suzuki Swift is parked in a corner away from the harsh white glare of the floodlights. Coming around the driver’s side, feeling safe and stealthy, she unlocks the door, slips into the seat of her small vehicle, and allows herself to be swallowed up by the entombment of darkness and safety. That is until she flicks her headlights on, and the sheen of frosty moisture across the windshield illuminates the smears of scribbles written on it by someone’s finger. The letters don’t make sense at first. “ s s a t a f ” Did somebody mis-spell a name? She blinks, and then tries reading it backwards. Her heart sinks, oozing through the gaps of her ribcage like emulsified jelly. “ f a t a s s ” Someone has written on the outside of her car – as if she didn’t know – that she is a fatass. Letting her head drop, she glances over each shoulder, out of the windows into the darkness beyond, but can’t spot anybody nearby. She realises she’s still breathing loud enough to hear herself. God, she’s so unfit. A fat, weak, out of shape piece of shit who used to be the best in this sport. What is left of her now, but a **-bellied pig of a thing who’s sitting alone in her car, struggling not to sob beneath the oppressive weight of this name-badge written before her eyes on the windshield? She’s an unfit chubster who hasn’t even begun to fasten her seatbelt yet, knowing that when she does, she’ll have to deal with the fleshy package of softness that her belly has become, pressing against her fingers, and be forced to acknowledge a part of her that never existed before. And yet, in spite of it all, she can’t find the tears to cry with. She wants to, but there’s nothing available. Maybe it’s because the idiot who did it couldn’t even think to write it in reverse on the outside so it scans correctly from the inside. On the one hand, the word on the windshield hurts. But on the other hand, it somehow feels like scratching a terrible itch. She deserves this. She made herself chubby on purpose. She’s pathetic, and she’s gross. She has a fat belly, and fat thighs, and now someone has finally announced it to the public – a painful fact like a patch of restless nerve-endings trapped for too long beneath a plaster cast of “politeness”, busted open at last to be scratched at with long-overdue relief. Is that why this feels kind of nice, in a fucked up way? Matilda stares at the insulting letters on the windscreen, and for a brief moment in time, she imagines letting them stay there. Then she knocks the wiper lever down and watches the blades sweep up, back down – up, back down – erasing the word from existence. With that done, she drives off, feeling hungrier than she should be. . When she gets back home, she launches into escapism with her entire soul. This is her last night to be alone with Carlile in her house before her parents return, so she wants to milk every vibrant minute of this time like the last drops of life in a wasteland. He is already inside, having used a spare key. As soon as Matilda comes into the kitchen, she latches onto him like a facehugger not even two steps through the entrance and tells him to get the fuck into her bedroom. But he tells her to wait first. He’s only just finished cooking them a giant dinner in time for her return. So they sit and eat in each other’s company, packing a little too much food into their stomachs by the time they’re done, and find themselves burdened with bellies too full to keep sharp minds, their patterns of thought gone as dull and blunt as mallets. They shove each other onto the couch in front of an unwatched movie, the wide TV screen flickering light across their bodies in the unlit room as they peel each other’s clothes away like gifts to each other, the room silent except for that sensual hiss of skin brushing against skin, of clothes rustling. They make love, bathing in the heat of each other’s bodies as they touch, caress, squeeze and grope. But it’s not long before she comes to sense that same feeling of avoidant distance, once again, in the way Carlile is moving around her. He won’t allow her hands to come near anything remotely soft – and that’s a problem. As he redirects her touch, time and time again, to the more exercise areas of his body, she realises that he’s been visiting the gym again. He's going to lose all his softness. Matilda’s heart wrinkles, and something inside her loses a gush of hot air. Her mood almost dies on the spot. But she can’t go back now. Pushing aside what she knows is just petty anger, she gives herself some time for its absence to take hold – and then, in its wake, a wave of aggressive passion floods into her body, filling her with something unbearable. She grabs him by the shoulders and plants hard kisses up and down his collarbones. He cups his hand under her groin and begins searching for her sensitive spot. Before they know it, everything is spiralling out of control faster than a chemical reaction rising, frothing, exploding over the head of a beaker. . . . During the evening of the next day, the sun keeps popping in and out of hiding behind flat grey clouds. She stares out her bedroom window, thinking about last night. He’d fucked her until it pounded. Even now, she feels a tenderness one stage below a bruise between her legs. Taking outside a small rubbish bag filled with their used protection and dropping it discreetly in the general waste can just in time for her mother to return home from the airport in a taxi, she’d felt herself walk back inside with a bit of a funny gait. As she sits at her desk with her laptop, eating a bowl of ice cream and playing around on Football Manager, she hears her phone go off behind her somewhere in the blankets of her unmade bed. She knows who it is. But she won’t be going to training today. It’s not like she deliberately made that decision. It’s just that something inside her doesn’t have the strength to lift a finger about it. As if the option simply isn’t there to be clicked on the menu. And anyway, if Elisha is going to be a filthy rat and destroy any chance at making the right adjustments to the team’s tactical play, then what is the point in playing? The idea of sacrifice is dead, now, and she has killed it, all for a head coach who does not possess a single good idea about how to manage eleven young female footballers. Carlile had left earlier in the morning to prepare himself for a long day in the kitchen, leaving her alone, bored, and with nothing to do except eat ice cream, simulate virtual football matches, and wait until the late afternoon when she can use the excuse of “dinner time” to eat an entire meal. So she sits in peaceful solitude at her laptop, scoffing ice cream with more speed than she realises, getting up for stealthy refills every now and then until the spoon scrapes the bottom of the empty carton and her stomach feels overburdened with dairy – her metabolism trying, but failing, to deal with the catastrophic onslaught of surplus calories. . . . When she arrives at the clinic for her intern shift early the next morning, Matilda knows she shouldn’t have done what she did. Well, there’s many things she shouldn’t have done. Shouldn’t have binged all that ice cream. Shouldn’t have worn this outfit. Shouldn’t have even turned up. Should have gone to the gym instead. Should have quit this headlong binge weeks ago while she was still ahead, when it was clear Margery was never going to budge. Taking a moment to be alone in the restroom before she goes out through the foyer to meet Dr Goodwynn, she stands with her back against the tiled wall and glares loathsomely at the ceiling, mouthing nasty words to herself over and over. Her mistakes have chosen now, of all possible moments, to step out of hell’s portal and overwhelm every cortex of her fucked up brain with panic. She wasn’t ready for this. Then again, she was never ready for anything, was she? Not like she thought she was. The truth is all too clear, now that she sees it from within the brown blur of muck she’s trapped in. The rotting state of her club – her childhood club – infused with so many irretrievable memories, hopes and dreams slowly sliding away from her, further with every bite of fattening food, every molecule of adipose tissue wriggling into its place to join the fray, even now, probably. From the very start, her plan had been the poorly thought-out design of a belligerent child thinking they could build a rocket ship to the moon out of cardboard, and it has all come to its cataclysmic conclusion at last, miles off-track from where she projected to land. What the fuck was she thinking, forcing her body to store fat against its natural metabolistic will? Besieging her stomach until she broke its default setting? Was she really deluded enough to think she could do enough “damage” to her club that they would be forced to perform a “Hard Reset” and “start anew” with “a different manager”? What a disgusting, spilled-over, splattered mess of an entitled fantasy. Her clothes won’t even sit on her body with sufficient slack anymore. It’s no longer simply a matter of discomfort, nor just about the sensation of tightness. She had found the mental strength to deal with these worsening maladjustments and the cognitive dissonance for so long – but all those mental gymnastics are unravelling, now, faster than a coiled spring. And something’s going to get damaged. What’s really concerning is that she just… woke up one morning from a dream she had about being a railroad construction worker building a rail track into Neverland, only to find her clothes just straight up wouldn’t fit her body when she tried them on that morning. It’s a lucky thing she brought a long woollen cardigan with her today, otherwise she’d be showing narrow wedges of exposed skin for everyone’s eyes to see. It probably looks stylistically stupid, buttoning a cardigan which is meant to hang open, but she’s got no choice. Her enlarged belly has filled the front of her collared white shirt with its roundness, pressing against the waistband of her slacks to the point that the bulge of her gut is putting a mean strain against the shirt’s buttons. As a matter of stylistic design, her slacks have no central zipper for a fly, but instead zip up either side. Problem is, she can’t fully close the zips on the sides of her slacks, even though her breakfast-bloated stomach has slowly digested back down to a more relaxed state. Having to suck in all the time has been causing problems – making it harder than she feels she deserves to draw a sufficiently deep breath into her lungs– and the buried musculature of her abdomen aches from having to hold tight under an endless outwards tension. It’s like planking. She can’t do it forever. There comes a point where she has to stop sucking in. A short time later, Matilda wanders down into Dr Goodwynn’s office. Taking her seat on the opposite corner of her desk, she has to keep plucking at the folds of her cardigan to make sure every part of the garment is perfectly rumpled in such a way. But the thick woollen knit keeps wanting to settle around the shape of the most incriminating bulges and curves of her softened stomach – the way it squashes together and rolls into its own mass no matter how she sits. She tries to keep her focus rigid as a rock while she watches patients come in and out of the office one by one for consultations and various treatments, but the sensation of her belly’s lower skin pressing against tight fabric, pushing up over the belt’s buckle, takes her mind away from the present again and again, unbelievably distracting. As the day churns on, Matilda begins to sense that something is… missing from Dr Goodwynn’s repertoire of language. Whenever an appointment ends, Dr Goodwynn takes five or ten minutes to discuss the patient’s problems with Matilda; to teach her about what went right, what went wrong, and to explain each decision she made based on her knowledge. Thing is, Matilda has noticed that just over half of the patients who come in on any given day are bordering on overweight, a few of them guaranteed to be quite fat. And yet not even once has Dr Goodwynn uttered the words “fat”, “weight”, “overweight”, “size”, or anything remotely synonymous, today. Actually, now that she thinks about it, she hadn’t even said those words last week. Matilda comes to realise just how tacitly she has been side-stepping those words precisely at the threshold of being brought up. Dr Goodwynn’s verbal dance is masterful, the gesture almost sweet… But Matilda wishes she would just say something, already. Just admit that she can tell. Get it over with. The elephant in the room is too loud, taking up too much space. Nobody can move around it. The itch needs to be scratched – just like the writing left on her windshield. F a t a s s. That’s exactly it. I’m a fatass, she confesses internally. Thank you for noticing. I have a fat wobbling ass now. I have a round jiggly beer gut and it pushes over my pants. I have fat legs. I have chubby hips. My tits are growing like they haven’t since I was fourteen. Even my arms look thicker. I know I am. Tell me again, I’m listening. Call me out on it. Dr Goodwynn is moving her lips, and her smooth dark hand is gently waving above her vision. ‘…Matilda? Is everything okay?’ Matilda sucks in a lungful of air and straightens in her seat, feeling a row of buttons stiffen down the front of her blouse as her breasts and stomach in unison seek to push against them. All that’s stopping it from being seen is this stupid cardigan. ‘Sorry, I…’ She lowers her gaze and shakes her head in apology. Nudging her glasses back up her nose, Dr Goodwynn’s dark brows pinch together as she peers at her student. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’ ‘Uhm. No.’ ‘This is quite uncharacteristic of you.’ Concern colours Dr Goodwynn’s face as she evaluates Matilda’s posture. Then she glances at the clock in the corner of her computer screen. ‘It is nearly afternoon. You are clearly unwell. I will not object if you need to go home.’ Matilda puts her hands in her lap and twists her thumb from side to side. Among all the posters on the wall, a BMI chart happens to catch her eye, and she glares at it like she might decipher some hidden message. ‘That’s… really kind of you, but… No, I’m fine.’ For some reason she feels like she needs to eat. ‘I don’t mean to press,’ Dr Goodwynn speaks carefully, leaning with her elbow on the desk and swivelling her chair around to face her squarely. ‘But how is playing at your club going? The last time you told me, you said things weren’t going so well. You had run into some problems. Your coach? If I remember correctly things weren’t very good between you two.’ Matilda smiles. ‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s it. That’s all it is.’ Dr Goodwynn nods, saying “okay” with her eyes. Matilda withers like a dried flower. Well, it’s not a lie, is it? You can stretch half-truths to surprising lengths, if you give it a try. . . . Late to training. Again. She almost didn’t turn up at all. It’s getting far into the evening, and the sun has cooked the air to an oven-like warmth of stagnant humidity trapped among them by low clouds. At least that’s how it feels to her lethargic, perspiring limbs as she battles to push her body through several warm-up routines. During a brief lull in exercises, she hurries over to the sideline and bends over with a funny little sound coming from her mouth to pick up her bottle and take a long, hard drink. Her cheeks feel swollen with heat, blood surging through the vessels beneath her skin and neck. Her ears rush with over-pressurised circulation. Someone is calling out. Pulling her lips off the bottle with a smack, she gulps the last mouthful of water and resumes panting as she slaps the cap shut again. Her dizzy sight has never swirled this bad in her life. There are little flecks at the edges of her vision– ‘Matilda!’ The shouting resolves into the sound of her name and she spins around to see Coach Karen looking at her from ten yards away, waving her hand in the air for attention. ‘Earth to Matilda. Hello. Yes, you. Coach Ilda has something she wants to tell you, please.’ Karen points across the grass towards the club building, where the distant form of coach Ilda stands, thin and Germanic, with her arms folded, leaning her weight back on one leg. Matilda looks back at Karen, but the small woman has already turned and walked off to rearrange a row of training cones. Matilda has to make her way around the boundary line so she doesn’t get in the way of the girls as they go running all over the place. At the dead centre of the pitch is Margery, hawking out micromanagements and instructions. She can feel Ilda’s gaze from all the way over here, and her belly is shaking as well. Fuck. Is it visible? Cotton fibre is tickling her stomach in places it isn’t meant to. Her upper thighs wobble on their frames. The journey around the outside of the pitch takes longer than she feels like it ought to. Once she comes to stand before the coach at last, Ilda is looking at her like she’s nothing more than a blank block of concrete. ‘Hello Matilda,’ Ilda says, in that flat, angular accent. ‘I must deliver bad news.’ Matilda sways on her feet as a beat of unexpected silence goes by, forcing her to either wait and elongate the silence, or break the silence and ask what the bad news is. She can hear the girls shouting “pass! pass! here! over here! Open!” The whistle screeches now and again. The ball thumps and thuds. Feet pound grass in a haphazard patter. Ilda itches the side of her thin nose, one eyebrow lifting. Then she sighs, chest rising and falling, and looks off into the distance over Matilda’s shoulder with a squint. ‘Margery has asked of me zhat I pass on some instructions.’ A cursory glance at the head coach holding her whistle in the centre of the action. Ilda’s accent clips the ends off her words as she says, ‘As of now, you are to move into centre-back. Very much centre-back. A line of five, we are to assume. Vee are to train for a defensive formation of a five-two-two-one. Zhis is where you have brought us to. You are poor, Matilda. You are a poor, poor player.’ A sledgehammer swings from Ilda’s mouth into Matilda’s sternum, and she feels her spirit sent reeling backwards out of her body from the impact. She stands awkwardly in stiff paralysis. Where did her feet go? She wants to drink. She wants to sink into the grass and decompose. She wants to cry. She wants to feel tears break loose from her eyes as they painfully swell and wet her cheeks. But they aren’t there. All that fills her is shock. Empty shock. And anger, waiting. Her throat grows thick with a hard lump like granite. What Ilda says is right. It is all her fault. Everything is her fault. She’s fat. She’s out of shape. She’s had this coming in the form of a time-bomb delayed way too long. Get it over with, she mentally projects her will. Tell me I’m fat. Just do it. ‘Margery has instructed me,’ Ilda drags on, ‘to inform you of zhis. She can hardly stand to look at you, you know zhis? She is fürious. I will not say anything of why– you know why. Why you continue is beyond the reaches of my mind. As for her other lines of reasoning? Vell, your performance in the previous game is of particular note. Your… attitude, also. She cited also the many chances given to you previously. If I was to guess, then today was her last straw. You neglected to show up at all during the last session, and as of today, you do decide to grace us with your presence, however you are late once again. She sees fit now to punish you such zhat befits your behaviour.’ A breeze sighs past them in the silence that follows. The coach is still gazing past her, somewhere into the middle distance. Matilda tries to make a split-second decision. Nothing? Or something? She’s rattling inside the bars of her own chest, yelling. The way forward is a high-risk move, but for some reason she takes it – even if it’s just to get a reaction. Feeling anything and everything except the aloof cockiness she’s pretending to exude, Matilda forces her shoulders up into a careless shrug. She looks away to the side, hoping it comes off as arrogant disinterest. ‘Okay. Fine then,’ she mutters. ‘So I’m a centre-back now. Fine.’ Coach Ilda simply stares at her, now, teeth nibbling something behind her pinched-shut lips. . Half an hour later, Matilda stands in the middle of a line of five as they perform practice drills in their new formation. The girls quickly figure out what’s happened, and why, and they decide to sneak silent glances at her, mixed somewhere between accusation and apology. It seems they can’t decide. She takes up her new position with as much pride as she can manage, thinking it will make things easier, less physical, more mental. But she still finds herself growing sore and stiff-lunged by the session’s end, despite being asked to run less than usual. She never has to pivot. She never has to launch. She never has to leap into a short burst of speed, or pounce on something. Nor is she ever needed to sprint from one end of the pitch to the other in pursuit of the ball… and yet here she is, walking with hands on hips, sore, and slightly winded. And it’s Elisha’s time, now. It’s her golden era. She proudly takes Matilda’s old position on the wing, a spot she has always stared at with longing eyes and a salivating tongue. The prized role. A double-title of captain and playmaking winger. And everyone can see it, with Elisha’s back sticking up straight as a rod, eyes deeply focused like newly-calibrated laser beams, making passes with finer precision than anyone has seen in all three years of her tenure with the team. With Stacey shifting deeper to a left wing-back position, closer to Matilda’s line of passing, the two of them have to practise communicating as a pair for the first time in forever – but Stacey doesn’t seem too keen on it, leaving Matilda to awkwardly shift around the pitch, waiting for a backwards pass from Stacey during scrimmages and noticing the sheer resentment in her body language each time she’s forced into doing so. In the locker rooms afterwards, she tries to make some tactical suggestions, but Elisha bursts into flame all over again, coming down on her with such colossal fury that she nearly bursts a vein in her neck, letting her know to either shut the fuck up or get out. And there’s Stacey, behind her, throwing sardonic smirks as she bends an ear to the tirade. To make things worse, as if putting a grace-note of cauterisation to an open wound, coach Ilda pulls her aside afterwards to have a private word. The message is simple. ‘Stop trying to undermine us, Matilda. Or you are finished here.’ . . . On her study desk two days later on a Friday night sit two empty pizza boxes, a milkshake, and an apple crumble, still only half eaten, for dessert. She sits in her underwear, bedroom door locked, lost deep in a Football Manager session well into midnight as she finishes eating her dessert, her bloated stomach billowing out at full mast from her middle, and the upper meat of her thighs beginning to squeeze together. She doesn’t know it yet, but a microscopic stretch mark or two are beginning to redden along the outer zone of her breasts as they come close to reaching the size of mangos, their smooth flesh just beginning to overgrow the sides of her bra cups. . . . The team’s efforts that weekend against Ringhill Rangers FC awards them a 1 - 1 draw. Again. It’s awkward to play a full match defensively for practically the first time in her life, but eventually Matilda settles into the rhythm of the play and understands what is expected of her and when. The only reason the girls score a goal at all is because of a confident spell of attacking pressure that lasts for a solid twenty minutes. But after that, Matilda keeps getting outpaced, negged and dribbled around every time an enemy attacker near her with the ball. No matter how accurately she angles her intercepting runs, she can never get there on time, missing the chance to tackle by one or two missed strides. By the time the first half nears its end, she’s losing almost every breath she takes the moment it fills her lungs. For this, everybody pays the price. Barely five minutes into the second half, an opposition midfielder runs at her with the ball. Matilda spreads her feet, crabbing from side to side to meet them, making her defensive shadow as wide as possible… but they double-feint right, then cut left at the last minute, sending Matilda slipping backwards onto her ass as she sticks one foot out, her buttery thigh sent up and jiggling, missing the ball. She is left to watch as her opponent crosses the ball over to an enemy winger who’d been making a well-timed run through their backline towards the box, then passes it back to their midfielder, who lobs it straight over Grace’s head as she’s still turning to sprint back. The ball loops perfectly into the top corner of the net where Nysha wouldn’t have laid a finger on it even if she was Superwoman. From that moment, whenever the ball is up the attacking end of the pitch — a spell of grace during which Matilda can finally lean on her knees and suck air into her lungs — Nysha paces in front of the goals, sending her sidelong glances of concern. When the final whistle screeches, she knows the lost lead is on her shoulders. The opposition goal was her fault. But outside of that mistake, the rest of the ninety minutes are a different story. The pressure the enemy put on them should never have been allowed. She wants to ask Margery if she noticed how thin they were stretched on the defensive transition. Does she see how few options are available in the middle? Does she see the lack of depth in the forward wings? Does she see Evangeline looking utterly bored with nothing to do but knock the back every time she receives it? Does she see how much space the opposition players have to find angles all the way into their defensive half? She wants to ask a million questions. Her chance to complain comes in the locker rooms when April wonders out loud why it seemed like the opponent wing-backs never needed to actually run down the wings. ‘Why would they need to?’ Matilda huffs between heavy breaths, even though others have already regulated their breathing. ‘We’re stretched so thin in our midfield… and we’re not allowed to use our fullbacks to create numbers when we transition forward… Then the ball turns over, and we have nobody to contest for it in the midfield. So it’s just our fucking backline against… against everyone on the other team all coming at us? No wonder we got outflanked in the midfield.’ This is when Margery finally materialises, as if from mist, the entire locker room flattened under a heavy blanket of silence. The rest of what happens is like a fever dream – half experienced, half remembered, but only in a haze of traumatised confusion. Standing at the door, Margery screams at Matilda to shut up or get out, then proceeds to jet them all with flaming rage like molten ore in a furnace, yelling so shrill and loud that her voice quickly disintegrates into a hoarse rasp nobody can understand every word of – and just when they think it’s finally over, she doubles back to scream some more, about how they’re all upstarts, none of them are really trying, none of them really care, how they’re all underperforming and a disgrace to the standards set by all those that have come before them, and that they’ll cause her an early death from stress and dismay. Dear Margery Hartwell, if only that were true… Out in the parking lot on the way to her car, with her head down, the only thing in Matilda’s line of sight is the gravel beneath her feet. She’s almost far enough to feel safe again, when she hears two familiar voices coming from behind her. ‘Matilda.’ ‘Hey, wait up.’ ‘Matilda, wait.’ She stops, then turns to look. It’s Beth and Talina. Shuffling sideways to hide out of sight behind a big silver SUV, she waits for her teammates to catch up with her. They’re carrying their duffel bags over their shoulders. Coming to a stop between two cars, Talina stands slightly in front of Beth, wearing a frown, but not one of anger or accusatory distrust, the way she expects from everybody these days. Instead, they ask her if she wants to go grab a drink and “talk” about things. Her first instinct is reluctance. Or is it just laziness, these days? She ums and ahs about it. But they aren’t letting her off the hook so easily. They push until she eventually gives in — another behaviour that has been characteristic of her lately; giving in. She’s a hungry, lazy, chubbed-up push over. ‘Meet you at The Heelwood, then?’ Talina says. ‘Yeah. Okay. Sure.’ . About fifteen minutes later, they reconvene at a small lakeside venue not far from Prathfort – an S-shaped, glass-walled complex with a view over a few acres of undeveloped land and the rear-end of a golf course neighbouring a huge reservoir used for the city’s southern water supply. Beth and Talina sit on tall stools across the table from her with their backs to the view. Matilda finds herself gazing over their shoulders an uncharacteristic amount of times, her spirits coasting at a low glide, drained of fuel. They chat idly as they share a bowl of quinoa salad, garlic bread and a few glasses of wine, avoiding the looming agenda for now. Matilda realises she’s overstepping her drink quota when she asks a waiter for a second glass of wine before she can stop the words tumbling off her tongue. When the last piece of garlic bread leaves the plate, then all of a sudden Talina and Beth grow serious. ‘Okay, so, look,’ Talina leans forward on her elbows, ‘now that we’re alone, I guess we can talk about things?’ When Matilda meets her gaze, what she sees in those eyes is solid confidentiality, earnest determination. Good attributes for a defender to have. If Matilda had any say in it, she would have made Talina the captain years ago. ‘Sure,’ she shrugs with fake naivety, raising her glass to her lips to disguise their nervous movements. ‘What’s up?’ Talina shares a glance with Bethany, then turns back to Matilda. ‘A couple of things. First of all, we’ve both been thinking; we want you to know that we totally, one-hundred percent agree with everything you’ve been saying. Teamwise, that is. Strategywise. Everything. All of it. We’re on your side–’ ‘And so are the others!,’ Beth interjects. ‘Exactly. We can speak on behalf of everyone– well, almost everyone. It’s just that we’re all too afraid to say anything. We know how Margery is, now. She’d have a melt-down if she felt a gust of wind. But you know that. Probably most of all. It’s bad there. None of us feel like we have a voice.’ Matilda blows a lungful of air out her mouth and nods, looking down at the table's wood, the particular diagonal slant of its varnished grain. ‘…Yyyyyeah,’ she grunts at length, taking a dejected sip of wine. A wide open feeling of space swirls up into her head. ‘You must know that more than most,’ Talina admits. ‘Yup.’ Matilda growls again, taking another disillusioned, mournful sip of wine. Beth shifts in her seat, eager to speak. ‘At least it looks that way, for you,’ she says. ‘All we ever see is Margery hammering you, and hammering you, and… over, and over, and over… and I just… we just…’ ‘We’re just worried,’ Talina finishes for her. ‘You’re having a real hard time of it, and we just wanted to check up on you, ask you if you’re doing alright. We should have done it already. Reckon we should have done it ages ago. We don’t want you thinking we don’t care.’ Matilda feels an unexpected smile peel across her face. She lets it show, but turns it into a harsh laugh at the last minute, teeth bared. With another angry sip, she thumps her glass back down and lets the ensuing silence speak for her. Her two teammates adjust themselves awkwardly in their seats. Then Talina goes on. ‘We’re here for you, Tild. We just want to know, is all. I mean, it’s not to be critical or nothing, but I guess we’re starting to ask some, uh… questions. Now it’s at a stage where we have to ask.’ ‘What questions?’ Matilda demands. She already knows, but she wants to believe she doesn’t. She’d rather ignorance would coat her eyes and so remain blind forever. Talina rubs her lips and thinks, as if deciding upon which words to use. ‘I don’t know how to put this. But do you realise how much you’ve changed? Actually that’s a dumb-ass thing to say, of course you would, I’m sorry. I don’t want to corner you on this, but do you realise we can see how much you’ve changed?’ Warmth drains from her cheeks down through her neck and into her stomach where it begins to churn like some freezing, arctic tumult. She shrugs. ‘Uh… I dunno?’ scrambling to deflect the conversation away from wherever it’s going, ‘I– I just think if Kendra never left, then– And why are all the people involved in this fucking club’s problems all have names that start with M?– Like Margery?– and me?– Oh maybe I’m one, ha!– And it’s the tactics, too, they are just… I don’t know… they…’ Not realising that she’s been taking sips of wine between phrases to stall for time, she stops and blinks in confusion as a sudden swirl of lightness tightens around her ears. Her stomach feels heavy. She can feel it in her shirt, cumbersome and greedy for space. She’s not even full yet. Is it going to be like this all the time now? ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, Tild, but–’ Talina hesitates, sighing. ‘Would you say you’ve been eating more than usual lately?’ Matilda deflects with a quick, ‘No?’ as fast as a snapped rubber band. Her hands feel awkward. They feel large. She doesn’t know where to put them. She shakes her head, hoping it adds veracity to her denial – but she feels stuck too deep in a claggy swamp of panic to believe in her own lies enough to pull them off. She looks at their faces, one then the other. Their eyes are flat, unblinking. They don’t believe her, do they? They ask again, wording it in different ways multiple times, but she categorically denies each alternately-phrased attempt. Eventually they give up and Talina orders another bottle of wine as they move onto other topics. Compelled by an unwavering chorus of anxiety between her ears, she sips the dregs of her alcohol too fast and gets woozy. They talk some more and she pours herself some more and she gets even woozier. At some point or another, she sways off her stool to go to relieve her bladder in the toilet, and wastes half the time she spends in the cubicle fumbling with the drawstring in her shorts and laughing spitefully at the stupid, round quality of her stomach, slapping it like a naughty child that needs to be told off. There has to be a good five pounds of breakfast, bread and wine in this big, taut drum of a thing – maybe more. When she comes back to the table, Beth checks her phone and says, ‘Well it’s nearly dinner time. Anyone else feeling hungry?’ Talina shrugs. ‘Sure.’ At that moment, Matilda feels a corner of her stomach that is somehow still empty unleash a subsonic growl. She nods yes without thinking, first, that she can’t be eating this much food anymore. So they all order a meal each. When the food arrives, they put conversation on hold, and it isn’t long before her two teammates are looking at her with something like confusion or pity in their eyes as she devours her entire burger, every last stray onion and drop of sauce and all, before they’ve even progressed halfway through theirs. It’s as if some secret suspicion has, at last, had its hypothesis confirmed. Matilda straightens and wriggles her uncomfortable backside around on the stool as she tries to find a way to sit that doesn’t make her belly feel like a cannonball fastened to her waist with tight ratchet straps. ‘Okay, look,’ Talina says all of a sudden, putting her knife and fork down. ‘I’m sorry but I need to bring this up again. I’m sorry. But seriously? You just go and finish a burger like that in record time? And you tell us everything’s fine? Matilda, come on. Look at you.’ Talina’s shoulders drop as a sympathetic frown creases her brow. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, but… are you in denial about something? We’re just worried for you, Tild.’ Gesturing towards her bloated state. ‘We can tell you’ve undone your belt, by the way. Not that we’re judging or anything. Sometimes you need to. Especially if…’ Matilda freezes. One arm starts to slide over her stomach. ‘Look– once again, please do not take this the wrong way– but you’ve just changed in a matter of months. That’s all. And you haven’t said a word. We don’t want to suggest you’re getting fat or anything. We just,’ she glances at Beth again, ‘we just wanted to know…’ ‘Know what?’ ‘Are you pregnant?’ Matilda feels her chest bubble. Laughter hits the back of her throat, but fails to emerge. She stares at them. She blinks slowly, trying not to lower her eyes, but having an impossibly difficult time of it. ‘It’s okay,’ Beth tries to console her. ‘You can tell us.’ Matilda’s voicebox spasms. ‘Yes. I know– I mean– what? No. No.’ Beth’s entire face pulls back into itself like a flower blossoming in reverse, sucked into a vortex of embarrassment. ‘So then…’ she falters. Talina says, ‘You don’t have to pretend, Matilda. Honestly, you’re totally safe with us.’ ‘Guys,’ Matilda pleads. ‘I’m not pregnant. I swear. At least I’m sure I’m not.’ ‘Really?’ Matilda’s eyebrows curl upwards. She’s just exposed herself under the harsh light of truth. The only other explanation has revealed itself by elimination. The expressions on her teammates’ faces are a heavy mixture of many things. ‘So, you’re not pregnant?’ Talina clarifies. Matilda licks her lips and reaches for the wine glass again. ‘No,’ she says, eyes slipping aside. She can’t do it. She can’t look them directly in the eyes. Talina leans forward and lowers her voice. ‘Okay, then please– be honest. I’ll be honest. Don’t take this the wrong way. But if you’re not getting pregnant, then… you look like you are? Honestly, Tild, if you’re having a hard time with something, we’re here for you. We don’t want to see you suffer. Do you hear me?’ Beth nods in agreement. ‘You were there for me. Remember? So I want to be there for you. And you know what? So do the rest of us. Remember what April went through?’ ‘People don’t just blow up like this,’ Talina presses. ‘If you’re binge-eating, coping with bad habits, or anything– absolutely anything– you need to stop before it’s too late. You’ll end up twice your size!’ Matilda's voice shrinks to the size of a squirrel. ‘I know,’ she says, feeling herself sink back down into her seat. The floor feels very close. Her shoulders feel heavy and sore. The noises around her are so loud all of a sudden; the chatter of people – people everywhere – talking, gabbing, yelling, gesticulating, leaning back in peals of explosive laughter. ‘If you already know, then do you need help? To stop?’ ‘I don’t know.’ Matilda can barely hear herself. ‘Don’t know? What do you mean?’ ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Talina shuts her eyes, then wiggles her head in confusion. ‘I–’ She presses her lips tight. ‘I don’t really understand.' Automatically raising the glass to her mouth, Matilda flinches as a hand shoots across the table to push it back down. She frowns, then slowly lets Talina drag press her hand back onto the table. ‘No,’ Talina says, shaking her head. ‘No more. Okay? From now on we have to stop you. No more drinks, or you won’t be able to drive. You’ll need to wait a bit before you can drive again.’ With a prolonged, high-shouldered shrug, Matilda lets go of the glass and folds her arms over her waist as she slouches, gazing out the darkening window behind her teammates. ‘Let’s just talk about something else, then,’ Beth suggests in a helpful manner. ‘We can forget about this for now. How about that?’ . Matilda suppresses tears all the way home in the car, her fists clenched tight on the wheel, knuckles pale as bone. Last thing she needs is her parents to see signs of crying on her face when she walks through the door. Later on, alone in her room and feeling heavy with exhaustion, she’s not sure she can keep it up much longer as the weight of the day comes down on her like the crashing peak of a wave. She feels fat. Tired and fat. She probably looks all bloated and huge right now. Maybe Talina and Beth are right. She must look awful. The urge to get a cold hard look at herself in a mirror teases her mind, flirting with the threat of self-humiliation. But as she dumps her duffel bag against her bed, she glances at the clock. It’s late. She should just put herself to bed. Forget it all. Cry, maybe. Fall asleep and let the whole slate wipe itself clean. Get up in the morning, move on with life, hope Carlile doesn’t get turned off the moment he sees her gross, bloated, pregnant appearance. She barely changes out of her clothes before flopping onto her bed, whole body bouncing on the springs. Did they used to crunch like that? Maybe. Maybe not. She feels her stomach slosh. Staring at the dim ceiling, she cradles the sides of her belly like cheeks and presses them into each other, creating a vertical roll of fat that lips gently over her thumbs. Then she lets go, disgusted with herself. The pillow swallows her swirling, heavy head, and she shuts her eyes against the darkness, feeling herself rise up to the peak of the parabola of her emotion until she finally falls back down to the ground of her heart, crying softly. . . .

It takes five entire days of rain-grey solitude until Matilda gets to see Carlile again for longer than a measly half hour at a time. Every time she swings past his house on the way back from her internship or various errands to say a quick hello, he has been looking more and more worn down. He says his induction into the workforce has only a couple of days left, but she can tell that it makes no difference for him. The roster is practically full of gaps, and they need him to start almost full duties on the ASAP. Adapting to his new job and working ten hour long morning-to-night shifts is leeching so much of his energy that a hangdog sag has emerged under his eyes, even around his mouth. On Tuesday morning of the next week, it comes time for Matilda to return to training. Without Carl around, she’s had nothing better to do than sit around home, by herself, watching mediocre movies, playing Football Manager on her laptop, while putting things like chocolate ice cream and cheap cookie dough in her mouth just to keep herself occupied. Now, sitting on the edge of her bed with an empty plate on the bedside table, she gives her breakfast-containing stomach a couple of rapid pokes, as if pointing it out to herself. The small shirt she’d slept in fits at a direct, 1:1 ratio with her belly, strangely precise to its shape, apart from some crease and fold lines that bend along the side towards her hips. Right under the spot where her belly bulges out over the waistband of her pyjama leggings, she lays her fingers underneath, then lifts it up, excruciatingly slow, stretching it, until the blubber of her stomach refuses to lift any higher. When she lets it drop, she watches its brief but assertive nod play out like a dance, with extra little jiggles around the edges, taking her shirt along for the bouncy ride. Oh, fuck. Fuck. It does that now? It’s really come to this, hasn’t it? She has a chubby paunch that moves on its own volition, like an independant appendage subject to its own laws of wobbly, jelly-soft physics she would never have understood back when she was still slender, even if someone described it to her. Like describing the sun to someone who has never seen it. She realises, now. Realises that you have to live the experience in order to know it. Otherwise you can only imagine. She realises she can’t describe it to anyone; how strange, how fantastically horrifying it feels. It’s an experience nobody could ever understand, or identify with. Not even April, who had shown too much sick emotion about her own weight issues, those years ago, to see what Matilda is seeing. Her mother wouldn’t understand. Her father wouldn’t. Not even Harriette wants to talk about her own accumulation of weight in the particular way Matilda feels compelled to. All of a sudden she feels alone. If it keeps going like this – upwards, that is, and outwards – then this feeling of isolation in her knowledge of how alone she is in her feelings… will only get worse. She’s not sure if she wants this to get worse. Worse is as easy as letting snowball continue on downhill. Better is stopping the momentum, somehow. Easing up on the constant eating. Saying goodbye to the endless food. Working out every day. There’s nothing else to do about it. If Margery hasn’t freaked out and abandoned the club by now, given how chubby Matilda managed to make herself, then she knows what’s next. She’ll have to begin confessing some losses to herself. Maybe Margery will kick her out, after all, and that will be that. Maybe it’s time to start losing this belly, and the buttery thighs, and the widening hips. She wonders what she weighs right now, at this particular minute and second in time. It would be weird to see it all shrink away. All this change, this development, this growth – nobody knows how much consistent work it has taken. Against her own wishes, she even feels an odd attachment to her newly round belly, and the thickening squish between her fingers when she pinches it – an odd attachment to every particle of flesh tugs on her heart. All that food, all the belly-aches, all the times her stomach was so packed that it felt full of lead… All of it has ended up right here, a resultant birth, a gathering in her midsection, manifesting as this jiggle-prone bump of soft flesh that used to be an abdominal wall so tight she could see its musculature without tensing. With nothing else to do except ruminate and waste time, Matilda stands up, packs her gear into her duffel bag, changes into some loose comfortable clothes, and walks out to her car. . . . There is still a light dew frosting the grass by the time she arrives at the grounds, and a thin mist hangs low, trapped at the feet of the purple hills that loom over the suburb. Looking at the time, she has actually managed to arrive before the rest of the girls for perhaps the first time in several months. She locks her car and wheels her bag across the tarmac, the whole slow, meandering walk towards the entrance feeling a little like a concession of defeat. She has tried for months to repel Margery from the club, but the stubborn bitch has held on with her bony-knuckled grip like an iron bracket, and now Matilda has pressed her bluff for a few pounds too long. She’s too chubby now, her buddha-belly too round, thighs too soft, leaving her out of shape and unable to play the way she used to. Maybe it’s time to say goodbye to it all. She approaches the entrance and opens the glass doors, stepping into the foyer and breathing the recycled air in through her nose as she walks down the corridors. Surprisingly, the change rooms are empty. The lights are on, but there’s no one around. She must be the first one here. Dumping her case on the bench in front of her locker, she toe-flicks a nearby ball up onto her knee and balances it before letting it drop. She performs a few keepie-uppies; right, right – left, right, left, right – left left. The flanks sides of her torso vibrate criminally with each flick of her legs. Anyone could tell, now, couldn’t they? Even if they tried, not a soul in this club with eyes to see could lie to themselves and pretend she isn’t chubby. She’s grown plump. It isn’t just a matter of sucking in or not, anymore. Lifting the ball into the air, she waits for it to fall back down, then boots it at the wall on the volley, aiming for a square of space just under the small barred window. The ball smacks off the painted brick, then comes back at her. She stops the ball’s path with the inside of her heel, and her right foot hits the ground, sending her thigh jiggling and causing her round ** belly to give a nodding bounce as an afterthought to the movement. Matilda allows herself to grimace in the privacy of the empty room. Even if she sucks in far enough to hide the depth of her paunch, its width is still a factor, and that’s not something that can be sucked in. It’s all too clear she’s got lovehandles at play. Her hips swell out against her shorts, and her thighs are so untoned as to be smoother than a Greek statue. Then there are her breasts, which have really started to show some growth, her sports bra suddenly asked to contain a larger volume of roundness that really deserves a size up in garment. But there’s a funny joy in it all. Glancing around the empty room to make sure nobody is around to see what will happen next, she stops the automatic suck-in she’s learned to maintain by default these last few months. With a bird’s eye view from up top, she watches the face of her stomach amplify as she relaxes, its bulge pulling the creases of her shirt to follow its direction. She gives her stomach a hearty thud with the heel of her fist. It feels so wrong to be standing here with her belly unashamedly sticking out and probably still processing the ice cream from this morning, in a sports facility where this kind of behaviour travels at direct odds with everything she’s supposed to be embodying. It’s all so wrong. It’s been wrong from the very start. She feels a dirty thrill trickle down her spine. Snorting at the fickle nature of her own psyche, she brings her attention back to the ball. She rolls it under her foot, then pivots on top of it, pretending to feint a shot, then dribbles it from side to side between her feet and continues to casually mess about while she waits for everyone to show up. Suri is first to arrive. When she spots Matilda, she stops in the door and tucks her chin back with a tiny, sceptical frown, not sure she was expecting to see Matilda. ‘Oh… Hey… You’re here already…?’ Having finally been brought back off the bench to return into their starting eleven, Suri has been taking care to arrive early and do everything in a correct manner to keep Margery's eyes off her back — but you can perceive this subtle bound-up, insulted slouch to her shoulders that makes her look hesitant and withdrawn into herself. Matilda looks up at her teammate with a bright-eyed smile, then gives her a dismissive shrug as if to say I guess so!, before redirecting her attention back to the ball beneath her feet. She even sucks her stomach in once again, before she has time to realise she's even done so, the mere presence of someone else in the room triggering her nervous system into making its own decision on the matter. But she can hardly keep track of what her mind is up to, these days. Nysha appears not long after, along with Mandy, the two of them so engrossed in conversation they completely miss the fact that Matilda is in the room before them, going straight to their lockers in order to make preparations for practice. Then Beth arrives, but through the opposite entrance, hiding Matilda from her sight. Stacey arrives, shooting Matilda a wordless look of questioning as she passes by. Grace Sola, who is still standing in for Caitlin in lieu of her disappearance, arrives, and tries to offer a smile at Mandy — but receives not so much as a distracted glance in return. Then Evangeline struts into the room, singing silently to herself with her airpods in and the world shut away outside the perimeters of her awareness. April and Kesley show up alongside each other and go to their lockers, then proceed to turn around, only to find Matilda sitting beside her locker. ‘Holy shit,’ Kelsey's eyebrows stand tall as she scans Matilda up and down. ‘You're… here.’ It's then that Matilda catches April’s eyes hovering somewhere mid-height around her body. She turns self-consciously aside, angling her body away. ‘Yeah-yeah,’ folding her towel and chucking it into her locker, ‘I’m on time for once. I’m sorry.’ April lets her bag slide off her shoulder onto the bench. ‘It’s just a surprise, is all. But a good one; don’t get the wrong idea.’ A gentle shrug. ‘It’s nice to have you back.’ Matilda raises an eyebrow. ‘It’s not like I went anywhere.’ ‘You may as well have,’ comes a voice from behind her. She turns to meet Elisha, who has just shown up, and is glaring as she walks past with chilly blue pale eyes. ‘I’m finding it hard to believe you’ve actually turned up on time for once. I'd get ready now, if I were you. There's work to do.’ Aye aye, capi-fucking-tano cunt, she wants to yell back. She pinches her mouth shut instead, and just stares at the centre of Elisha’s spine as she walks past. Kelsey and April do the same, then turn to face Matilda with nothing better to offer than resigned shrugs. ‘What can ya do?’ April mutters under her breath, sucking air through her teeth. Later on, it turns out that this “work to do” mentioned by Elisha, is a surprise medical examination. ‘Another one?’ Nysha almost screams. ‘What are we, cattle?’ And this generates the obvious question: how and why did Elisha seem to know about it in advance? According to coach Karen, things have progressed to a point where all the girls “need to be kept in check and brought back into line”. From where she sits on her locker’s bench, Matilda melts a little into the seat’s planks as Karen delivers the announcement from the far end of the room. And to make matters worse, when Karen notices Matilda’s presence, she falters mind-sentence, face going slack as she processes what she’s seeing. The coach’s lips slowly purse, and then at length, she continues talking. ‘I hope you all see why we have to do this– and I hope you see where the professional standards are now. Again. Okay. Understood? See you all in a minute.’ The girls mill outside onto the small courtyard around the corner of the exit towards the field, and kick balls around with each other without any real aim or passion while they wait for Karen to call on them one at a time, bringing them into a nearby stand-alone room that hasn’t seen much use since the days when Kendra was still managing the club, when they would allow local university students to use the space for physical ed. practicals and a few small community functions. Why the current clowns in charge have chosen to launch this surprise physical checkup before the practice session is as illusory as the question of why some people are left or right handed. In about fifteen minutes, it’s already halfway done. Matilda hasn’t been called yet, and she starts to wonder with paranoid uncertainty if there’s some kind of sinister reason for that. One by one, the girls come out from the room and back out into the courtyard, discussing their results in hushed but relieved tones. Everyone seems to have ticked boxes so far – weight and fitness-wise. Only April and Talina have clocked in at a meagre one or two points above the twenty-percent body-fat threshold Margery is trying to enforce like marshall-law. Thing is, neither April or Talina seem to be worried about it like they would have been a few months back. When they share their results with the others, there is an absence of that trademark anxiety Margery had instilled so deeply in this group of girls. Matilda thinks she knows the reason why. Or hopes it’s the reason. It’s because she hasn’t been called in yet. She’s going to be called last. The set play, here, is so obvious that she can read it like an open book. The rest of them know, too, all the way deep down, that she’s about to cop a thrashing about how unfit she’s become, once the staff can see the truth of it, exposed, bare-skinned, and halfway towards total nudity. If they can’t make her do what they want, they’ll have to make an example out of her. When Matilda’s turn finally comes and she’s called inside, Margery isn’t even in the room. She’s probably unable to stand the sight of her, by now. Not when so much personal failure lies beneath Margery’s history like a landmine to be stepped on at the slightest brush against her consciousness of the subject of chubbiness. A row of purple medical beds line one wall. Against the other wall sit various medical exercise apparati such as jump-pressure pads, flexibility measurers, leg machines, a treadmill, and one of those industrial-grade scales with the display fixed at chest-height on a stand with rails. Anatomical posters and motivational images clutter the walls, beneath which Karen sits at a desk placed beside the large industrial-looking scale. It must be incredibly precise, probably able to support tons and accurately measure three fridges stacked. The walls are bleach-white, and the floors are dark cement with a high-polish lacquer that reflects the ceiling’s lights right back up at your eyes so that there are almost no shadows left in the room. Karen looks far too illuminated, her skin washed with a sick brightness and every last thread of her clothes discernable. ‘Shoes and socks off,’ Karen says without looking up, her mild eyes cast down at something on the desk. ‘You can leave them by the door please.’ Matilda bends over at the waist to lift each leg and slip her shoes off the back of her heels. She can feel the front of her waistband flip down, the spill of her paunch pressuring it to give way as such. ‘Thank you. This won’t take long now, hun, but will you stand there please,’ pointing at a corner close to the scales. With one last look around the room, Matilda crosses the room, walks over to the corner and stands with her back against the wall. There’s no one else in here. Just her and coach Karen with her small eyes and dirty brown hair. The floor feels cold on her bare soles. Karen stands up from the desk where sits, and suddenly frowns at her as if something had startled her. She flaps a hand at her. ‘You can’t just stand there forever. Shirt off, please.’ Turning around, Karen picks a pair of callipers off a board nailed to the wall from which various instruments hang like a tool shed. Matilda’s fists bunch at how wrong this setup feels to look at. Like a torture chamber. Taking a quiet breath, she glances around, waiting for an idea to magically appear about how to stall for time. ‘Hurry up please. We don’t have time left.’ With a sigh, Matilda shakes her head in dismay and obeys, jaw jutting out as she runs her tongue behind her teeth in a show of bad temper. It’s like ripping off a bandaid – best to get this over and done with, now, then put it behind her and move on. Put up with the bullshit and leave. It can’t be that bad. She sucks her belly in, up into her lungs, before she does anything else… but in spite of the precaution, the commotion of pulling her shirt off upsets her belly button so that it shakes softly as the mound of fat encircling it moves simply from being knocked by her fingers. A roll of flesh in the side of her ribcage can be seen above her hip, which itself folds as she leans over to the side and drapes her shirt on a nearby hook on the wall. She then stands there, barefoot in her sports bra and her black training shorts, the front of the waistband weighed down into a shallow U shape by the protrusion of a smooth potbelly whose undercarriage has developed a subtle crease that curves up to her hips like a broad smile. Her lovehandles fill the space inside of her shorts’ waistband, their flesh bending faintly over the prescribed edges of the band like little parentheses to the emphasised sinkhole that is her belly button. Her breasts sit above it all, held back firm against her chest behind stringent fabric, while her thighs press her shorts’ creases tighter than they ought to be. Karen glances over at Matilda’s vulnerable, unsure posture to conduct a quick visual read, then turns away again with a disappointed click of her tongue. She moves a few pages to one side of the desk and scans the ones beneath. Her face is lined with personal history, and the way she holds herself reminds Matilda of a bumble bee who’s always so engrossed in its immediate tasks that it’s forgotten how to pay attention to anything else due to fear of doing so. Attaching a few pages to her clipboard, Karen makes her way over to stand beside Matilda. ‘You know,’ she says casually, ‘you’d think you were pregnant, if not for these things,’ dipping her shoulder to give Matilda’s hip a poke – a jiggle spreads through her lovehandle and darts along the bottom of her belly. ‘Do you remember your results from the last time you had a medical, Matilda?’ running her finger down a list as she scans the data. Matilda’s tongue is jammed hard up behind the corner of her mouth. She shakes her head. Karen reads aloud from the sheet. ‘M-hm. Just five foot eight. One forty-nine pounds. BMI twenty-two point nine. B.F. percentage sitting just above twenty-four percent.’ She looks Matilda in the eyes, then gives her an up-and-down glance. ‘If you’d believe it, that is.’ Her face beams with absolutely zero sincerity. ‘I really think you need to be more careful with yourself, hun. Now arms up, please. Quickly.’ Matilda does as she’s told while Karen lets a measuring tape unravel in her hand and flicks it like a whip, grabbing the other end and squatting so that her face is level with Matilda’s stomach. She sucks in harder. Karen applies a gentle touch against the area, grimacing in dismay as she runs her hand down then under the curve of her belly, sending a zap of violation through Matilda’s entire being. ‘What have you done here?’ Karen asks nobody in particular. ‘What have you done?’ For the next ten minutes or so, coach Karen seems determined to “accidentally” touch, flick, and hit all Matilda’s chubby bits with a ‘Whoops!’, and a ‘Sorry about that!’ each time, exploring her body and gauging every fold, crease and curl of flesh she encounters by wrapping the measuring tape around each offending part. From where she squats behind her, Karen reaches around the front of Matilda’s stomach to place the measuring tape’s tail, and accidentally drives the back of her thumb into her belly on the way past. The flesh gathered around her navel swallows part of Karen’s knuckle, a sideways jiggle rippling across her belly as it scrapes away. ‘Lord,’ Karen tuts, ‘You really ought to be more careful, Matilda. I barely touched you.’ Matilda growls, ‘Oh really? I can barely tell.’ ‘Well then you need to take better care of yourself, don’t you.’ Karen pushes the ends of the tape together, relaxing her grip a little when her fingers sink into Matilda’s sucked-in paunch about half an inch above her belly button. Humming disapproval through closed lips, Karen loosens the tape measure until it isn’t cutting into her flesh like a miniature dough, and then takes the measurement a second time. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t get an accurate read if you keep doing this.’ Karen pinches the number off. ‘Doing what?’ Matilda tries to look down to read it, but the coach stands up too fast, yanking the tape so it spins around her midsection and whips around the other side, flicking her forearm and leaving a faint sting around the circumference of her belly. ‘Ow! Fuck!’ Matilda jumps back on her heels, the motion-sensitive areas of her body sent jiggling – mostly waistline and upper thighs. Karen mutters as she writes a number on a sheet. Then she looks at her with an expectant twinkle in the side of her eye. ‘You don’t want to know what it was?’ Matilda touches the sting left on the side of her belly. ‘I don’t care,’ she mutters. ‘Maybe you should try caring, then, hun.’ Coming closer and wrapping the tape around her hips, Karen apologises as Matilda feels a finger or two brush the softness of her backside. Then Karen rips the measuring tape away again – only this time Matilda dodges the whip, the end of the tape only just brushes her calves. ‘Don’t do that again,’ Matilda snaps. Karen takes the measurement for her chest and clicks her tongue again. ‘Sorry, my bad. Now, look; if you ever need help choosing bra sizes, just let me know.’ ‘Excuse me?’ Matilda frowns. ‘Oh don’t be a silly girl, we can all tell what’s going on here.’ And with that, puts the tape away on the desk and scribbles a number on the sheet, before pulling a drawer open and rummaging inside. When she turns around, she holds in her hand a pencil-sized stick with measurement markings like a ruler, and a circular washer that slides back and forth along its length. ‘Tense your abdominal muscles please.’ ‘What?’ Sliding the washer all the way down to the front of the tool, Karen crouches in front of her and presses the head of the stick into a spot just to the side of her belly button, where the blubber if her paunch looks to be at its highest in fat volume. They both watch as the skin of her belly, with doughlike obedience, lets the object’s tip sink in. The perimeter of flesh that didn’t sink pushes the washer backwards on the stick, back a little more, until Karen is happy that she’s found the buried firmness of muscle, and the washer stops almost precisely on the “1 inch / 2.54 cm” mark. Matilda hopes the shocking depth has something to do with her sucking in, and not with what’s actually happened to her. ‘Mmm,’ Karen hums, holding the stick up to her eyes. She squints at it, then says, ‘Exactly one inch.’ She leans over the desk to jot it down, then waves one hand at the scale. ‘Over there, please.’ Matilda blows air out her nose and steps over to it, sucking in out of sheer embarrassment so hard she can barely find air to breathe. Karen drops the pen and comes around the opposite side of the scale, activating it with a button press. ‘Okay. Up.’ With an impatient nod at the plate. Matilda’s legs feel bolted to the floor. For some reason she can’t do it. It’s the display. It’s the way it looks. It stares blindly back at her, all dark glass and empty red zeroes, waiting with a digital smirk to tell her how heavy she has become. How fat she’s gotten. How much blubber is weighing her down. ‘Now, please? Come on? Hurry up? Hoppity hop? Which one of those registers to you?’ She concentrates all her willpower into the proprioception of her left leg, and is about to move it on the first step forward towards her judgement, when Karen ruins it all by throwing an offhand glance at her waistline, raising a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Oh, come on, you can’t be sucking in anymore, hun. I just told you it’s doing you no good. We can all tell. Relax it, please, else I can’t get an accurate read on these measurements.’ When Matilda just stands there frozen, Karen reaches in to tap her on the belly, a feeble jiggle rippling forth in response. ‘Stop this. And hurry up now; do as I say.’ Matilda jerks backwards, abdominal muscles contracting even further. Fizzling rage bathes her body. She has to force herself to endure its surge, waiting for it to fade like an episode of pins-and-needles. Taking a breath, she tightens her spine straight and hard, locating whatever amount of dignity she knows is stored within her, summoning it all into a space just behind her forehead so she can think with clarity. Surely the coach must be coming to the end of this humiliation ritual. The sooner it’s over the better, she knows, and doing as the coach asks is all she can do to bring its end closer. ‘Stop that silly sucking in first, Matilda. It’s the last time I’ll tell you. Otherwise we’ll have to start everything all over again and we’ll be here even longer.’ Oh fuck no we won’t. Matilda clenches her jaw and submits her spirit to new depths of lowness. When she finally expels the breath shoved up into the top of her chest like contraband, it all comes crashing back down into her gut, the face of her potbelly filling back out until it resumes its fullest form of bloated protrusion, her breakfast from this morning still somehow not completely digested. Without looking, she can see how huge it looks from above, ballooning at the bottom of her vision. Now that the scale’s display console is in front of her, she can’t help but stare at it. Like a lottery machine with all its numbers about to spin into place. The digital display seems to throb with pulses of glowing fate. Jaw locked and cheeks flushed, Matilda steps forwards with her belly sticking out, bouncing up and down, hips offering diminutive jiggles, and upper thighs wobbling lightly. She lifts her feet, one then the other, up onto the scale platform. The zeroes flash as her first foot lands and she shifts her weight up onto the platform. The display rockets up and dips wildly, flashing all sorts of wild, uncalibrated figures at her; ninety-eights, hundred-nineties, hundred-twenty-fives, hundred-twos… As her other foot lands, she centres her weight and the numbers on the display begin to stabilise with a hundred and nineties, fifties, forties... Then with a last flash of approximating numbers, the display comes to a stop and blinks with its final verdict. “171.72 lbs / 77.89 kg” A hundred and seventy one pounds? No, wait, that’s not right. Karen takes a small suck of air in through her mouth, amazement opening her face comically wide as one of those carnival clowns you throw pingpong balls into. Under the assumption that the reading is incorrect, Matilda steps off the scale, only to have Karen snap a hard glance at her. ‘What are you doing? No. This isn’t over yet. Get back on there, please.’ Chest deflating like a popped balloon, Matilda obliges, stepping back up on the plate and watching as the digits flutter, with apathetic assuredness, straight back up the precise figure of 171.72. She feels her shoulders sag. ‘That’s not good, hun,’ Karen says as she scans some old records. ‘Fuck off.’ ‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that. I know you’re not exactly short, but you aren’t exactly tall either. This kind of weight looks bad on your figure, hun. You used to weigh one hundred and forty-nine pounds, which, maybe that was workable, if you just had a bit “extra” here and there. But this is just bad. You’ve gained twenty-three pounds in three months. What have you been doing?’ Unable to force a single word out her throat, Matilda twists her fingers into knots at her sides. Karen is looking right at her. It is at precisely this moment that Matilda diverts her eyes, only for her vision to land on the club’s huge emblem painted on the wall. Purple Vale. Its violet crest. Its inscribed banner. The prized ball cradled atop like a crown. Memories and feelings flood the eye of her mind and soul. The club is dying. Her club – is dying. It’s been dying since the day Kendra, the last passionate member of staff, was moved along like dead weight. Death has been leeching its sour reek into the air of the facility ever since the day Margery Hartwell took her place. Margery and her broken ideas of frightened, defensive play styles, her non-existent plans of attack, her rigid dynamics, her authoritarian hand withdrawing like a frightened snake from any idea that isn’t her own. Margery and her pathetic body-shaming complex. Her own failures and her own regrets. The psychological baggage from her personal history of humiliation that she couldn’t help but drag like a rotting carcass decades later into this club, stinking the place out and driving all quality away under a wave of repulsion. ‘Don’t you think you look a little,’ Karen shaping her hands in front of her stomach with some kind of attempt at apologetic mime, ‘…a little chubby?’ Her chest swells with bile – almost overflows. She feels the corner of her lip pull back in a sneer she isn’t strong enough to hide anymore. She never knew she could hate somebody so much. These coaches have ruined football. Refusing to meet Karen’s eye, Matilda gives her a one-shouldered shrug. Karen dips her head forward, looking up from beneath doubtfully raised brows. ‘And it doesn’t concern you?’ Matilda pretends to be all light-hearted about it, and says, ‘Oh no, don’t worry about it, it’s fine, I’m just dirty-bulking.’ Karen blinks. ‘Oh. I see. And you just decided you would go off and do that without consulting anybody on the medical team, so they knew?’ ‘Uh… yeah. That’s why I got this thing now.’ She forces herself to pat her belly. It feels cool and shockingly soft to her fingers. ‘Is that so. Even if that was true, the last thing you need right now is muscle. And you wouldn’t be getting any stronger with the way you’ve been going, hun. You’ve just been getting… well. Softer. Surely you see that.’ ‘I’m fine, don’t worry about it,’ she shrugs, wanting this to be over. ‘Do you even know what dirty bulking is?’ ‘You can’t be serious… Of course I do. How can you not see this problem? You’ve been getting fat. How much more obvious can we make it? Look at your legs. You’ve lost all definition in them. Your torso is particularly chubby, see – and look at that belly! You aren’t pregnant, hun, so the way it’s sticking out like that means it’s painfully obvious you’ve just been eating too much and not bothering to work any of it into muscle.’ Matilda’s eyes boggle with irritation. ‘I. Am. Fine. Stop badgering me. Just let me go and practice.’ ‘You’ve been practising nothing but eating.’ A moment of silence. Then Karen cocks an eyebrow. ‘Stand up straight,’ she says. ‘Now… without stretching your neck – just look straight down with your eyes – and tell me something. I want to know. Come on. Do as I say. That’s it. Straight as a rod. There we go. Now, without moving your neck, can you see your feet?’ Matilda looks down. Her socks are white today. ‘No, not like that – I told you not to move your neck. Look down with your eyes only.’ Matilda does so, pulling her neck back. It doesn’t feel comfortable. The tips of her socks splay out on the floor, peeking out from the moonlike curve of her belly’s front. ‘I… can see my toes.’ ‘Oh, wonderful. You can see your toes. I asked if you can see your feet. See what I’m suggesting? So,’ Karen reiterates, ‘that means you’re fat. You have a distended midsection, and a clear view of your own feet is obstructed. That’s just how it works, hun. The point of all this is to make you see what you have been refusing to see. Do you see it now? Because we see it. And we see the weight you need to lose. Now it is your turn to see it. So go and lose it, Matilda.’ She returns to the desk and starts packing away the equipment and re-arranging the documentation. ‘We’re done here. Shirt and shoes back on please.’ Stepping off the scale, Matilda snatches her shirt off the hook and throws it back over her head, the relief of privacy drenching her body like warm rain. Reaching down to retrieve her socks and shoes, she decides to court disaster one last time. ‘I don’t see what the problem is,’ she provokes in a calm, quiet voice. ‘I’m not that bad. I can still play…’ Already moving towards the door, Karen comes to a halt as if shot. She slowly turns and looks back at her from beneath raised eyebrows. She is almost smiling in disbelief. ‘Don’t try your luck, Matilda.’ She blinks harshly, then scrunches her nose a little. ‘You should really lose that weight. Before things get bad.’ And so, with a fake apologetic smile, Karen opens the door and shows Matilda out. . The training session drags like a sack of deadweight. No one asks how things went for her. They don’t need to. All the girls either have suspicions, or enough nous to connect the dots, not in the least reinforced by the visible struggles she encounters during drills, falling behind, needing to catch her breath before anyone else, face going flushed red and her hairline the first to become soaked with sweat. On her way out the club an hour and half later, she passes the bathroom and overhears voices. Two of the girls are chatting. She stops to listen briefly, gathering all she needs to know by the tones of voice and no more than a few sentences that it’s Beth and Kelsey talking. Beth is confessing in a hushed voice that she feels better about herself and is feeling more confident ever since “she’s been getting out of shape”, and that “it’s stopping Margery from picking on us as much”, and that “it’s like she’s a sniper distracted and looking elsewhere now”. Matilda doesn’t know if she should smile or not. If nothing else, at least her crusade of self-sabotage has worked in one sense. It’s worked for her teammates. For the very soul of her club. The club she remembers, at least – not this stale skeleton of a thing Margery has stripped all the flesh from and starved down to a husk of itself. Nauseating shame and hot victory collide with each other inside her soul, a high-speed crash forming a mangled car wreck of smashed emotions. Outside, in the parking lot, she begins to walk across the tarmac with her eyes on the ground when coach Ilda suddenly appears around the corner from behind a bush in a mad hurry and waves at her. ‘Halt!’ she commands, throwing up a stiff hand that is about two inches off becoming a fascist salute. Wrangling her facial muscles into the most neutral expression of amiability possible, Matilda stops and looks up at the coach. ‘Matilda,’ informs the coach. ‘Margery has asked to see you before you leave. She would like a word. She is in her office.’ And with that, Ilda spins on her prim Germanic heels and stalks off. With an irritated sigh, Matilda slowly comes about and makes her way back inside, dragging her feet down the corridors all the way to the office wing. The first thing she notices about Margery when she comes clear of the door frame are the circles under the manager’s eyes, and the lowered angle of her head as it hangs over her desk, barely lifting to see her enter the room. When she finally does raise her head, Matilda notices the manager’s eyes lock suddenly upon her body as she takes a step to the side and folds her arms over her chest, waiting in a way that conveys her best “what do you want?” attitude. The lines around Margery’s eyes look so deep you could trace them with a pen. Her cheeks look flaccid, the whites of her eyes have no shine, and her mouth hangs open as she begins to talk, leaning heavily on her desk with her elbows. Her voice is quiet, verging on exhaustion. ‘You cause me so much pain.’ Matilda draws her arms tighter around herself and has to resist the urge to shuffle in circles on her feet. ‘I just moved you into the midfield, and you’re already causing problems. So many chances,’ Margery moans, holding her hands out in plaintive exasperation. ‘So much talent. So much understanding of the game. So much potential. Yet here you are. Do you understand just how colossally you are wasting your opportunities away, Matilda? Really. Why are you doing this? Do you realise what you’re doing? I used to think you knew – but every time I become less certain. Look at yourself.’ Matilda watches a sneer writhe through Margery’s lips – but this time she notices a sadness in her eyes, as well. ‘Look at this… thing you’ve done to yourself. You look even fatter than ever. It boggles my mind. It makes me want to weep. A footballer with so much natural talent wasting away before my eyes.’ Margery looks down at the desk, as if observing the direction of its grain. ‘I’ll have to move you to right-back, soon. What a waste! Someone of your attacking ability? Playing in a fullback role? I shake my head, I really do. Frankly this is the most disappointed I have ever been, in anyone, in my entire life. I am sorry, but I cannot hold back my feelings any longer, you understand. This…’ waving her hand at Matilda’s body, ‘trend of yours. It is disgusting, quite honestly. It is borderline immoral how badly you are treating yourself.’ Margery’s nostrils flare as she presses her lips into a straight line and looks up at the wall behind Matilda. ‘You remind me of a girl I used to know. Years ago, when I was in school. We played. She had talent. She could have made it into the local team, but…’ She peers into a vision of the past, voice trailing into sadness, ‘when tryouts came, she never made it to that level. Do you know why?’ Matilda nearly bursts out laughing. She fidgets with her fingers, a sadistic, spiteful knife of pleasure manifesting in her fist. She knows exactly why. Margery is talking about none other than her very own self. The failure. The guilt. The regret. Oh, the sheer rush of this – hitting Matilda sweetly in the forehead like a sugar rush, a five milligram injection of heroin comedy straight into her arterial system. Giving up on waiting for a response, Margery looks away, eyes sunken back into her skull like dead marbles. ‘That girl let herself go,’ Margery sighs. ‘She let herself go. Just like you have. The tryouts were too much for her, when it came time to be put to the test. She could have completed them. She would have. She would have succeeded, but instead she was too unfit, held back and depressed by her own flaccid, immobile, useless weight she let hang on her. It was embarrassing. Utterly humiliating. And in the end, Matilda, she was laughed off the pitch. You understand? She almost never returned. So much talent, so much potential, all of it wasted– her window of opportunity missed.’ Margery shakes her head and looks up to meet her eyes with a deep, hot glare. ‘Take heed, Matilda. You have a window of opportunity left to you still. Do not miss the sliding-doors moment. Grow any fatter than you already have, and you will have to say goodbye to everything you know. This is your final warning. And to make it clear just how serious I am, this time… I have already begun lining up a transfer for another winger. I am sorry it has come to this. I didn’t want it to. But here we are. Here you are, barely fitting your clothes properly. Out of breath. Unable to reach your top speed… You have done this to yourself. Now dig yourself out of your own hole. That is all I had to tell you. Now get out of here. I’ll see you on Friday.’ . . . From that day onwards, a sour taste lingers on Matilda’s tongue. Bitter bile and hate. Before she knows it, she’s on a two-and-a-half-day long food binge to mask her unstable emotions, riding them up and down and around like a rollercoaster she’s just clenching and waiting to be over. The only thing that stays up consistently is her stomach, stuffed perpetually full with food – another snack or drink or meal going inside it the moment it shows the first sign of deflating. By week’s end, she finds herself laying on her bed watching shows in her pyjamas with so many wrappers cluttering her bin that they’ve overflowed and gathered into a second pile beside it. The episode of a show ends, and the laptop’s screen goes black, flashing a dark reflection back at her. She groans as she glimpses her legs sprawled open, one shin hanging off the edge of the mattress, and her body lying reclined in an awkward twist as her neck sits up at an angle on the pillow. Her left forearm lays over her belly which sticks up from her midsection like a hill, her other arm sprawled out like a bird’s broken wing. She frowns at her reflection. The visual shape of her stomach ballooning out holds her attention hostage, and it’s at that precise moment that she becomes aware of how uncomfortable her stretched sides feel from the size and weight of her culinary indulgences, testing the strength of her internal organs. ‘Man I really gotta stop,’ she groans to herself. ‘I have gotta stop doing this.’ Then a new episode starts up, splashing the screen with colour again. Her reflection is replaced, and her thoughts of fixing her ways evaporate along with it. As the hours go by, she slots biscuit after biscuit between her lips, knowing she shouldn’t, but never once acting like she believes it, until she perceives a tiny burn like an air-light prick of a thorn somewhere on the side of her belly. Thinking it’s just a stray fibre in her pyjama top irritating her skin, she frowns and brushes it away with her hand, then keeps eating. Last biscuit, then she’ll put it all away. Or in the bin. She’ll go back to the gym. Get fit again. Regain her athleticism, her pace, her agility. Re-emerge in the team’s ranks to get the girls winning again, and put on a stony face as she deals with Margery’s bad tempers forever and ever until the sad bitch either leaves or dies. Dread fills her heart with heavy tar, and she feels herself sink into the mattress. She picks up another biscuit and bites into it. She’s barely even watching the show anymore. Then she feels that microscopic, almost imperceptible sting again, like the world’s tiniest ant trying to nip her skin. Exhaling from her nose in irritation, she leans forward and pulls one side of her pyjama shirt up to peer at the area. The wedge of belly skin rises forth to meet her investigative fingers. Oh fuck… is that… Matilda leans harder over herself at the waist, the exposed portion of her belly balling into a single roll, and she narrows her eyes. Did she scratch herself by accident? Is it a… Or is that a stretch mark? She places two fingers over the tiny red fleck and stretches it out like a canvas. Her flesh obeys to her fingers’ manipulations with such soft ease that it scares her. A little pink line the length of her fingernail, right there, a little further than an inch away from her navel. She cocks her hip to scan around the side of her belly for any more, grabbing and shifting the spongy flesh coating her torso. She twists to the other side and checks for more, only to find one and a half on her left hip, a little larger but less defined – blurred at the edges, and not as pink. A second half-mark sits beneath it. Small shockwaves ricochet through her flab as her fingers release their grip on it. Then she grabs at the other side of her belly again, her worry-darkened eyes scouring her body in paranoid frustration. Her heart flutters with little skips of panic as she pinches the flesh under the young pink marks. This can’t be right. They’re too new. They definitely weren’t there yesterday. Is her skin already reaching its limits of elasticity? Surely not. There’s no way she’s still getting fatter. Throwing the bottom of her shirt back over stomach, she folds her arms over waist in dejected self-protection, sticks her jaw out, and stares a thousand yards away at the screen of the laptop like she’s just seen a bomb go off and kill innocent children. She needs to stop. She needed to stop weeks ago. She needed to get back to the gym months ago. . . . But she didn’t. And she doesn’t. When Carlile comes over to visit the next day, there is something she notices as quick as a set-off mousetrap. Smothering him with kisses at the front door, she pulls back and rests her forehead on his chest, running her hands down the side of his body and peeking down at his stomach. That’s when she sees it. The shape below her eyes pleases her; a rounded, filled-in curve that wasn’t quite so obvious the last time they saw each other. ‘I miss you,’ he sighs. ‘I miss you too.’ ‘Your parents home?’ Rubbing her nose up into the corner of his neck, ‘Not anymore. Mum just left for a conference in Chile, and dad’s doing some relief teaching in the country again.’ She lets out a breathy giggle as she feels his fingers slide down the back of her pants and clutch a heap of her asscheek in his long fingers. With nobody around to witness it, they spend the night eating, fucking, cuddling on the lounge in front of the TV, fucking again, then eating again, and not much else, on repeat for as long as they can until they fall asleep in each other’s arms well past midnight. . . .

It’s been a while since Matilda’s friends all saw each other – an uncharacteristic change in their old dynamic of regular meetings. But that’s the thing about adult life. It creeps up on you so slow that you don’t realise, and maybe you should have acted to preserve things earlier before tasks and responsibilities piled up around your ears so high you lose sight of time. With Carlile having to attend an induction session at the kitchen that’s going to last almost all day, Matilda tells him to stay at home and catch up on some rest while she takes an Uber into town. She’ll miss him, but she’ll go by herself. After using a curling iron to put waves in her hair, she chooses a pair of faux-leather jeans, and slides her legs in. Distracted, she stops. She must have put both feet into the same hole by accident, because it doesn't feel right. Paying closer attention this time, she tries again, only to find the faux-leather won't just slide up her thighs. Her heart falls out the bottom of her pelvis when the fabric refuses to widen around her legs much further without serious discomfort – because both her thighs, coddled now in a layer of soft, stubborn flesh, have pushed the pant legs to the widest reaches of their circumference as they meet the upper half of her thighs. Struggling to tug, jerk, and pull against the back of the waistband until it inches up her backside, she arrives at a point where she simply cannot make the waistband come out from under the fold of her ass cheeks. It’s just stopped there, barricaded from rising any further by an overhang of thick hindquarter pudge that hadn’t been this bad even a fortnight ago. Swearing a mixture of shits and fucks at the empty room around her, she wrestles with the pants that stick to her like glue, heaving and straining to tear them back down off her legs… and then with a mighty snarl of victory, throws them across her bed at the wall like she’s trying to smash an egg. Face flushed hot pink with shame, embarrassment, anger and… something intense that she can’t bring herself to take seriously, she spins back around and looks at the contents of her wardrobe. Her chest feels like it’s being pumped with hot air. She has been forced to re-evaluate her choices, and the novelty of this zaps her with a shock she hasn’t felt since the first changes of puberty. But it’s exactly that suppressed feeling of being so stimulated which overpowers all her wiser ideas of modesty, and guides her choices so that thirty minutes later in the city’s main strip, she boldly steps out of an Uber ride onto the densely populated sidewalk in clothes that no longer fit her figure the way they’re meant to. She’s dressed almost entirely in black, and would look textbook chic if not for the various little rolls of flesh being pressed into existence around her body between every gap and seam of her outfit like some kind of map demarcating small zones of doughy pressure. She leans down to the window to thank the driver, her midriff abnormally tight, then turns on her heel and happily struts the sidewalk in black army boots, thin silver hoop earrings, a denim skirt whose vertical column of buttons tracks the curve of a tell-tale outwards bulge, and a black corduroy crop top that didn’t scrunch up under her boobs and cling to the upper half of her waist as tight as this a few months ago. Her chest feels suffocated inside her choice of bra. The overlap between her crop top and her waistband barely manage to meet, their tightness squeezing her midriff into a miniature hourglass shape within the larger-scale hourglass shape her figure is about to develop. The upper half of her arms are turning up differently, too, with any muscle-complexity once to be seen now vanished, and in its place a shocking non-complexity of smooth flesh painted over it, and a ring of slightly bulging flesh emerging from each arm hole of her crop top. The skin-to-bone shape of her shoulders is receding — especially with the crop top's shoulder straps cutting into a shallow layer of flesh coating what used to be visible skeletal structure. You can tell her breasts are suddenly the wrong size for their bra — it’s not that they’re rising out over the top with gross spillage, or anything grotesque, but the bottom of her breasts look swollen as they push down and outwards with an extra bulk against the lycra's undercarriage. With nothing left for the space-seeking flesh to move into, each of her breasts look unnecessarily bulgy for what they are. At least they look natural, she says to herself in her mind, justifying any second thoughts about her too-tight bra by sneaking judgemental glances at other women walking by whose chests have that painfully obvious quality of over-sculpted inflation by silicone injection. She gets a text from Harriette that she's nearby. Matilda walks around a few corners until she's on Craydon Street, and stands near the city’s iconic bronze statue of a someone’s big toe reaching ten feet tall that some local council leader in their infinite wisdom decided was meant to signify "balance" and not "gross goblin-looking turd that someone laid right on the edge of an otherwise beautiful fountain courtyard”. When Harriette’s rideshare drops her off at the curb, one of the first things Matilda notices is that her friend has changed. Her body’s bulk seems to have been added to yet again, but whatever new weight Harriette now carries is obscured by clever choices in outfit; white vans underpinning a pair of velvet parachute pants, a white tee tucked in at mid-waist to hide any possible spill of muffintop, a broad black belt with silver hoop in its centre, and a thick fur coat draped over her shoulders to keep the curves of her sides hidden. Matilda grins hello, giving her a sly “I-see-what-you’re-doing” look, and they pull each other into an embrace. When Harriette’s stomach touches her, she feels it press and spread out against her own. A stab of shameful excitement makes her shiver. They let go of each other, then link hands and turn to walk happily down the street side by side, chatting. ‘Are you sure Christine didn’t want to come tonight?’ Matilda asks as they cross a set of warbling pedestrian lights. ‘She would’ve been welcome.’ ‘Yeah I know, but… except for the… you know…’ Harriette gives her a sidelong look. Matilda presses her lips into tight a line and gives Harriette’s hand a reassuring swing. ‘Oh, please, you can’t worry about it. Symone just has a complex about other people’s bodies, or something– she always has. She’ll get over it when she meets Christine. She seemed wonderful, from what I could tell.’ ‘What do you suppose is her deal though? Symone’s, I mean. Like, I know I’m pushing into the chubby side of things, and all, but–’ Harriette’s pace falters. ‘Well, wait a moment… To be honest, I do mean to say, using words as they’re meant to be used, with qualifying adjectives and the specificity English can give us… I’m pushing into the quite chubby side of things. Ugh. Oh-me, oh-my, for fuck’s sake, fine! I really truly mean to say I’m almost officially fat, at this point in time, right? I’m heavy enough to be properly overweight. For my height, of course! But what’s nagging at me, is I keep thinking, so long as Symone’s maintaining the body shape she wants, then why does she act so strange about other people’s weights all the time? I know she’s never attacked me. It’s not about that. And I know I’ve, maybe, always been a little bit soft– sort of. But she’s gunna notice I’m getting properly fat any day now. You get the feeling it’s going to be so awkward that there’s no escaping whatever’s coming. I feel like I have to prepare for an artillery shell landing on top of me. And you know how much I just loathe all this confrontation stuff– even if it’s relegated to passive aggression. I’m a writer, not a speaker. Or an arguer.’ Matilda squints at her in amusement. ‘I know you do. Don’t worry; you look amazing. You’ll be fine.’ Harriette seems to shrink even as she walks. ‘Aw no, don’t be like that,’ Matilda squeezes her hands and swings it again. ‘What happened the other day was a big deal for you. I know it was hard for you to come out. I’m just glad we sorted it out.’ ‘I suppose,’ Harriette sulks. ‘Thank you for everything, by the way. I mean it. You’re an amazing person. I know how much it probably sucked to check in on me, but I’m really glad you called later that day. After Christine and I argued, I felt so low I could have died in a ten foot ditch and still felt too close to the surface. But everything is okay now, I think. I don’t want you getting the idea things are going to shit for her and I. We sorted things out, but it made things easier knowing you didn’t hate my guts after keeping it a secret for so many years.’ ‘Harri! it’s not like you killed someone… Keep your head up, my little Beetle. Confidence. Put your shoulders back. Like this. Watch. Yeah, that’s the way. Roll them back a little. That’s how you’re taught to walk out onto the pitch even if you’re feeling like shit. Anyway, you and Christine seem to have a really nice thing going. You should keep it up and see where it goes.’ ‘She doesn’t keep secrets with me, so I can’t keep them with anybody else. That’s fair measure. From now on, no more secrets. I’m sorry.’ ‘Secrets?’ Matilda flashes eyes at her. ‘Is there more to this?’ ‘Uh.’ Harriette delfates and loses her pace, falling behind. Their arms extend as a rift opens up between them. Matilda stops and lets go, turning to face her friend. ‘You alright, Harriette?’ ‘Um.’ Harriette’s eyes swap guiltily between Matilda and something behind her, to the left, pedestrians bending their path around the two of them as they stand on the spot obstructing the way. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.’ She hugs herself as a gust of wind comes down the sidewalk, then she tucks her shirt further down her waistband. The indent of her pudgy belly button can be seen under the fabric just behind it. ‘It’s not to do with me. It’s more so to do with her– oh, fuck.’ Harriette grimaces, guilt crawling all over her face. ‘I’m sorry. I need to stop talking. I really shouldn’t say. It’s not my business to–’ ‘It’s okay, Beetle. It’s okay.’ Matilda offers her a sorry smile. ‘I don’t have to know Christine’s private life or nothing. Relax. You’re putting way too much pressure on yourself. You’re making, like, what we call an unforced error. That’s what we call it in the game.’ She wishes she could reach into Harriette’s soul and scrape away her anxiety like the leaves off a patio. She holds out her hand. Harriette takes it, smiling, and after a moment, they set off walking again. Hidden around the side of an alley is a quaint drinking ** named “In Search of Lost Wine”. They walk into its rustic, French-themed interior and navigate their way to a beer garden whose entire length along one side is open to a view over Elizabeth Square’s green lawn and water fountains, the city’s tram lines skirting behind the gardens. Hassani, Simon and Symone are already waiting for them in an L-shaped booth behind a divider made of lattice almost totally coated in devil’s ivy on one side, the other side a glass facade looking out over Dinjari Terrace from a slightly elevated height. Everyone stands up and hugs each other hello. Matilda sucks in just in case she bumps bellies with anyone by accident and gives it all away. Honestly, it would be nice to get through tonight and have a fun time without having to think up an excuse on the spot if one of them asks where – or when – the visible bit of weight came from. Some painful little tickle in her heart is telling her it might be inevitable. When she takes a seat in the booth, she feels her ass struggling to find room in the rear of her denim skirt, and the upper half of her belly comes rolling over the top of its waistband. She sits with her forearm on the edge of the table to hide her shameful shape behind it, then dangles her wrist down over the edge to touch the hem of her corduroy crop, double-checking that she can still feel it overlapping the skirt’s denim. She gives the garment a cursory tug, just to be sure. Hassani frowns a little as he notices the absence of one particular group member beside her. ‘Where’s Carl?’ he asks. Still picking self-consciously at her top beneath the table, Matilda waves her hand in dismissal, ‘Oh, yeah, no, he’s way too tired this week. Just dog-tired. He just got offered a job in the kitchen now as an actual chef– ’ pausing to grin on his behalf as a chorus of cheers go round, ‘–so, yeah, he’s going through his induction right now, as we speak. They’re really making him rush though it, cramming everything in at once. Long jam-packed days. I feel bad for him.’ ‘Does he have a licence? Don’t you need qualifications for that?’ Matilda makes a clownishly caught-out face. ‘Not that I know of…’ ‘So straight onto the pots and pans, no licence needed. Fuck me, what a win.’ ‘I heard about that from his brother, couple days ago,’ says Simon. ‘Who cares about licences. Good on him, I say.’ Matilda is made, then, to wonder about Carlile and his brother. She’s seen Carlile do things, say things, act in strangely impulsive ways, sometimes, that comes from nowhere else but a sense of felt-inferiority towards Brad. It makes no sense, to her, being an only child. Except at a competitive level that she understands from her sports experience – but even then, she wonders what the hell Carlile sees in Brad to feel such a long, black shadow of inadequacy cast over him. She’s noticed Carlile going to the gym, again, lately. Perhaps his motivation to do so is from that same lowliness. It makes her feel more sinister than she knows she is, at heart, to find herself hoping with cold, desperate longing that Carlile is not working out at the gym right this very instant… It feels foul and putrid to admit such a toxic thought to herself, but it would suck an irretrievable amount of joy from her soul if any of the softness that’s shown up on his body just happened to disappear, all of a sudden, whittling away, draining from him like the dregs of some precious substance nobody knows the true value of. Like water disappearing down a drain before the very eyes of a drought-stricken, dying animal. Fuck’s sake, don’t be so dramatic. But then what of her own weight? Are these reactive emotions of hers reducing her to the level of a hypocrite? A filthy-minded, double-standard-having, perverted, out-of-shape failure of a whore? If she wants to do the right thing, then she should be keeping a strict eye on her own weight before it runs so far out of hand that she ends up too fat to breathe… She used to be able to get away with nothing more than a thoughtless flick of her shirt, a subtle adjustment of posture, sucking in, to hide the changes. This week, however, it’s suddenly become something she has to put conscious thought into finding ways to hide. Still concealable, sure. But not without planning. And it will only get worse. Get bigger. Get rounder. And much, much softer. Matilda’s thighs twinge warmly at the thought of so much weight exploding out from her gut – and she hates it. ‘Feeling like a beer or anything?’ Simon asks her. Verbally slapped out of her mind, Matilda blinks, then nods. The group orders drinks and a few jugs of ale for the table. Matilda sips on a cider between segways in her speech as she gives everyone the run-down on the latest news with her club, and what different levels of shit have hit the fan since they last met. As the night weans on, more and more drinks find their way down her throat despite how committed she was to pacing herself, holding back on gorging, until all of a sudden she feels an incredible amount of bloat billowing out against the front of her denim skirt, the stiff band of which just isn’t offering the space she needs. ‘Be right back,’ she says, raising a hand in apology. Then she rises in a squat and shuffles sideways out the booth, having to find ways to tolerate the discomfort of sucking in. She can’t let her belly protrude outwards, right in front of their faces so they get an eyeful of its shocking distention. After navigating her way to the restroom, she relieves herself on the toilet, a sense of vacated, emptied freedom rinsing through her body from her bladder up to her skull in a way that makes her swoon despite feeling no worse than tipsy. She sighs, gathering herself. Sitting here, she is becoming more and more conscious of the tightness encasing her body, until all at once, she is vividly over-conscious of the very fibres of each individual thread of every seam trying to imprint themselves on her skin. She really should have worked for longer on her outfit choices before heading out. With her overburdened bladder emptied of its contents, she stands back up to re-fasten her skirt with the help of a sucked-in stomach, washes her hands, then makes her way out and past the throng of people. On the way through, the brilliant idea of buying yet another drink for herself carries her away on a cloud of stupidity. The length of the bar is populated by patrons packed tight as sushi rolls in a display case, tonight, shuffling and jostling around one another along the entirety of its length, the poor buggers of bartenders rushing from side to side like frenzied crabs as they try to keep up. She waits for a while, getting the opportunity every so often to worm her way one person deeper towards the bar itself, until she spots Symone, who is making her way in from outside. Moving aside to make room for her friend beside her, Matilda with wide eyes points at Symone’s silver and pearl dangling earrings. ‘Sym! I love those! Where’d you get them?’ ‘Thanks!’ Symone raises two fingers behind her ear with a bashful smile. ‘Simon got them for me.’ Matilda’s eyebrows lift. ‘Really! That’s impressive. Didn’t know Simon could have an eye for things like that.’ She slides her forearm across belly subconsciously while Symone isn’t looking. But Symone’s eyes catch the action, just at the last minute, as if she’d seen it many times before. She glances down halfway to Matilda’s midsection before looking up at the bar. ‘Yeah, well, I had to teach him a thing or two first. To begin with, he couldn’t tell the difference between a locket and a pendant. Are you getting another drink?’ ‘Yup. Maybe a wine, I dunno.’ Then Symone looks at her funny. ‘You sure?’ Matilda tilts her head at an angle, one brow up, and wonders if she’s missed something obvious. Is there no wine behind the bar? Is it out of stock and she hasn’t noticed? But then she processes Symone’s tone of voice, the meaning hidden beneath the question. Matilda chooses to run with pretending ignorance. ‘Um, yeah… why? What do you mean?’ A shaded look comes into Symone’s hazel eyes as she visibly takes deliberation in choosing her words. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, but… I just wonder if that would be the best idea for you right now…’ Matilda turns rigid. Of course it’s come to this. It was always going to. She’s been forestalling this on borrowed time whose due-date is way past. Symone flips her hand apologetically and continues. ‘… I’m just worrying about you, right now. Like, you’re going through a rough patch and all, and I just wanna make sure you aren’t going to make things worse for yourself.’ ‘Am I?’ Matilda frowns ineffectually. ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine–’ ‘Come on, Tild. Please. You don’t need to pretend anymore. I don’t know if you realise, but you’ve put on a bit of weight. Like, sort of outta nowhere-like. Again, don’t take that the wrong way.’ Symone flicks her eyes past Matilda’s shoulder. ‘You and Harriette. I just worry about you two. You’re both going through tough spots in life right now, and it’s sort of showing. Like it’s visible.’ ‘Sheesh, thanks, Sym.’ ‘But that’s all! Like, I’m just being honest, yaknow? You used to fit those clothes so well–’ ‘Excuse m– I do fit in these clothes…’ Matilda tries to protest. But fails. There’s a mirror behind the bar, spanning its entire length. Suddenly aware of it, she looks over, only to see the accused reflection staring right back at herself, standing among the crowd like a self-conscious teen. There’s a chance Symone is right. Even though the neckline of her crop top is high, it’s nonetheless plain to see how her boobs are a brush-stroke too voluminous by the way the corduroy line patterning bends to accommodate their unfamiliar girth. It didn’t used to be this way. And under the swell of her breasts, the hem of her crop top rolls outwards, then back under, before her denim skirt comes to the rescue, stopping any slivers of flesh from exposing themselves – but only at the expense of a very tight fit around her upper waist, the top creating a little overspill below her shoulderblades whose side-profile they can both see in the mirror. Not to mention the puff in her upper arms all too smooth, not sculpted enough, to be musculature. The two overworked bartenders still haven’t made their way over to take their orders. Matilda resists the impulse to bite her nails off and spit them out. ‘Okay,’ she says, biting the inside of her lips. ‘Look. Fine. I’ll stop pretending then. So maybe I have. Okay? It’s no big deal. I’ll be fine.’ ‘You might be fine– but why? What’s going on?’ A dark laugh from Matilda as if she’d heard a punchline to an R-rated joke. ‘What do you mean “why”? Sometimes it just happens. You know?’ She looks for a bartender to come save her and break up the conversation, but they’re still stuck down the far end, mired in a swamp of tasks. ‘I’ll lose it, okay? It just happens sometimes.’ An insulting combination of a laugh and a snort. ‘Really? “Just happens”? Matilda… you’re a semi-professional athlete. Since the day I’ve known you, you’ve been fit as a kick-boxer. I saw you, what, a month or two ago? What happened?’ Eyes wide, Matilda makes a half-shrug of bewilderment, palms upturned in waffling helplessness. ‘N– nothing. I swear. Just normal life stuff.’ ‘Tild, you’re being ridiculous!’ Symone gazes at her with an incredulous smirk. ‘If you slipped up for a second, I wouldn’t say anything, but I feel like you’d look pregnant if it wasn’t for that skirt. That’s really bad.’ Symone’s shoulders drop. ‘I’m just worried. Please, Matilda, you have to take care of yourself.’ Matilda fabricates a jovial, carefree laugh in hopes nobody around them has been eavesdropping. ‘You don’t have to be worried.’ Symone flinches back. ‘Are you still in denial?’ ‘Okay! Fucking hell. Fine.’ Matilda puts her hands on her hips and lowers her voice to a level bystanders wouldn’t be able to hear. ‘Look. I’ll tell you. But don’t say this to anyone else, okay?’ She drops a wide-eyed, high-browed stare at Symone until it’s clear she’s accepted the level of confidentiality at play, here. ‘What is it?’ Symone asks, lowering her voice as well. ‘I’m dirty-bulking.’ In lying again, Matilda surprises even herself. Is she really going to recycle that falsehood? Just to get out of this situation? The same lie she told her mother? Symone’s face widens with almost instantaneous understanding. Then surprise. ‘Oh. Oh. Really?’ ‘Yeah.’ Matilda shrugs. ‘So you’re planning on body building?’ ‘…Yup.’ But there’s something about the high-pressure hose-down of expectation and interrogation blaring from Symone like the heat of the sun that knocks Matilda’s confidence off balance again. ‘I need to build some strength for my style of play,’ she explains, scrambling to prove herself right. ‘When you dirty-bulk you just let a bit of weight on and then work really hard in the gym to lose it all and it comes back as muscle. It’s just easier.’ Symone gives the idea some thought, then says, ‘I know what dirty-bulking is. Why do you need to keep it a secret?’ Matilda leans in and hisses through tight lips, ‘Because it’s embarrassing!’ Which is not a lie. At least not in toto. She’s been feeling, since around two months ago, a gunshot of shame and self-inflicted humiliation every time she sees it, touches it or feels it – the presence of blubber accumulating in juicier and more pliable pockets of flesh around her body. And it’s only been getting worse, because the more of it she discovers is there, as brand-new curves of flesh manifest in places around her body she has only ever known to be firm to touch, the more she’s come to realise that the thorny lead ball she keeps feeling drop in her stomach is only partly called shame. There’s another feeling dropped into the ring, let loose to fight like crabs in a bucket. A second, extraneous sensation she can’t fully discern, or name, since she detects it in such a broad, rounded feeling, that the only word she can find for it other than “arousal”, is just… “excitement”. And it kills her. It makes her feel wrong. It gets so bad, sometimes, that it comes upon her like a violent smack of electricity between her thighs, causing them to grow weaker than she’s comfortable with. Just thinking about it now is making her feel weird all over again. She can feel her fingers trembling as her voice goes up and down unsteadily. ‘Yes. Okay?’ she pleads. ‘I know I look different. I know I don’t fit these clothes too well, right now. I can “pinch-and-inch” or whatever. I’ve got this muffintop. I feel fat when I sit, and it is getting kind of tight in this skirt. But I don’t care right now, because it’ll all be gone. Eventually. Gone. All of it. It’ll all be muscle. You’ll see. So you don’t have to worry, okay?’ Taken aback, Symone just nods slowly, then withdraws into her own silence. Matilda turns to face the bar and waits to be served. She clutches her purse in front of her, making sure her eyes stay away from the mirror behind the bar, in which she’d risk catching sight of her body and its annoyingly overt hints of pudginess. ‘So, what about Harriette?’ Symone asks after a length of time. Matilda picks at her forefinger’s nail with her thumb. This conversation needs to move onto something else. ‘What do you mean “what about Harriette”?’ she pretends. ‘Harriette’s good.’ ‘Does she seriously think no one’s noticed? She’s put on some serious weight!’ Symone urges in a hushed tone so that her voice hides below the ambient chatter. ‘I know big things have been going on for her, but what has she been doing?’ Matilda can only shrug as she tries with failing desperation to think of a way to get out of this corner of oppressive gossip. Luckily for her, the moment is interrupted, split in two like smashed glass as one of the bartenders appears right next to them and expels a lungful of air, their small, amicable face flustered. Matilda and Symone both turn to look. ‘I am so incredibly sorry, you guys,’ the girl breathes, ‘it’s been way too busy tonight and we’ve been understaffed since we opened– has anyone helped you guys yet?’ ‘No, not yet,’ Matilda jumps in, a little quicker than she means to, like jumping for the first lifeboat on a sinking ship. A short time later, having moved past their confrontation, Matilda and Symone take their drinks back out into the beer garden and rejoin the crew. As midnight slowly approaches, drunkenness creeps in with the hour, and before long, Matilda has developed a whopper of a bloat for a second time tonight. Her bladder seems to be stuck carrying a huge volume of liquid at any given time, and going to the toilet is doing less and less to relieve her. She knows there is only one way out of the situation, but it would quite literally mean spilling out. All it would take to give the heavy bloat pushing her stomach out so round that it hurts, the only cost to that relief, would be to unbutton the front of her skirt. Even just a little. Just one button is all… Presently, a waiter comes wandering nearby with a dish of potato wedges, head rotating like a coastal lighthouse. Hassani spots them and lifts his hand in the air to hail, pushing aside several empty glasses and two empty pitchers to make room. The waiter swoops over and puts the dish of wedges down on their table, smiling and giving a nervous duck of the head typical of someone young, shy, and new to the job. The hot snacks steam, oozing aroma into the air. Matilda feels the back of her tongue salivate – but there’s no way in hell she can allow herself to eat even one of these delicious little bite-sized pockets of starch, each coated in such aromatic goodness that it makes her beer-laden gut swirl with delusional levels of hunger. The wedges are powdered in chicken salt and rich herbs, and she can smell them all the way down into her heart. God. Her stomach feels empty, somehow. Vacated, like oxygen sucked out an aeroplane’s window at high altitude. Fuck it. She can probably fit one inside her, and then say “no more” after that. She’ll just bite into it real slow. Take miniscule bites. Pace herself so the one potato wedge lasts until the whole bowl is pillaged. Hassani has noticed her staring at it in a way that must look downright pathetic, because he slides it a little closer to her. ‘Dig in, guys, don’t wait.’ ‘Thanks,’ she smiles, afraid of herself and what she might do, then hovers her hand over the bowl to select the best looking piece. She’s just about to pick one of the nicest, longest, salt-coated wedges with beautifully browned tips at each end and a golden ridge between them, when Symone makes eye contact with her, causing her to screech to a halt in her tracks. Symone has a “think-that’s-a-good-idea?” expression on her face, and she glances with heavily-communicative eyes at Matilda’s fingers which are reaching for the food. Matilda processes it in her head for a moment. Then, throwing back at her a defiantly cheeky glance, Matilda takes the wedge in her fingers anyway, and puts it between her lips, much to the disappointment in Symone’s resigned shrug. Chatter bubbles on. Drinks continue to filter through. Harriette tells them about Christine for a while, and Matilda watches happily as her friend speaks with this dreamily absent spark in her eye that Matilda has never seen before, but knows must mean she’s falling deeply in love. Hassani asks Simon about his cricket team, he shares some stories, then he and Matilda bitch together about bad coaching decisions, which leads everyone onto the topic of annoying bosses and terrible workmates who will treat you like some kind of heretic for clocking off your shift one minute late just as soon as they’ll take their own time to stroll around the place and chat shit like there’s nothing else to do. Jugs of beer keep arriving at the table, and Matilda finds herself pouring drink after drink into her glass. Her willpower softens, and eventually slides off the skeleton of her spirit like a slack, melted goo. A heaviness comes across her vision, as if her eyes are swinging with the momentum of their own weight every time makes a deliberate effort to change the direction of her sight – and for the first time, all night long, she starts to forget about the intolerable stretching sensation through her over-taxed waistline. Her proprioception of her stomach’s disproportionate enormity takes on a glassy colour in her mind. Almost as if she can see through the ache, pushing it aside to an irrelevant, out-of-sight place in which it… doesn’t quite matter, anymore. And before long, she’s almost forgotten about it. Her chest keeps swelling with dizzy warmth, and she can feel herself laughing without good reason. It’s not long before she and Harriette have their arms around each other’s shoulders, singing along to the music over the P.A. that someone cranked the volume on at some point. Hassani is doing amateur percussion on any available surfaces around him while Simon makes guitar sounds and the rest of them take turns slurring ** karaoke improvs in a game of musical charades nobody is skilled enough for them to guess correctly. A few of them do the rounds to the toilet, and everybody else shuffles seats. Harriette ends up sitting on Matilda’s left, and Symone on her right. Simon returns with another jug just in time to catch Hassani rocket off on another rant about local elections that are due to take place in a month, or a year, or whatever. Smirking, Simon pours more beer for himself and heckles his drunken friend onwards. At some stage, the conversation has taken a turn towards internet culture and the plague of Instagram models who seem to expect people to know who they are and get free shit for nothing. ‘And then people get sick of it eventually,’ Simon is saying, ‘and they look for something else. Like those influencers.’ ‘But then you even get sick of them, too,’ Hassani adds. ‘So everyone starts posting un-photoshopped shit instead – being genuine. It’s like a reactive response. But even if they’re on the plusser size – side – I mean – of things… Sort of like those big-girl Instagram models these days. Has anyone noticed there are more and more of them lately?’ ‘I have,’ Simon nods. ‘Careful who you say that around, babe,’ Symone jokes, raising an eyebrow at Matilda and Harriette. ‘That could be these two in a couple years’ time,’ raising her glass in drunken salute. ‘Oh yeah?’ Matilda snorts, hammering her glass down on the table with an unsteady hand. ‘An wha makes you say that?’ Did she just hear herself slur? Symone, sitting beside her, just gives off a smug, one-shouldered shrug. Matilda feels the shrug against her own shoulder. ‘So the skinniest bitsh here sez…’ Matilda turns and wiggles her head at Symone with her tongue out, trying to elbow her, but failing to make good contact. Symone straightens her back. ‘Well I’m not the one who ordered those, am I?’ Matilda follows Symone’s line of sight, down at the table in front of her nose, only to find a mysterious plate of nachos covered with a canopy of melted cheese and sour cream. She recoils in slow motion, off-balance like an anaesthetised cat returned home from the vet. When did these nachos get here? Where from? They’re already half gone. Inebriated thoughts and memories drift into the spotlight of her mind. Oh. That’s right. She remembers she ate a few. But then again, Harriette did as well. Didn’t everyone? ‘I duno who got thoze…’ She puffs her lips out. ‘Wozn’t me.’ It isn’t until it’s too late that Matilda notices it coming. Before can move an unresponsive arm to block it, she feels a hand come to rest on the front of her belly, where it receives two quick, condescending little pats from Symone. ‘Getting a bit of a belly there, Tild?’ she teases, craning to look down at it with fascinated interest. ‘You should ask it if it was the one who ordered the nachos.’ ‘Fug off,’ Matilda growls, shoving the unwanted touch away. Hassani slouches forward over the table, leaning on one arm which bends flat under his tipsy weight. ‘Last time I checked, Matilda was the professional athlete, here, Sym-moan.’ ‘What did you just call me?’ Harriette lets burst a squawk of laughter. ‘“Moan.” That’s great.’ Rolling his eyes like a bemused father, Simon puts his arm around his girlfriend and peers down into her eyes. ‘Come on, my little baby girl, that’ll do.’ ‘Yeah! That’ll do.’ Matilda waggles her finger. ‘You tell her. I’m fuc– fuck’n over everything, anyway… fuck it all– fuck life– fuck the club– fuck Margery. Fuck football!’ Matilda lifts her glass into the air, drops of the liquid sloshing up into the air. ‘FUCK IT ALL!’ Everyone raises their glass with her, thinking it’s just a joke. ‘Fuck it all!’ they echo in chorus, ceremoniously tipping their glasses back and sculling their remaining drink. Somehow, Matilda ends up in the toilet again. She thinks she remembers what happened in between then and now, but she’s not too sure. She needs to pee. That’s why she’s here. And where’s Carl gone? She feels a dull panic drum against her heart. Oh that’s right, he’s not here tonight. She’s so used to him being right there next to her. The heat coming off his body. Always there. God, she misses him. The restroom door is big and dark, and she pushes it open, pressing every atom of herself against it just to get through, and the ground surging beneath her. The tiles are white and blue and they pass beneath her feet. She places her feet very carefully. But fucking hell she misses him now. She wants him in front of her so she can buy him every drink in the bar and make him drink them all into his belly and then he’ll get fat and it’ll be so fun, won’t it? And then they can be fat together, and she can rub his belly and squish its blubber all thick as gelatin as it gets bigger and bigger in her hands, and oh how hot that would fucking be to have right now. There’s a cubicle in front of her. It’s green. She opens the cubicle and swings around to lock it, the entire world continuing to spin around with the momentum even after she’s still, then falls back onto the seat with a thud. The buttons on her denim skirt are tough, but they come off under her fumbling fingers, and a rush of light-headedness hits her whole body as she feels her belly explode back into freedom. The air is cold against her stomach’s skin, and it feels good. Imagine if Carl saw this – what would he think, what would he say? She fumbles with the underside of her top and slips it up over her tits so they hang free into the cold cubicle air, nipples out naked and hardening, then holds her phone up and takes a photo. It looks so blurry she can hardly tell its her but that’s okay, because he’s seen them before – her tits – her growing tits – and she giggles silently as she sends him the photo with a huge oversized heart emoji in the corner and then types that she misses him and wants him, but her thumbs don’t hit the letters properly and it looks like it’s typed all wrong but she sends it anyway because he;ll know, and she loves him too much to stop him from having the photo right this very instant and to know she’s thinking about him and she loves him. It’s hard to get her skirt down but she manages, and it feels beautiful to urinate – like a sensory gift – but then she stands up and has to pull the denim back up and it’s not easy because nothing sits right, but she pulls and fumbles and shifts the denim around until it’s finally okay even though she doesn’t know how long it’s been and even though her ass feels like a pillow stuffed in her pants, and then she realises her stomach looks way huge-er from above than she was ready for her eyes to show her. She feels laughter cranking up from the bottom of her lungs and out her mouth as she slowly comes to realise it’s just the same old problem all over again, and it’s one she keeps on facing. She’s getting fat and Symone is right. She can’t do up her denim skirt without sucking in. It’s denim and denim doesn’t stretch. So why did she choose to wear this stupid thing? She knows the answer, and she knows she knows. She knows she doesn’t want to know. The side of the cubicle tries to headbut her so she puts her hand on it and keeps it away then she sucks in and gets the lower three buttons done up, but she can’t hold her breath long enough to get the top two closed, and her arms feel weak. Her elbows keep hitting the stall walls and there’s not enough room, and who the fuck made this denim skirt so small? She opens the door and stumbles out into the brightness of the room, trying and failing to slip the buttons into their holes. There’s a girl in the room. Her eyes are shiny and glazed and she’s holding her phone up to the mirror and singing to it like a microphone for a TikTok. Matilda joins in with her voice, and she’s not really sure if it sounds stupid or not, but she doesn’t care, and then the girl turns to her and laughs as she sings, and they sing whatever the song is out loud together, yelling at the ceiling as it swells with sound that reverberates around them. Matilda looks down at her expanded stomach and tries the button one more time but her fingers keep slipping. She tries to say something like, “yeahhhh I know I’m sorry I’m a fat ass fuck bitch” – and the girl just looks at her and laughs, then starts singing a made-up song about being lost and life being fucked up, and Matilda joins in and they sing silly words into her phone as she holds it out filming their passionate yelling voices all shrill and off-pitch, but it’s all too fun and they can’t stop – and then Matilda remembers how her skirt’s still unbuttoned and she says “I’m sorry but look I’m just too fat right now and I think I’m a little bit wasted I think, and I can’t do this up, can you help me for a second?” – so she bends backwards, pushing her waist forwards, right out at the girl so she can see it, and waits for her newfound friend to grab the buttons and pull them inwards with all her might, but her friend stops and tells her “suck it in girl I can’t get it closed like that now can I?”, so she takes a huge breath into her heart and makes her stomach shrink back. Her new friend pushes, bending over with the effort, fingers slipping, Matilda’s round smooth belly jiggling a little in the mirror she can see every time the girl’s grip falters and she has to fumble to grab the buttons again. They fail multiple times, her friend’s fingers losing grip and Matilda can’t stop a laugh from spraying out her lips as she bends over to see what the problem is – but her belly pushes back out all big and full, and the skirt opens back up again. Finally she stops laughing and controls herself, getting strictly disciplined, because this time it will work, she tells herself, and she sucks in, suppressing intermittent giggles and waits while she feels her new friend push and prod at the buttons, the waistband tightening like a compression tube around her middle. She sucks in harder, eyes scrunching shut, then the button finally goes in and she opens her mouth again and feels air explode past her lips as she laughs in relief. But the button mustn’t have been all the way in. The fly comes back open with a savage buck. They burst out laughing at the obscenity of it and her friend says “I give up”, but Matilda waves her hands around and cries, “no no no it works I swear I juss had it done before juss try an do it, juss one more time, pleeeeze”. Laughing and giggling, they give it another shot and she sucks in so hard her eyes bug out and then finally the button closes again. She waits this time as her friend fumbles to really shove the button in before letting go. Her new friend stands up all wobbly and says “okay be careful now chubby girl go real slow okay?”. And Matilda releases her breath real slow like she said, hearing a lungful of air coming out in a loud rush from behind pursed lips. The skirt actually holds shut and they share loud open-mouthed laugh of victory and throw their hands in the air to celebrate. ‘I swear this is ashually the bess thing ever?’ snorts her new friend, ‘like, like you literally juss don’t come across strangers every day and overcome the challenges in life, like, oh my god we HAVE to take a photo together– d’you wanna take a photo? I have to remember this or I’ll cry, I wanna keep this memory like literally.’ Matilda opens her mouth and eyes in amazement. ‘You. Are. So… Right… less’do it, like, righ now, letz– quick, get y’ camera out…’ They stand shoulder to shoulder and look up into the phone, pursing their lips and giving the two-finger peace sign, and when the girl’s thumb hits the button the snapshot it’s a bit blurry but that’s okay. Feeling happy but confused, Matilda stumbles back, her centre of gravity shifting backwards past her head as she rocks on her heels and scrambles for her balance. Her new friend looks at the photo and smiles and then gets this funny expression in her eyes, and looks up at Matilda, eyes wide, and then going wider. They become big and white as marbles. ‘W– wait a sec.’ She raises her eyebrows and squints closely at Matilda’s face. Then she looks at the photo, and then back at her again. After a long delay, Matilda’s chest spasms. ‘Are… aren’t you Nolasco? Matilda Nolasco? You… you look like her. You look–’ a hiccup overtakes her voice, ‘do you have any idea how much you look exagly like Matilda Nolasco?’ Matilda feels all the dissonance of guilt, shame, pride and laughter swirl up from inside her like a vortex and come out the top of her head bursting, and she has the urge to get away from this room and its inhabitant as fast as fucking possible if it means scaling the fence and running outside onto the road and getting hit by a car and dying. She looks at her new foe out of the corner of her eyes, then shifts them side to side in a fabulous mime of conspiratorial secrecy, and says, ‘Y– no– nope, I don’t know who that is. Who is Nolasco? I don’t know! Why, would I tell you if I was her?’ Then she turns towards the exit, the world setting off like a spin-top, and reaches for the handle. When she tugs on it, it opens nicely, and she uses it to pull herself through, back out into the hallway. It is very loud all of a sudden, with so many voices and deep booming music all over the top of the chatter. . ‘What the hell took you so long?’ Simon looks up at her as she shuffles back to the table. Symone slides further into the booth to make room for Matilda at the end of the seat. Using one hand to grip the back of the seat for support, Matilda lowers herself down into the booth and swings her legs in, completely overshooting and kneeing Symone in her thigh. ‘Watch it, tubs,’ Symone chuckles. Matilda fake-laughs back at her face, then looks away and catches sight of her glass. It is still half full. She guides her hand towards it and pulls it closer. That’s when Symone decides to say, ‘You’re really trying that hard to get a beer belly, aren’t you?’ Overhearing, Harriette pipes up. ‘Matilda can have as much drink as she likes– can’t you, Lady Bug?’ Matilda gives her a thumbs-up as she puts the glass rim to her lips and tips back. ‘Don’t worry, Sym,’ Hassani smirks, ‘soon as you put on the tiniest bit of weight we’ll be the first to let you know about it.’ ‘And I hope you do!’ ‘So!’ Matilda declares at the top of her lungs, leaning forward over the table. She’s going to change the subject completely whether anyone likes it or not. ‘Simon. My man. I’ve got a quets– queshtion for you…’ ‘Shoot,’ says Simon, eyes creasing with mirth. ‘So…’ Matilda sniffs loudly. ‘I don’ know anythin about Carl’s brother essept for he’s in your band, cuz he’s like never around the house. No idea wot he ever duz in a day. Bu’ I wanna know about him, cuz Carl doesn’t like telling me shiiiet about him.’ Simon frowns and cocks his head. ‘Alright. Why’s that then?’ ‘I wanna know– I wanna– you tell me somethin. Is mister Brad Sainsblum a braggy type’a guy? He boast a lot? He wag his dick round a lot? He talk shit? Cuz I get the feeling he does.’ Simon snorts. ‘“Does he boast a lot”? Mate, let me tell you a little bit of something about Bradley Sainsblum.’ Eyes alight, Matilda says, ‘Yes pleez.’ Simon rubs his hands together and pokes his tongue out between his lips with eagerness as he leans in close. ‘Now you keep this to yourself, okay, because…’ He blinks, and decides against whatever he was just about to say. ‘Ah. Fuck it. What good is it telling you that? You won’t remember a thing from tonight anyway and so won’t I. Fuck it. Look. Listen. I can confidently say that this guy, Mister Bradley H. Sainsblum, is one of the most braggy “dudes” I’ve ever known in all my twenty-five years of life. Like, mate, I love the guy to bits, but he is literally that one guy who is the first to tell everyone he meets that he’s in a band. Like, we’ll all be standing round talking with whoever the fuck, about whatever the fuck, and along he comes, (and we know what he’s about to say, so we all just look at each other), and then we’ll all be rolling our eyes while he fuckin barges in and goes, “oh yeah totally– anyway, you heard of the band Room Four One Six? Yeah; I drum for them”. That’s it. That’s all. That’s his idea! That’s what he thinks people need to know– absolutely no context, by the way. And he’ll actually expect a reaction. So yeah. You could say that Brad is a “bragger”.’ Matilda feels herself grinning from ear to ear. Not only does she find this news incredibly funny, but she also has a huge piece of the puzzle, now. There it is, with satisfying coherence. She has it. Carlile’s older brother really is a confirmed top-shelf prick. She’ll have to tell him. . . .

For the rest of the week, Margery curates a sequence of training sessions that will kickstart the girls into their new formation and style of play. To everybody’s bewildered dismay, she also delivers a directive: everyone is to come to the grounds, at 5pm sharp, every single day that week, with no compromises to be granted except for work conflicts, with proof of your roster or a written statement required to be shown to Margery before being let off the hook. Be on site. Train. Adapt. Or face consequences. This is the mandate. Matilda returns home in the wake of each torturous session with her legs stiff, knees weak, hamstrings feeling like twisted cables, and so horribly short of breath that her lungs are working like blacksmith’s bellows. She barely even gets time to put a dent in the hunger she’s been feeling each day, shocked at how ravenous she’s grown used to feeling. For all she knows, she’s probably sweated a few pounds off her frame from the week’s stress alone. Saturday’s match on their home turf against the visiting “Queens FC” is a strange, long, protracted Mexican standoff of who-can-stay-scoreless-the-longest? The other team is not exactly what you would call good, and everyone on the pitch knows that. Queens FC ought to be a push-over to a team like the Purple Vale Strikers, who actually manage to play somewhat competently by the standards of their recent spiritless form, making good connections with the ball, communicating with each other and playing with enough fluidly that Margery’s new structure of play almost appears to be working, once the training drills kick in. Except by the 50th minute, they still can’t score a goal. With Matilda being in the middle of the pitch now, she knows something isn't right. Whenever the ball comes down the centre to Matilda, each time it results in her swift exhaustion, starving her of being able to find any good openings to pass the ball forward to players who never seem to be able to get there in time – and so she passes backwards, and build-up begins again. She’s never done so much spinning around on the spot in her life. She feels like a marionette. Having spent her entire football-playing life on the wing, waiting to collect the ball at her feet and sprint more or less in a zig-zag pattern up the pitch, now having to shuffle forwards, backwards and side to side in such a way that she's always open for a pass is as unfamiliar as being shoved up onto a stage to sing a musical number. Her legs are overheating, the joints of her ankles ache with every pirouetting step against the turf, sending tremors through the flesh of her thighs. No matter how hard she tenses her glutes, there’s this persistent wiggle to their shape that she can sense at almost every instant, every twist, every turn, every stamp of her feet. While she can still dribble the ball and meg between defenders’ open legs, she can only get about ten yards away before someone with quicker legs catches up and overtakes her. At one stage during the 63rd minute, in the middle of a transition as her team sprints up the pitch, she tries to track alongside Beth who is running with the ball so she can be available to offload if she needs – but Matilda loses concentration. The growing boulder of windedness inside her is growing in her diaphragm, and she can feel a stitch coming on, putting a cold, electric streak of pain up the sides of her torso as if to underscore the jiggling she is agonisingly conscious of happening in her belly. So she begins to slow down a little, drifting off to the right habitually where it feels more like home, and finds herself in some open space by accident. Beth interprets this as an intentional move on Matilda’s part, and before she knows it, a brilliantly-curled pass is arcing through the air, coming right for her. Panicking, she reads the trajectory and makes a dash for it – but she’s a split-second too late. An opponent player scurries infront of her, catches the ball, and runs off with it. As the direction of play flips on its head, she hears an angry yell and a few gesticulatory hand-gestures from Beth, not to mention Elisha, who is not missing any opportunities to verbally assault Matilda these days. The guilt reaches her heart and squeezes it like a clamp, cutting a chunk out of her confidence. A few minutes later in the game, she is jogging back up the pitch to get under a ball that has been booted high and long out of their goal square. Another player rushes in to contest her attempt to reach the ball, forcing her to jump for a header. But when she bends her knees, mid-run, then extends her legs to leap into the air, all she can think of is twenty pounds of extra weight. It’s not enough to drag her down – but it’s enough to distract her mind, and she fails to put enough power in her leap. Blowing air from the exertion, she flicks her head sideways, trying to project the ball in Kelsey’s direction. But she’s jumped too shallow. The ball makes a pathetic graze over the top of her scalp, bouncing away somewhere behind her for an opponent defender to sweep up and run away with again. Matilda swears and tries to give chase, but the stitch in her side claws into her muscle, breaking her stride. A few moments later, they nearly concede from a consequential counter-attack. After that, nobody really tries passing to Matilda anymore, not even to set up a passage of play. The game ends in a nil-all draw. Matilda stands, puffed, with her hands on her hips, feeling more softness under her fingertips than ever before. A hidden grimace stretches across her lips. She arches her back to open her lungs, then gazes up at the starry night sky above as she tries to suck as much oxygen into her lungs as possible before it hurts. When she looks back down, Elisha is storming off the pitch, tight-lipped and red in the face. Nysha slams the goalpost with her hand in frustration. The two teams shake line up to shake hands – but it is with resentment. Nobody on either team wants to accept this kind of result. Both sides feel they should have won. Matilda’s throat is dry and tight as she walks off the pitch and into the tunnel, their very own Purple Vale Strikers symbol adorning the arch. She looks at it with a strange emotion colouring her inner world. The Queens FC supporters shout supportive comments to their players over the barricades, while the Purple Vale locals in the crowd kind of mull around, unsure of how to feel, muttering in low, disaffected tones. You can hear a few people speaking angry remarks, full of criticism. A couple of people even decide to throw out a drunken yell or two. Just as she is approaching the entrance to the tunnel, some old alcoholic-looking bloke with a swollen nose, face tomato-red in every surface that it isn’t a shaggy white beard, leans over the barricade to roar his drunken throat out; ‘Yerrrrh!– fucken fiiiine effort ladies! fiiine effort!– yerr, an’ you too, Nolasco! Up n’ rising talent, yerrr fucken right! get fucked! how bout ya catch the ball ne’sst toime ya fat useless cunt!’ Matilda’s face drops, her spirit plummeting through the ground. Pretending not to have heard or seen the man, she looks straight ahead and keeps on walking. Her whole body feels made of plastic. Her limbs feel robotic in their back and forth motions. Beside her locker in the change rooms, she hardly listens to anything anyone says. Margery stands in the middle of the room, screaming. Flecks of saliva escape her lip, travelling several amazing metres before they hit the tiles. She yells at the team, then yells at them some more; yells at them for not working together, screams at them for not believing, shouts almost-profanities about not buying into her game plan. And she yells at Matilda, too – this time really yells – her whole diaphragm bellowing with a thermal bubble of hot rage. The anger in her body has morphed her eyes into these ugly, contorted little objects – horrifying dark pinholes you remember from panicked fever dreams but never in real life. At least not until you witness Margery losing what’s left of her mind, teetering on the threshold of serious psychiatric illness. Matilda just digs her thumb nails into the bed of her palms and changes into her personal clothes while all this goes on, doing her best to remain calm, centred, coasting in a cold dream of senseless disassociation. . . . When she goes to see Carlile at his place the next day, she finds him in such high spirits that it smacks her mood backwards onto its head, stimulating and exciting her nerves in a way she thought was only possible via physical touch. It’s no more than a matter of hours before the sexual tension between them comes to a boil and finally erupts in fireworks of borderline braindead shagging. Yesterday’s events, still hanging like a persistent shade over her consciousness, are pushed out towards the sidelines like a crowd under the bludgeons of riot police. There’s something real about him today, she feels. It’s as if he’s really here, in the moment with her, loving her in total worship of her, without inhibition, and it’s the cutest fucking thing she’s seen him do since they met. He’s all over her, ravaging her with such a childlike, uninhabitable joy that she barely has time to adjust. Except she doesn’t want to adjust. She’s all over him like a starved animal before he can so much as pull her top off. They fuck three times in a row on his fold-out bed, finally left physically spent and sheathed in gleaming, naked perspiration. What’s strange is that by the time they finally lay flat, she feels more out of breath than him. Having slipped back into her underwear, and “borrowed” one of his loose shirts the way girlfriends are prone to do once you’ve reached a particular level of trust, Matilda climbs onto the fold-out bed of the lounge, where she lies alongside his length body and takes a moment to admire his naked figure once again. This time, staring at the landscape of his physique, she is sure of it: he looks different. Perhaps it is a minor density of form, a solidity that makes him seem more present – especially in his chest area. ‘Damn,’ she says as if humbled, ‘what’s gotten into you? You’re so…’ ‘Gym visits,’ he answers. ‘A general sprinkling of life-improvement, I guess.’ Matilda purses her lips and scrutinises his bare body. He lays against her, one arm under her neck to grasp her opposite shoulder, the other cradling the back of his head as he stares up at the ceiling. So she’d observed correctly. There’s a subtle out-fill to his body… a slight addition in bulk… making it unclear whether his waist has grown in proportion to, stayed the same as, or shrunk, in comparison with the rest of him. Could it be that Matilda is about to be blessed with the best of both worlds, here? What if he worked out and added chub to his once savagely lean shape? Is it nothing more real than a wish? She bites her lips, overcome with a second wave of arousal, this time tinged in self-disgust, and sucks air through her nose to try and subdue the light of desire behind her eyes. A big bear, she thinks to herself. A big strong, solid bear of a boy – only soft, and with cute wobbly parts she can nibble between her teeth and squeeze with her fingers like dough… ‘Oh, and also,’ Carlile adds, ‘I was going to tell you something earlier, but… I think things got too spicy. I got a bit excited when you arrived,’ he understates. ‘You should say that again.’ ‘Alright, alright– I can’t help that I was looking forward to seeing you all week. But anyway, last night some good news happened to drop in my lap.’ ‘Oo?’ Matilda hoots, lifting her head up from his shoulder and gazing up into his face. ‘I talked to the guys out the back about an opening. A real opening, this time. Step one, context: a couple days ago, Luka forgot to call “behind” near the end of the night, which is the worst stretch of a shift, and had Ramirez reverse, like, right into his shoulder– Ramirez goes feet-over-ass-over-head, and his dish of glazed pork salad was just obliterated. Destroyed. All over the floor. Step two: let’s just say Ramirez has never been the happiest guy in the cave. He’s never been happy with how the place is run. Probably not even happy with his own life. So when the accident happened, he just… lost it. Like, thoroughly lost it. Had total verbal diarrhoea.’ ‘Hope it’s not contagious,’ Matilda snorts. ‘Yeah ,well. Step three: kitchens are notorious for being hostile environments; you go in knowing you might get burned now and again, but this was way out of the normal league of what you’d expect in a kitchen. His verbal diarrhoea went absolutely everywhere, and at everyone. Nobody was outside his line of fire – he even yelled at me for not stepping in or something he didn’t even finish criticising me for before he stormed off…’ Carlile pauses, looking across at Matilda. She’s staring at something with vacant intensity. ‘Babe?’ he asks. ‘What’s up? ‘Nothing.’ But it isn’t nothing. It’s everything. Matilda has been staring at his little potbelly, the dim illumination from the soft lamp in the room giving the soft growth swelling up around his belly button a gooey, velvety texture that reminds her of silk. She rips her eyes away from it, liftin to meet his gaze. ‘So anyway, Ramirez quit right then and there,’ Carlile goes on. ‘He didn’t exactly say anything about quitting, but you get the feeling you won’t ever see the guy again. Sometimes you just know.’ ‘That’s how I feel about the club sometimes.’ ‘Exactly. Well he said what he thought about the place, got in his car and went home without clocking off. Nobody’s seen him all week, so he’s practically fired, and the owner was about to put out a job advertisement but decided to ask me last night if I wanted to take up the spot instead.’ Matilda’s eyes widen and she twists around to look at him properly, beaming. ‘So you’re in the kitchen properly now? Baby that’s great! That’s so good!’ Carlile smirks and nods down at her, satisfied. ‘Babe,’ she sighs as she nestles her head into his arm, feeling the warmth of his tender, almost soft chest against her cheek. ‘That’s the best thing I’ve heard in a long time. I’m so proud of you, Carl.’ She can feel his chest jolt against her cheek as he chuckles. She looks up at him again. ‘Will it be hard work? It’ll be hard work, won’t it?’ He makes one of those downturned shrug-smiles. ‘It’s part-time. Not full time, and not casual either, so I’m looking at, like, four to five nights a week.’ Matilda whines, ‘That means my boy’s being taken away from me?’ ‘Only for this and next week. I think. I’ll have to have an induction, even though I know how things work already. I’m looking at twelve-hour work days for a little while.’ Matilda makes a sulky face. She blows a stray lock of hair from her brow. Then he suggests, in a sing-song voice, ‘I might be able to bring some goodies home, from time to time…’ He shows her a cheeky grin, moving his hand to boop her on the end of her nose. She flinches and blinks, giggling quietly through her nose. ‘I think I’d like that.’ Lowering her head back down onto his chest, she heaves forth a contented sigh and gazes down at her bird’s-eye perspective of his naked body, his exposed belly jutting up subtly from the centre of it all. It still curves out with some bloatedness, and by the looks of things, his time pumping iron hasn’t given him even a hint of chiselled abs yet. ‘I’d like that indeed,’ she murmurs. A moment of silence as still as standing water swallows them, and within it, they lay in total comfort. Nothing exists outside their sphere of being. Their thoughts are un-tumultuous, free flowing like an unimpeded stream of crystal clear water. Matilda’s hand aches with sensory longing. She lets it move towards Carlile’s stomach and then lets it slide down over his stomach, sighing as she senses a layer of smooth, spongy flesh meet the venturous press of her hand. She moves her hand around in small circles, and the little hillock of chub on his belly shifts along with it, mediated by the path of her palm. Unlike the last time this happened, he doesn’t flinch away. ‘What do you wanna do for dinner tonight?’ she asks, imagining their bellies filling up with food until they have to lay engorged, their bellies all big and round as if trying to stick out and up towards the ceiling so high that the peaks of their belly buttons brush the plaster. She has to stop herself from squeezing his chub with lust. ‘Actually, I was going to tell you…’ ‘Tell me what?’ ‘You haven’t met my uncle Trevor yet, have you?’ She cocks an eyebrow and shakes her head. ‘No I don’t think so. Why?’ ‘Well. If you stick around, you might get to meet him tonight. I think you’ll find him very interesting to talk to.’ . . . At around eight-thirty p.m., Carlile’s uncle Trevor, and his wife Kerry, are due to arrive. While Carlile and his dad co-create a meal in the kitchen where so many fans are whirring and pans sizzle-spitting that it sounds like the engine room of hell, Matilda helps his mother set the table and prepare furnishings. His mother never seems to talk much. It had taken two entire months until she learned her full name was Bridget-Shae Sainsblum, and only due to Carlile saying it for her when Matilda went to address her and came up short with a jagged pang of embarrassment that she didn’t know her name. And while Carlile said not to take it personally since she’s always been such a silent and internally-consultant woman, Matilda suspects there is either some childhood trauma at play, or a social disability like, maybe, Aspergers? One of her cousins had Aspergers. His name was Mike, and her dad told her to not take any rude remarks from him personally, but to still treat him with just as much respect and kindness as she would anybody. But there’s still a discomfort she can’t ignore as she tries to read Bridget-Shae’s body language. Of which there isn’t much. So as they place cute little cushions on the dining room chairs, a silver cutlery rack in the centre, wine bottles, placemats for the dishes, a floral lace tablecloth, and arrange tall glasses around the dinner setting, Matilda finds herself second-guessing her movements and just generally obeying whatever requests Bridget-Shae makes. If Matilda got any fatter – fat enough that she’d arrived at that noticeable size at which people seem to feel the irresistible temptation to let some brash comments fly out the gates – would Bridget-Shae have said anything rude about her weight or appearance? Matilda shrugs internally. It’s unlikely. She never even speaks. Apart from polite, well-meaning smiles and hello’s, the only words she’s ever heard from the woman happen to be this very night as she instructs Matilda precisely what way to set the table. ‘Could you please open the curtains,’ Bridget-Shae asks, or rather says, in a level, direct tone. Matilda gestures at the long run of curtains covering the big window to the left of the table. ‘Those ones?’ Bridget-Shae nods. Matilda takes the curtain by its edge and drags it along its runners until it’s pushed all the way to the one side, revealing a view of the city, away down the hill, lit up starry-yellow in the night’s setting darkness. A little later, she ends up downstairs once again in Carlile’s room, where she decides to dress herself in something presentable. Or tries to. ‘Can you do these buttons for me?’ she asks. ‘I can’t reach my back.’ She turns around to let him see the unfastened back of a pale pink jumpsuit with thin white pinstripes. Carlile gets up from where he is browsing his phone nearby and gets to work. When he brings the set of buttons at the small of her back together, she feels the jumpsuit ratchet several levels tighter than she was prepared for, right under the prow of her stomach. ‘Don’t suffocate me.’ ‘I’m not.’ She clicks her tongue in irritation, then checks her posture, straightening her spine. He gets the button latched. Then he reaches up to drag the third button towards its corresponding hole, and she feels the fabric pull hard across the front of her stomach. ‘Ug– what the fuck,’ she huffs, sucking in so the button can slip in without resistance. When Carlile slips the fourth button into its hole, she feels a loop tightness around her upper back like an overzealous hug from thread-thin arms. Moving up, he closes the top set of buttons between her shoulder blades, then pats along her back, smoothing the fabric down. ‘All done now?’ she asks, an impatient edge sharpening the corners of her consonants. ‘Yup.’ He squeezes her shoulders. ‘You look absolutely stunning.’ She lets her breath go. Her lungs deflate, and her ribcage sinks – everything they held drops back down into her stomach, releasing itself, growing into the front of her jumpsuit to find all the available space and fill it out to a distinct roundness cradled between the V of her softening pelvic bones. ‘I look fat in this, don’t I,’ Matilda asks without wanting an answer. She sticks her neck out to look down at herself, and promptly gasps. ‘Oh my… oh my god. Look at my stomach.’ Putting a hand on each side of her belly and pressing into it, she shifts her palms around in small circles. ‘I look like I got pregnant.’ She sucks in, then out again. The shape of her stomach resumes its roundness identically. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Maybe it’s these stripes. Stripes highlight curves. Stripes aren’t flattering.’ ‘But you look beautiful.’ ‘No. I look fat. I am fat.’ ‘No you’re not, you’re just… a little fuller– maybe. It’s nice…’ ‘What the fuck, Carlile?’ She gives him an incredulous glare. ‘How is that supposed to make me feel any better?’ ‘Trust me.’ He looks right back at her, directly this time, his grey-blue eyes staring into the atavistic cores of her own with a laser-focussed, pinpoint accuracy that disarms her aggression. ‘I know what “fat” looks like, Matilda. What it really looks like. Remember? I know. You don’t. You are not “fat”.’ He shakes his head. ‘Not yet, anyway, you aren’t.’ Matilda ignores the faint rush of heat she feels in her pelvis, then turns aside to fuss over her jumpsuit, picking and tugging at its tight, non-adjustable fabric. ‘But look,’ she complains. ‘You can see my little goddamn gut through this thing. I look bloated.’ ‘Yeah, well, that piece wasn’t exactly designed to be loose in that particular area. Just don’t eat too much, and you’ll be fine. You really do look beautiful, though. You are beautiful.’ Matilda’s cheeks flush in spite of the distaste she feels towards her own existence. ‘Fuck it,’ she says with sardonic cynicism, ‘I won’t look like this forever. It’s temporary. A temporary pain. Guess I’ll go one night feeling like a fat fuck in a dress that doesn’t even fit me properly. Won’t get the chance again, so why not use it.’ But the unignorable coil of hunger she feels squeezing the core of her insides like a sponge instils so much shame that she has to resort to nail-biting just to divert her mind from the turmoil of it all. She’s been ignoring the fact of her eating antics earlier today, and its consequences. Sure, she skipped lunch, but that was an utter lie of a solution, a pathetic pretence, because she’d been snacking all day long and then some more.[] When uncle Trevor and Kerry arrive, Matilda tries to keep herself in the present moment with everybody and not phase backwards into a self-conscious dissociation as they exchange greetings and Carlile introduces his girlfriend to the extended family. But a childish impatience keeps stealing bits of her focus, until there’s nothing left. She’s fidgeting in wild anticipation of sitting down to dig into the steaming dishes of culinary art waiting on the table. The food looks back at her as if neglected, and they’re all just standing around near the kitchen verbally waffling and wasting time. Finally, taking their seats around the table, every single head except for hers suddenly lowers, eyes shut, hands either linked or held clasped in front, and without the faintest flourish, Carlile’s father, Ryan, begins to pray. Matilda watches, bewildered, as Ryan accommodates Trevor and his Christian wife in his prayer. Matilda finds herself frozen, looking around at the bowed heads and shut eyes, and slowly retracts her hand which had been hovering at a greedy approach towards the nearest dish of food; a thick, enticing, steaming pile of shepherd's pie with a faint drizzle of honey zig-zagged over the top. Thrown starkly out of her depth and all sense of assuredness, Matilda sits very, rigidly still, held like a statue by guilty anxiety, and glances around at the bowed heads, hoping nobody has caught her with her eyes open. She notices that Trevor has the same reddish-haired complexion as his brother, Ryan, but a more rectangular head and less softness to its features. Kerry looks like the kind of “fit-the-bill” type as far as white upper middle-class Christian wives go, with the highlighted blonde fringe and everything, but she seems rather reserved in her mannerisms so far. Carlile’s eyes creak open, and he peeks at Matilda cheekily from the corner of his eye. She glares daggers at him and angrily mouths: why didn’t you tell me!? When Carlile’s father finishes his speech with a resounding “Amen”, they all open their eyes, and without further ceremony every last one of Carlile’s family members dig in. Nobody seems to have bothered to check whether or not Matilda was doing the bit. Taking a breath, she waits until it seems like her turn to pop some food on her plate. The moment the food on the fork hits her plate, then her tongue, and goes down her throat, the detonation of satisfaction inside shoves her along from her quick spell of annoyance. As it turns out, Carlile’s uncle, this Trevor fellow, happens to be involved with NFTDA – the National Footballing Talent Development Association. In fact, he admits a few sentences later, he actually works there. Matilda throws another set of eye-daggers sideways at Carlile, mouthing: why do you never tell me these things? Carlile shrugs a “what?” with his eyes. ‘Trevor started his career as a referee, actually,’ Carlile’s father, Ryan, puts in. ‘You can’t imagine the amount of abuse he copped.’ ‘Actually, she probably could,’ Carlile says on her behalf. Matilda looks at Trevor, amicable and beaming. ‘Where did you ref?’ she asks. ‘Local? Or…?’ ‘Actually,’ Trevor corrects his brother humbly, itching his eyebrow, ‘I started in my school’s A-grade as a player, but Ryan can’t remember anything except his own birthday – can you? But you’re right, I did enjoy a brief stint officiating the game from a young age.’ He turns to Matilda, his facial expression pleasant and open. ‘I hear you’re quite the local talent yourself?’ as he takes a sip of wine. Matilda blushes and dips her head, modestly abashed. ‘Local? Yeah.’ Shrugging. ‘Talent? I’d say “meh”. I’m alright, I guess, sometimes.’ Trevor’s eyes glitter. ‘Oh, you all say that at your age, if you’ve got the inborn talent.’ He puts his wineglass down and twists its stem as he looks off and away at an upwards angle, traversing his memories. ‘There were plenty of talented women when I was just starting to officiate in the A-grade– they all said they were “just alright I guess”. Becky Anne-Grakovič said those exact words, and I’m sure you’ve heard of her interstate achievements. Thirty-four, now, and still a starting regular. Captains almost every match. Catherine McAllistair said exactly the same thing about herself. Olive Kenstone as well,’ Trevor begins to list, reminiscing, ‘Nia Weisser… Joelle Al’Ghazan… Lulu Bosliel… Kartherin Craffe… Margery Hartwell…’ Matilda’s eyes explode from her head. Her heart skitters a few beats, and the wine she’d just sucked past her front teeth comes dribbling back down her chin from loose lips and then down onto her forearm as she lifts it to block the spittle from spraying all over the vivid white tablecloth. Blinking rapidly, Matilda gulps her mouthful of wine back down with great effort, dabs her chin with a napkin, then looks with wide eyes at Trevor, whose face is squinting with intrigue. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Matilda takes a breath, ‘but did you just say Margery Hartwell?’ She sits back as she feels the surge of adrenaline drain from her rattled nerves quickly as it came. From beside her, she can tell Carlile is looking right at her. ‘Yes, why?’ Trevor hooks an eyebrow. She tilts her head forward seriously, deep concern knitting her forehead. ‘Margery Hartwell?’ He raises his eyebrows. Hesitantly, ‘Yeeesss…? You know her?’ ‘She’s my coach!’ ‘Is that so?’ he beams. ‘Yup,’ Matilda says, doing her best to keep all the swirling implications behind a mask of pure, harmless serendipity, and not the enraging, almost psychologically triggering opportunity to gather information that this really is. ‘My club, Purple Vale Strikers– she’s our head coach. Though she calls herself a manager.’ His voice sounds pensive. ‘So that’s where she ended up…’ ‘What do you mean?’ wishing she wouldn’t sound so over-eager and obsessive about all this. ‘We went to college together. Back in the U.K., in Buxton– gorgeous little midlands town between Sheffield and Manchester. She was an aspiring footballer, in those days. Things are different now, but… back then there was next to no support for institutional women’s football (and to think that England was supposed to be leading in that arena!). Compared to today, it was a poor time for those ladies. She had loads upon loads of talent, and all the dedication and brute determination you require to make it as a professional. She had sharp reflexes, she was skilled, she was passionate. She poured her heart into it, that woman. Sad she couldn’t make it, in the end.’ Matilda’s eyes narrow. She relaxes them quickly before she reveals too much through her facial expressions. ‘Oh,’ she says casually, ‘I had no idea. That’s such a shame. Why couldn’t she…make it?’ Sucking air through his teeth, Trevor squints at the table and scratches his neck, ruminating. ‘It’s all a bit of a tragedy, I suppose. I’ll preface this by saying I mean absolutely no disrespect for her. But, believe it or not, she used to be quite… how to put this nicely–’ Trevor’s face scrunches up and he squints with one eye, ‘–quite… chubby, we shall say… as a teenaged lass. As I was saying; she had everything else you could want. But she was bullied for it. Relentlessly. It caused me to feel a lot of second-hand sadness, if I’m to be honest.’ A sense of dreadful realisation begins to sail around Matilda’s head like a titanic cloud in the sky. She feels herself sinking into the backrest of her chair. ‘There was only one team in the area you could join, back then, for the likes of talented college girls like her– one worth joining, that is. Unpaid, high-level talents fought for those spots tooth- and nail-like. Margery tried to make the team but you can imagine what happened. All the criticism and rejection found her and wormed into her head. Now as you’d know, Matilda, the head is a funny thing. You can have all the talents of Maradona and Messi and Ronaldo combined– but if you ain’t totally aligned, totally united with yourself in your mind, then it all counts for zip. All the passive-aggressive name-calling stuck with her, with Margery, and she was sucked under the weight of savage competition, in more ways than one. She slowly put on even more weight. So, as things happen, by the time tryouts came round, she was too unfit to do what she needed to. She couldn’t perform at her best. They’d practically run her over like a bus, both physically and emotionally– and thus.’ Matilda can tell Carlile’s parents are looking at Matilda awkwardly. She pretends not to notice. But it’s been less and less of a secret to anyone with eyes to see, that she and Carlile have been fluffing out with a little extra weight of their own. Has Trevor not realised? Or does he just not care to adhere to topical sensitivity? She ignores the feeling of being watched the same way she ignores the white noise of a crowd during a match, and presses for Trevor to continue. There’s more to this, still. She can sense it, like a landmark not yet visible but lurking just behind the horizon. ‘Really?’ she asks. ‘Margery, of all people? Have you seen how thin she is? I can’t imagine she’d have been that large.’ ‘Well it was a long time ago, mind.’ Trevor admits, letting slip what looks to be irritation, or discomfort at having to stay onboard this topic. ‘After failing her tryouts, she became quite depressed, leading to even larger amounts of weight.’ ‘Sheesh, how much?’ Matilda shuts her mouth tight, shrivelling into herself at how invasive her own voice sounds. ‘Much.’ He gives his head a remorseful shake. ‘Any case!–’ He reaches across the table for an unopened bottle of wine and scans the label. ‘Eh, 1945 vintage… Hunter Valley, New South Wales…!’ Lifting his eyebrows in appreciation towards Bridget, who is known for her taste in wine. Carlile’s father smiles and nods towards his son. ‘Carl got it as a welcome gift from his work.’ ‘You working at a winery now, buddy?’ Trevor asks his nephew. ‘A kitchen,’ Carlile corrects, swallowing a ball of food crammed in his mouth. ‘Finally. Just made the move.’ ‘A chef! Always knew you had it in you, mate. Congrats! Mind if I crack this one open?’ ‘Go ahead.’ Matilda acknowledges that the end of the conversation has come, and lets it swim away, lowering her head to jab her cutlery at her plate, and lift the food to her mouth. Peeling the wrapping off, Trevor hesitates and looks over his shoulder. ‘Bugger, left the corkscrew in the kitchen,’ beginning to scoot his chair back. Overpowered by an urgent anxiety to prove herself as someone who isn’t a rude, nosey bitch who wants to hear about all the details of someone’s humiliating downfall, Matilda puts her hand out in the air and says, ‘No, don’t worry, I’ll go get it.’ Now she’s feeling stupid for that. But, already half standing, she commits to her folly, and she scoots the chair back to stand up. She swears she can sense eyes throwing darts at her body. The jumpsuit’s seamwork fights her body as she turns and makes her way around the table, reminding her how tight it already was before dinner, especially difficult against her stomach now that some food has found its way inside. While Matilda digs around the kitchen, she can hear Bridget making an offhand comment about something, and conversation flows in some new direction. Matilda finds a corkscrew buried under way too many miscellaneous items in the second drawer down and brings it back to the table. Luckily everyone is looking at Trevor’s wife, who is talking about their new irrigation system he’d installed by himself, because when she pulls her chair out and bends at the waist to sit back down, she nearly snarls at how the middle half of her jumpsuit constricts above and below the line of her belly. Sucking in, she leans across the table to hand the corkscrew to Trevor, who takes it with a thankyou nod and begins opening the bottle. With a misty leak of pressure, the cork comes off, and he looks to Carlile. ‘So you’re a chef now! What made you decide to make the switch?’ She feels Carlile’s hand settle on her back. She leans sideways so her shoulder presses against him, putting on a bubbly smile for everyone and rubbing his leg. ‘Matilda convinced me,’ Carlile says. ‘And I’ll be honest; I needed it.’ Matilda notices her own hand sliding on up his thigh towards his stomach, meaning with instinctual greed to feel it up. She redirects her hand back down his leg, all the way to his knee, getting as far away from danger as possible. Then Trevor and his wife utter, ‘Aahh…’ in unison, their eyes going back and forth between the two of them as if reaching some sort of conclusion. Matilda stops rubbing his leg. She feels his hand freeze to a halt on her back. Then Carlile’s father asks Trevor about a renewed lease on a beachside property they seem to be wanting to charge way too much rent for, and Trevor joins in with his wife explaining something about newly introduced zoning laws, and conversation veers into a new direction as Trevor leans in to pour wine into each of their glasses. Nobody asks where Brad is, or what he’s been doing these days. . . . Two hours later, having stuck around to exchange goodbyes at the front door upstairs, and somehow exerting the strength to suck in for the entire duration of breathless farewells, Matilda has finally been allowed to retreat downstairs. Upon reaching no more than the third step, out of sight, she lets her stomach relax. The weight of the food inside her overstuffed belly almost jolts her centre of gravity as it all comes bulging forward again. She waddles with cumbersome unease down each step, one heel at a time. Enclosing herself back in the downstairs lair of Carlile’s room feels like having flown an entire continent away from the environment they were just in. ‘Ugh.’ She scrunches her face as she slinks into his room, one hand holding onto the door frame as if **. ‘Get me. Out of this. Fucking. Thing.’ Carlile sidles around her as he passes through the door, one hand drifting across her back as he moves into his room. Then he looks at her. She just stands there in her tight jumpsuit with her belly looking like a balloon with a hundred white pinstripes drawn down its curve. He snorts, a little smirk testing the corner of his lips. ‘I said not to eat too much and you’d be fine, but you ate, like, an entire dish for yourself, and then other bits and pieces. I think mum and dad noticed. We won’t even have any leftovers for tomorrow.’ ‘Shut up.’ Leaning against the doorframe with her head on her forearm, she takes a deep breath and cradles the bottom of her oval belly with her free hand. ‘I forgot what I was doing before I realised I was too full, okay? And then it was too late. The food kept piling up inside me. And– and that news about Margery really threw me out of myself. It really freaked me out, and I phased– just, like, completely forgot I was even eating, it became so automatic.’ ‘I was not expecting to hear my uncle say he knew her,’ he admits, sitting on his bed and taking his shoes off. ‘I had no idea. It’s crazy.’ ‘Oh, it’s “crazy” is it?’ She turns to glare at him with her hands on her hips, but the dramatic effect is lost with her belly sticking out in front so bloated, forcing the white pinstripes to conform to its incredible shape. ‘You’re the one with an uncle you never told me works in the Football Talent Association. That’s what’s crazy. I wish I had any “idea” about that.’ ‘Why,’ he cocks an eyebrow at her, ‘you want to network?’ She looks around the room incredulously. ‘Duh? You stupid beautiful idiot, yes, of course I fucking want to network.’ ‘Yeah, well, don’t worry about it, then– he’ll always be around, now and again. Anyway, if you ever actually needed something, I can just give you his number.’ She watches him lift his shirt over his head, and looks at the cushion of chub sinking his belly button deep in his stomach, swelling over his belt under the load of food he’d put inside it. A second kind of hunger comes over her. ‘Have you even networked once in your entire life?’ She begins to move towards him. He thinks for a moment, shen shrugs. ‘Not really. Why?’ ‘You don’t just ring someone up and say, “oh hi there, so-and-so, it’s me, Mario! can you give me this thing? or do this thing for me? for nothing in return when I barely even know you”?’ She places her hands on his shoulders and gives him a gentle shove onto his bed. She grunts as she lowers herself sideways on his lap, the heft of belly impeding the ease of her efforts. ‘You have to lead into the exchange,’ she explains. ‘I don’t even know what kind of position he’s in yet. You get what I’m saying?’ She twists her back so it faces him. ‘Now help me get this thing off. I’m too out of shape to ever wear it again in my life.’ When she feels his fingers begin to fiddle with the back of her jumpsuit, she slides one hand behind her ass, finds his groin, and begins to knead it like a cat kneads wool, preparing him for what she’s about to do to him in the privacy of his bedroom. . . .

Tonight Matilda’s parents are out ‘til late with friends for dinner. The house is left to her. A cheeky “come over tonight?” text was all it took for Carlile to appear on her doorstep thirty-five minutes later. For a night, just this once, they can pretend to be a self-sustaining millennial couple in a world for which such a life is almost financially impossible. The sun had set hours ago, and the night’s chill air presses against the windows from outside, held at bay by a homely warmth and steam from the kitchen, where Carlile is lording over the stove, cooking a seafood casserole composed of ingredients Matilda never knew you could include in the dish. She just got out of the shower, and is now sitting upon a stool across the kitchen bench, watching him do his thing. Her winter leggings, made of a thick cotton wool, are warm as a blanket, but the way her waistband is hitched up onto the lower lip of her belly feels unnecessary, almost irritating. She straightens her spine to shuffle the waistband down so it slots in under her tummy, then slumps back down over the bench and watches him with her chin in her hand, enjoying the feeling of warm, easy domesticity. He leans over to grab a sachet of spices from a rack on the wall, then glances over his shoulder at her. ‘Will they mind if I use some of these?’ ‘Mum won’t care, neither will dad— so long as he gets some leftovers. Use whatever you need.’ ‘How was Harriette’s?’ he asks. Matilda sniffs awkwardly, then smacks her lips. ‘It was interesting.’ ‘Uh-oh… How so?’ ‘So I went to go see her, and… let’s just say she was… different.’ He throws her a questioning look as he bends down to search inside a cabinet. For a moment, Matilda wonders if her friend’s increasing weight is something she really ought to be talking about. ‘When I got there she was really, like, jittery. I knew something was up but she wouldn’t spill until she got a text, and it turned out it was her, um… I'm gonna put it in quotation marks: her “boy-friend”… Chris… He was just around the corner, but she’d completely forgotten “he” was coming over. Literally out of nowhere, she got so nervous. I never see her nervous. So I’m thinking like, I’ve been waiting for ages to meet this guy, so what’s the problem? Anyway, she started to buzz around the room, and I’m like, sit down, what’s going on? Then she started giving me a really serious talk, and was about to make this confession when suddenly she turned up.’ ‘She?’ ‘...Yeah. She. As in a woman. Harriette came out, today.’ Carl spins around with a severe look on his face, eyes wide. ‘Harriette’s gay?’ ‘Yeah. Which is great. It was a surprise, but great. It was just… A girlfriend…? I never would have seen it coming. And it’s not like I’m ever going to judge her for it or anything, but it was hard not to notice.’ ‘I never noticed even a hint of spice,’ Carlile shrugs. ‘No, I mean her girlfriend. She was massive. Like… really big.’ She holds her arms out by her sides for emphasis. ‘Her name’s Christine. She seemed really nice, though. Honestly, I wanted to get to know her better, but Harriette got her events all mixed up, and she was so embarrassed, so I figured it was better if I left them there, you know?’ Carl stands with his hands on his hips and looks at the ground. ‘Is she okay?’ ‘Harriette? Yeah I think she’ll be alright. I’ll call her later and check up on her. She seemed terrified. It was a lot for her. She literally came out right there on the spot. She had to.’ ‘In my experience, shock can sometimes last for days.’ An empty beat. ‘Do you think I’d ever be like that?’ Matilda asks out of nowhere, eyes unfocussed and distant as a daydream. ‘Say what?’ ‘Like Christine,’ she adds, her voice dreamy and small. ‘That big.’ Carl casts her a sceptical eye, unsure if he’s facing a trap. When Matilda returns to reality, she looks up, eyes fixating on him. ‘I mean, like… she was seriously big. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone her size in my life. Or maybe I have, just— not someone that big who can be as pretty as her while being so massive. She was obese, Carl. I know I keep saying I feel like a fat cow, lately, and all, but she made me feel like a goddamn ant compared to her.’ ‘Sheesh. That big, huh?’ he asks absently as he stirs the pan. ‘Yuh. Like, had to be upwards of three hundred pounds. Who am I kidding— she had to be more than four hundred. Surely. I’m talking so big she filled up the doorframe of Harriette’s room. What really amazed me was her fashion sense. It was… well it was perfect. I’ve never seen someone be able to pull that off before. She seriously knew how to dress, even with her size and shape.’ He says nothing, leaning down to smell the aroma of the pan. ‘So?’ she asks. Carlile scratches his ear. ‘So what?’ ‘What I asked before. What if I got that big? Could that even happen?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he mutters with a shrug. ‘It takes a lot of work to be that size.’ ‘So… what are you saying exactly? You don’t think I’ll ever get that big?’ He just shrugs a second time. Matilda narrows her eyes at him behind his back, then lets her gaze drift away towards the tiles beneath the range hood above the stove as her mind wanders into imagined futures for what feels like the hundredth time that day. . In the hours after eating, they migrate into the TV room. She lays down on the lounge length-ways, resting her legs across Carlile’s lap so he can use his hands to apply a deep, slow massage to the top of her engorged stomach. She breathes in full, slow breaths, while pulses of eroticism circulate through her bloodstream like a drip-fed drug. Halfway through a movie, something changes. In the aether between their bodies, a charged static begins to prickle the air, and with no more than a meeting of eyes, they understand they must leave the lounge and move into her bedroom. They lead each other along with reckless grabbing and groping, undoing pieces of clothing from the other’s bodies as they stumble backwards through the house. When they reach her room, they shove each other onto her bed, tussling, feeling, giggling and making mindless sounds. Her bloated belly feels huge and grotesque as if suspended from her middle like a sack full of grog, but she couldn’t care. Without his shirt on, Carlile’s skin feels soft beneath her hands, and it’s all she can think about. The front of his shoulders feel like heaven, and his pectorals give in just faintly beneath her hands as she leans her weight on top of him. The only problem is that when she starts pawing her way down his body, she feels his stomach instinctively curl inwards as if cowering into a corner. With that, her heightened emotions take a swing in the wrong direction, and she pulls back, lips pressing upwards in frustration. ‘Babe, come on. Are you serious?’ ‘What?’ ‘Just let me feel your body for once. You’ve been really touchy, lately. I like groping too, you know.’ He apologises, and they get back to lovemaking. It’s all going well until she leans over the edge of the bed to reach one arm down to the floor. Carlile follows her with his mouth, planting hickeys all over her neck as she withdraws a packet of caramel slices from underneath her bed. Making strained sounds as she lifts back onto him, she opens the packet, then pushes him down on his back. ‘Have one,’ she says, holding a caramel slice towards his mouth. When he simply twists his lips to reject the offer and makes to grab her left breast instead, her heightened emotions take another sharp turn. She slaps his hand away, grabs his dick and knocks it back and forth derisively. Laying on his back, his belly forms a cute, flattened little spill of pudge. She wants to call him out on it, embarrass him. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Do as I say and I’ll help you.’ She puts the caramel slice towards his lips, but he looks away slightly. ‘Fuck sake. Carl, babe, come on, please.’ Then she pouts and slides off him, making to get up from the bed. She pauses, half on, half off her mattress. All she’s wearing is a pair of black bottoms. ‘If you don’t eat this right now, I’m putting my clothes back on and we’re not doing this.’ He makes a disappointed sound and grumbles, ‘Fine. But if I get fat, it’s your fault.’ ‘Mine?’ she says incredulously as she throws a leg back over his body and straddles his splayed, helpless thighs. ‘Mine? You’re the one who’s about to eat this thing.’ She brings the caramel slice closer to his lips. This time, when he opens up, Matilda holds it in place until he actually takes a bite. Watching him chew and swallow, she smiles with one side of her mouth. Then she wiggles her hips, shuffling forward so her groin is almost against his, then brushes her fingertips around his bare, sensitive shaft. She feels his body twitch like a live wire, and his hands slide along her thighs, up her hips, onto the sides of her belly. The cream-soft pooch emerging from the centre of her stomach, made rounder than usual by a heavy post-meal bloat, hangs from her arched spine. She feels Carlile’s fingers dip in and out of small creases that have developed around the wings of her back. She holds the caramel slice over his mouth, then waits for him to take another bite. ‘Good, aren’t they?’ she says. ‘They’re my favourite.’ Then she thinks it’ll be funny to slap her belly. It responds with a dense thud, the hit causing it to jolt. ‘They’re destroying my athletic figure, though,’ she adds, confused as to where this aggressive manner of speaking came from. All she knows is that for some reason, she doesn’t feel like stopping it. His body bucks beneath her . ‘Stop,’ he laughs, sounding helpless, ‘don’t say that.’ ‘Why, you like it?’ ‘No.’ ‘Sure, buddy. Sure.’ She puts another caramel slice between his teeth and begins to stroke him, slow and careful. . . . This time around, the reason she’s an hour late to training is thanks to the events of last night. She’d stayed up far too long in the heat of sex with Carlile, and they’d woken up almost in the P.M. But it hardly matters, does it? Because although she gets yet another free pass from a Margery who is queerly reluctant to give her the boot just yet, she’s too tired to carry on by the fifteenth minute of movement drills, already flushed with lethargy and a lack of oxygen in her blood. Sneaking off halfway through counter-attack drills for a spell in the shower room, she sits on a bench inside a shower cubicle and catches her breath, leaning over her knees parted in a wide V. Her lungs feel like plaster casts of her real ones. When she presses her hand into the side of her stomach, the fact that it still feels bloated is a fact that she ought to realise by now is no longer a state of change, but a state of permanence. . . . That Friday night, Matilda and her fellow Purple Vale Strikers travel across to Longdowns City’s home grounds with a six-match winless streak hanging from their shoulders like a mouldy wreath, with everything and more to prove, and with Matilda carrying twenty or so pounds more weight than she’s ever experienced in her life. As they line up in the tunnel, Matilda and the girls are a row of dark violet shirts and bone-white shorts alongside the Longdowns’ orange kits and blue socks. You could slice the contrasting tension with a piece of string. One team standing confident and ready to play another game, the other trying their best not to look nervous, trying not to throw the blame around at each other just yet, trying their best to not bring the dread in their hearts out with them onto the green pitch. As the referees exit the tunnel, the players follow, dispersing like gas molecules across the pitch, where they wait, squatting, stretching, jumping on the spot. The two teams form up in their respective halves, facing one another. When the whistle blows for kickoff, Elisha hoofs the ball straight backwards to Nysha in goals, who launches it in a hail Mary forward to Evangeline at the front, who is immediately ganged by three defenders and jostled out from under the ball’s flight. Matilda feels her thighs wiggling as she sidesteps this way and that, adjusting her position to the zone of play as it tries to decide where it wants to be. The feeling splits her concentration straight down the middle, ruining her. She wonders if onlookers can notice. There are people in this crowd. Real people, with eyes that can see her. Suddenly the ball is curling through the air, arcing towards her, sent by Kelsey from way down the back corner of the field. Matilda trots backwards on her heels to move under the ball’s flight. Her nearest opponent, a girl with narrow hip bones and curly black hair, makes a dash at her. Matilda opens her arms just in time to catch the ball awkwardly on her chest before the girl can make a challenge on her, sucks her belly in instinctively, lets the ball roll down her body, then spins, turning her back on her opponent as they stick a leg out to try to knock the ball out from under her feet, only to crash into her back instead. Matilda stumbles forward, breath knocked out of her diaphragm, but manages to remain on her feet. The referee fails to blow the whistle for a foul. Hopping onto her front foot while the other girl regains her footing, Matilda takes the opportunity to flick the ball forward with her left foot and then leans in to sprint after it, ankles hitting the ground perhaps a little harder than she’s used to. She looks to her left for someone to pass to. But all she sees are two opposition shirts closing in from ahead and behind. Leaning into her momentum, she turns right to try to curve around them, but they angle in towards her new path. Swearing, she fakes right, fakes again, then tries to cut back and flank them on the left – but the sequence of movements come off too slowly, balanced all wrong, and she ends up just standing there having lost all her momentum, and with nowhere to go. Panicked, she hoofs the ball over their heads towards the backline. With that, everybody turns around, and the play drifts away as everyone gives chase. She puts her hands on her hips and walks back, catching her breath. That small run had taken something out of her she didn’t know could disappear, and it hadn’t even been that complicated. At the start of the year, she was making those runs one after the other, again and again, zig-zagging past defenders for breakfast until someone finally managed to score a goal. On the other hand, nobody had come forward far enough for her to pass the ball to – and that wasn’t on her. The game goes on tentatively, with no real disasters as of yet. Matilda keeps pointing to Kelsey on the left-wing whenever she gets a chance; she knows if she receives the ball, she’ll slow everyone down. After a five minute spell that drags, the girls actually manage to build up a little fluidity and play with some aggression and pace for what feels like the first time all year. That is until the 44th minute, when an exhausted Matilda sprints for a loose ball fifteen yards away from the goal posts, only to find herself so empty that her legs feel like floppy rubber. Before she knows it, an opposition player gets there first, dashes straight past her with the ball at their feet, dribbles it across to the by-line, then turns and lobs it backwards into the penalty area, where it is met by a towering header that sees it deflected straight through Nysha’s outstretched gloves and into the back of the net. The opposition girls throw their hands up and run towards each other screeching like lunatic parakeets. The few local spectators in the stands go wild. ‘What the fuck Matilda!’ She doesn’t even lift her eyes. She knows the sound of Elisha’s voice when she hears it. Her teammates have all dropped their shoulders and heads, and are standing around in dejected monotony. There are jeering sounds amidst the sounds of the crowd. Matilda leans on her knees and sucks air into her over-pumped lungs through a dry throat. She can hear Margery yelling, but can’t make out the words. Sound rushes around her, muddying into a white noise so absolute it makes her think she’s been plunged beneath water. The whistle blows. Play starts again, for one long, agonising, sweaty minute. The half-time whistle goes. The girls file down the tunnel into the change rooms. She feels desperate for air. Taking a spot in the corner of the unfamiliar room, as far away from the girls as possible, she sits crosslegged on the floor, letting her head fall back against the wall, and catches her breath. Margery has decided to disappear. Nobody speaks. Not until Elisha stops pacing around the room and faces them, wringing her towel in her hands. ‘We were close,’ she growls. ‘So close— and what do we go and do? We go and throw it away. But it’s not over yet. Not yet. None of you can go hiding. Not in the next half. Passion.’ She slaps her hands together. ‘Show passion! Fight! We never should have conceded that goal and you all know it.’ A blame-heavy glance in Matilda;s direction. ‘We score now. We go back out there and we score–’ ‘How are we supposed to?’ Matilda tries to yell, the force behind her voice sucked out her throat by her shortness of breath. She wipes her hot, sweaty face. ‘How are we supposed to score when we have nobody to move the attack forwards? I never got to pass forward, not once. Not even sideways.’ Matilda notices Beth leaning forward like she’s about to make a comment, but Elisha gets in first. ‘Shut the fuck up, Matilda.’ Beth sits back, wide-eyed. Matilda feels a few of the girls throw worried glances at her. But she ignores Elisha’s words and presses on. ‘Every time I go forward, I have to pass back, it’s the same problem every time. Margery wants us to play this un-flexible defensive line, and she wonders why we can’t attack–’ ‘Fuck you, Matilda, you slob bitch.’ The entire room clenches its fists. Matilda’s face swells to bursting with a geyser of heat locked behind her eyes as her chest constricts into itself. ‘You’re the one who cost us that goal in the first place,’ Elisha shouts, ‘so why are you the one giving advice? You– you shouldn’t even be on this team.’ Matilda pulls her legs up underneath herself and begins to stand up, one hand on the wall behind her for support. She points at Elisha. ‘No. No way. Fuck you! What makes you think everybody in the room is thinking any different? We can’t attack! And we won’t attack until we have more than one fucking player forward at any given moment in time! It’s the basics of football. Where is the support? Where? Evangeline can’t do it by herself. Kelsey can’t do it by herself. I can’t do it by myself–’ ‘No shit, Matilda, it’s obvious you can’t,’ Elisha interrupts, crossing her arms. ‘Why wouldn’t Margery just sub you off, anyway, the way you are right now?’ Sneaking a glance down at her body, she sees the shape of a paunch filling into the front of her perspiration-dampened shirt more than she realised. She tugs the shirt down and sucks in, pretending she doesn’t care what Elisha just said. ‘I don’t know, actually. I really don’t know. There. How do you like that? Is that what you want to hear? I really do– not– know— why. But I’m here, okay? And I’m playing. And I’m telling you that we won’t score until we’re in a position to score! How is that so hard to understand?’ Elisha just shakes her head and turns away. The remaining minutes of the break go by without many more words said by anybody. Maybe the girls feel sorry for her in some strange, unspoken way, because as if by magic, back out on the pitch, they play with a re-doubled spirit throughout the second half. Not only do they run harder and faster, but they never really seek her out for a pass, either, as if they’d all agreed before resuming to take it easy on her. And unless she’s just being paranoid, they look vaguely apologetic if they do have to give her the ball. But Matilda doesn’t give up. Not entirely. She just endures the self-inflicted torture of feeling fleshy, sheathed in sweat, and so exhausted that her body stumbles about like some rubber effigy. She makes terrible mistakes in the process of play. She almost concedes a second goal. She loses the ball by failing to give herself basic assurances that her feet can control its spin. She gets out-sprinted by almost every opposition player she faces. Margery screams at them from the sideline all night long. Over and over, they fail to get themselves into any attacking position worth pursuing. The game ends with a giant 0 - 1 written on the L.E.D. board, with Elisha presenting Matilda doesn’t exist, and Margery storming off down the tunnel, and Matilda’s lungs feeling made out of mud as she bends over to suck life back into her body. In the locker rooms, she sits on the bench with such a light head that she can see specks of white at the floor of her vision. She listens to Margery’s voice without comprehending any of the sounds, who stands in one corner screaming at them, red in the face, spit flying from her thin lips. This time the manager is really focussing on her, looking even blacker in the face than the last time this kind of thing happened. There are weary smudges of shadow between her eyes. Eventually Matilda will learn what those shadows really mean. Where they came from. Why they’re here again, returned, after so many years suppressed under the silt of Margery’s psychological ocean. . . . It takes until Sunday before Matilda feels any better about Friday night’s blow-out. She preoccupies herself by eating packets of chips, pizza, chocolate, trays of biscuits without even wanting to, and hanging around Carlile just so she has someone to be around. But now that she’s moved past the dread, it’s been replaced by that old petty hatred for her boss, and she decides one Monday morning to stand on the scale. That way, see’ll where she’s at, and whether Margery will finally kick her from the team, or better yet leave, run away from the club entirely. Turns out she weighs one hundred and sixty-six pounds. Twenty-one pounds heavier than the day she began. ‘Fuck,’ she mouths to herself. Now that she’s seen the number, she feels fat. Sheathed in blubber. Then, almost immediately, she remembers Christine. Even the memory of her bears immense weight, and Matilda feels herself physically shrink under the shadow of what her mind’s eye sees. She had the size of a raisin compared to that girl… Tucking the scale back under the sink cupboard, Matilda returns to her room and thinks about opening another packet of chips. . Later that afternoon at the dining table, filling out some homework Dr Goodwyn had given her to complete before tomorrow’s session, her mother comes into the room, catching her off-guard. ‘Hi, honey,’ dropping her handbag on the kitchen bench. ‘Dad home yet?’ ‘Hey.’ Matilda takes a quick breath to centre herself, sucking in without even thinking. ‘No I don’t think he is yet.’ She raises her head from her work. Her mother stands on the spot, wringing her hands. She has such big eyes — but not the hazel colour Matilda gets from her dad. Her mother has huge, circular blue eyes. Matilda likes to try and spot which of her own features are her mother’s, and which are her dad’s. Matilda lifts her face higher. ‘Everything okay, ma?’ Tilting her head affectionately, her mother presses her lips into a rueful smile and says, ‘Do you mind if we take a moment to talk, honey?’ Matilda’s heart thuds like she’s been shot. ‘Uhm. Sure. What’s up?’ Acting casual and carefree despite the sudden pins and needles in her wrists, she puts her pen down and watches her mother come over to the table, pull a chair out, and sit down, gazing across at Matilda. Her mother’s eyes are a-glitter with parental care. ‘I just noticed you might be feeling a bit… down, lately?’ she suggests gently. ‘And I know you’re such a strong, capable young woman. That’s what had me thinking. I’m always so proud of you, and so is your father. We both are. But we noticed you might have changed a little bit.’ Matilda feels her blood-flow grind to a cold halt. She knows what is about to come. ‘What do you mean?’ she pretends. Her mother breathes out through her nose and tilts her head affectionately. ‘Matilda— now— I don’t mean this in any mean way, you know that, but it’s not like we haven’t noticed you’ve… put on a little bit of weight.’ She holds her hands out in quick apology. ‘It’s okay. You look fine, honey, you do— we’re just worried. And I noticed this weekend how you looked especially down. I just need to know that you’re doing okay.’ ‘Oh. Yeah. That.’ Matilda looks to the side. How the hell does she get out of this? What does she say? She can’t deny it. That would be out of character. How the hell can she confess to gaining “a little weight”, and get away with it at the same? She looks at the homework Dr Goodwynn gave her, feeling her mind hop and zigzag through memories as some undefined thought tries to find her; something she remembers, or something she heard about once at the clinic. Then it clicks. ‘Yeah! So.’ She prepares to lie. ‘I’m doing muscle growth.’ Her mother blinks in confusion. She is about to open her mouth to ask what that means when Matilda cuts back in to explain. ‘It’s just a thing called dirty-bulking,’ she says, preventing her voice from shaking. ‘Um. It’s kinda a cheat method? Where you like, put on weight, I guess? Then you lose it, and gain it back as muscle?’ ‘Oh. Really?’ ‘Yeah. It’s a thing.’ ‘Oh.’ Her mother’s eyes drift slowly to one side in contemplation. ‘Is that so?’ ‘Yeah,’ Matilda nods, looking down at Dr Godwynn’s homework, trying to remember what the Dr had once said about this particular method. ‘It’s… supposed to give you a head-start. You let yourself gain a little bit of weight, and then your body has an easier time gaining muscle after working out because it doesn’t freak out at the idea of putting on weight, since you’ve already… you know. Putting on the other weight is easier. So you do that, then lose it. Then gain it back as muscle. That’s all.’ Matilda blinks and waits, heart palpitating. She feels like a fraud. She’s just straight up lied to her mother. But she can’t know the truth. It’s a sun ray of good luck that they’re sitting at a table, and Matilda can keep her body and the consequences of constant overeating hidden behind the furniture. ‘Oh,’ she adds, ‘and as far as this weekend goes, I was just down about the loss on Friday.’ Her mother makes an ah shape with her mouth. ‘Margery’s fault again?’ ‘Yup.’ ‘Aw. Tild.’ Her mother leans over the table and reaches out. Matilda offers her hand and lets her mother cradle it. ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine. Managers always lose their jobs, especially if they’re bad. You know that.’ ‘I know. I was the one who told you that.’ Her mother laughs. ‘You’re great, hon. You’re the best at what you do. You and the team will come out the other side of whatever is happening, I know you will.’ Sure, she thinks internally. Sure. Come out the other side — only carrying knows how many excess pounds of blubber hanging off her by then, before Margery can’t take it anymore. Trying to keep her doubts from becoming visible in her eyes, she squeezes her mother’s hand. ‘I love you, ma. Thanks.’ ‘I love you too. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.’ They smile at each other. ‘You going to see Carl tonight?’ ‘Probably. I’ll let you know.’ ‘Okay, darling.’ Her mother begins to stand up. ‘You finish your homework, there. I’m going to have a shower. Love you, proud of you.’ ‘Love you too.’ She watches her mother walk away, and once she’s gone, releases a balloon’s-worth of pent up air. She rubs her face. That was close. If the question ever comes up again, she’ll have to dodge it more convincingly than that. The dirty-bulking story was a serviceable lie – one she might have to use again. But she hopes not. . . . A couple of days later, Matilda makes the decision to miss the upcoming training session entirely. This is the second time she’s pulled such a stunt, but this time round, it is for no other reason than having woken up from a dream she can’t even remember the particular details of, but which has left her feeling this inexplicable, indescribably large seismic wave of gathering rage whose crest will not break, will not release her from its building swell. She feels like she just found out a stranger took her entire savings by committing identity fraud in the night and there’s nothing any of the financial institutions say they can do about it. All she knows is that this fury must be for none other than Margery herself. So instead of doing what her coaches expect of her, she dresses herself in a white collar shirt and black dress, which are less and less appropriately fitting, then calls into the physiotherapy clinic to spend her whole day, voluntarily, with Dr Goodwynn, all the while ignoring a relentless barrage of missed calls and messages from her teammates. When she returns home, she invites Carl over, her mother having just caught a flight to Buenos Aires for another anthropologist’s conference, and her father still away relief teaching in some rural town for the fortnight. Carlile seems to be in a great energetic mood, tonight, and from the moment they embrace, he seems eager to influence the trajectory of their foot-shuffling embrace towards her room. He strokes her neck and plays with her hair, running his hand up and down her back. ‘No, stop, not yet,’ she giggles, splaying her hands against his chest and holding him back a little. Then, looking up at him, she smirks. ‘What’s gotten into you? We haven’t even had anything to eat and you’re acting like I’ve been strip teasing all over you for half an hour. When did you eat last?’ One after the other, their stomachs both gurgle, as if responding to each other. Looking down at the source of the sound, Carlile lifts one eyebrow. ‘Not since you did, by the sound of things.’ ‘Oh,’ Matilda blushes, touching three fingers to the side of her scalp, ‘don’t listen to my belly’s complaints. They don’t mean anything. It just does that, now.’ They share a glance that is loaded with “fuck it we ball”, and agree to order takeout. ‘Three pizzas,’ Carlile suggests, lighting his eyes from the menu on his phone. ‘What? That’s nothing. ‘Four, then.’ ‘Five,’ she challenges. He one-ups her. ‘How about… six.’ With a flash of unhealthy wickedness in her eyes, ‘Make it seven.’ Her reasoning is that Carlile has done enough time in the kitchen, cooking her meal after meal in portion sizes that would feed two or sometimes even three full-grown adults at a time, and so the sweet boy deserves to be treated. In any case, there’s something alluring in the act of ordering pizza. It feels wrong, but in a way that gives her butterflies to be wrong. Exciting. Something forbidden that you do anyway, languishing in the freedom of secret indulgence. Massaging his shoulders while they wait for the pizza to arrive, Matilda makes an observation. ‘You feel different…’ she remarks. They’ve been laying on the lounge, mindlessly watching a film, with her wedged sideways between him and the back of the lounge, one arm over his chest with her hand cupping his shoulder and her knee raised so it rests on his lap. She doesn’t have particularly strong fingers, but she likes to think she can hit the right spots when she digs into his muscles. What she comes to realise is that, at least to the touch of her fingers, Carlile’s shoulders feel different, almost as if they are more dense than she remembers – not firm, exactly, since she can feel a thin layer of sponginess she knows is there because she pesters him into eating like a horse… But as she moves her thumb down around the back of his shoulder blades, she digs in and feels a cord of muscle roll beneath them. ‘Have you been working out?’ she asks. He looks down at her with a sly, mysterious frown, then rolls his head back towards the screen. ‘Mmm… Maybe?’ ‘What?’ lifting her head off his chest. ‘Why?’ Regretting the way her choice of words and tone of voice are making her sound, she looks away for a split second, then back again. ‘Sorry, I just meant– since when?’ ‘For about a week or two now,’ he says, proud of himself. He gives her arm an affectionate rub. ‘Oh. I didn’t know that.’ She can’t help it. The thought of him burning away all those surplus calories under bars of steel and plates of heavy iron carves out a hollow, immutable disappointment in the bowls of her stomach. She lays her head back down upon his chest, and stares out at the darkness of night beyond the glass sliding-doors. Why would he suddenly do this, and not tell her? ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ slips off the end of her tongue. ‘I dunno,’ he says, ‘did I need to? Plus, it’s like a nice surprise.’ ‘Well… It’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?’ she frowns, pushing herself up to look at him. He gives her a questioning look. ‘I didn’t think it was. It’s just a gym.’ ‘But it’s a decision you made. It’s your life. I thought we shared everything, didn’t we?’ They stare at each other, with confused expressions teetering right on the edge of hurt. Eventually Matilda caves, turning aside and deflating. She spends a moment in silence, then lowers herself back down onto his chest, laying herself across him once more. She wants her man to grow. She wants her boy thick. She doesn’t know why. She can’t figure out why her desire is geared in such an odd direction – but as exhausted parents will tell their kids when they ask why the sky is blue for the millionth time – they’ll say: “it just is”. She can see the rise of his little paunch sitting in his grey shirt, waiting beneath the fabric, and she wishes she could slide a hand over it and caress the softness of that landscape without feeling inappropriate and wrong for doing so. Then, as she lies against his side, she notices the peak of her own pooch poking with an insolent “I’m still here, remember?” against the inside of her top, the very forefront of its roundness just barely kissing his thigh by the width of an air particle. He probably doesn’t feel the same way about her. Rightly so. Girls should be thin. Her most of all, being an athlete. ‘Is this because of last week?’ she asks out of the blue. ‘I don’t want to feel guilty.’ ‘What from last week?’ ‘When you were over, last time. Making you eat while… while we were having sex, I mean.’ ‘Um.’ He hesitates for a while. ‘No. I just thought I should start working out? That’s all. Simple. Simple as apple strudel.’ ‘Are you sure? Are you sure it’s not because of me?’ He shakes his head no, a disgusted frown above his eyes. Matilda squints, searching his face for dishonesty. But she can’t get a solid read on him. ‘Okay then, I’ll believe you I guess,’ she says with a sceptical chuckle. ‘Just this once.’ . . . As is becoming the norm, she is late to training again – so late that the drills are already half over. The girls have come to expect it, now, this behaviour. They all kind of look over at the parking lot, glimpse the top of her car go past, and exchange silent looks of understanding. When she comes onto the pitch a little later and jogs up to join in with them, there’s an air of intentional denial among the rest of the girls, pretending not to notice her late arrival. Matilda almost thinks she's going to get away with it again – that is until coach Ilda walks up in a very European manner with her hands held pensively behind her back and informs her that Margery is waiting for her in the office. Matilda feels her heart sink in spite of herself. What will it be this time? Dodging various points of eye contact, she turns back towards the club facility like nothing in the world could be wrong and jogs away. But she kills her jog the instant she becomes overwhelmingly self-conscious of the jiggly movements happening in her rear end. Christ, she hopes it isn't that obvious. She slows down to a brisk walk to smother the flabby action. Pushing through the double doors, stalks with narrow-minded purpose down the corridors towards the admin area. She’s almost there when she recoils in a sudden burst of doubt and doubles back, retracing her steps and standing around a corner. The soles of her hands ache. She’s way more nervous than she thinks she should be. And there’s this cold pang in her stomach she can’t ignore. Hunger is beginning to confuse itself with anxiety, these days, which is a fact that scares her. Biting her lip, she turns and makes a beeline for her locker, where she retrieves a chocolate bar she’d left in there over two weeks ago like a booby trap she’d set for herself. Hiding behind the open door panel, she unwraps half of it, breaks it off and shoves it in her mouth to give her stomach something to think about instead of the bubbling anxiety she shouldn’t be feeling to begin with. The shame that is imbued inside the fact that she is now a person who will choose to binge eat when they feel the slightest onset of distress – that shame isn’t strong enough to stop her anymore. She stuffs the remaining half of the chocolate inside her left pocket like it’s an icon of sacrilege. The act lays a blanket of comfort over her soul in a petulant manner, a naughty token of defiance, something forbidden to keep concealed in her pocket, returning to it like a lodestone as she weathers the violence of authority. When she finally makes her way around the corner of the administration area and into the manager’s office, Margery looks slowly up from her desk. Her eyes are dark grey, webbed-out lines showing deeply in the shadow below her thin, lifeless brows. ‘This is it,’ Margery begins to lecture Matilda before she even has a chance to enter the room fully, leaving her to stand in the doorway, frozen, like a child. ‘I’ve waited for you long enough, now. I have waited. Do you understand that I do not wait? But this is it. You have reached the limit. I have reached the limit. I have been giving you chance, after chance, after… I don’t know why, really. Not anymore. I have been scolding myself since I woke this morning for giving you so many precious, and to be very honest ghastly overpriced, opportunities. Each one of them you’ve wasted. Here you are, again, an hour late. And to think you didn’t even bother to show up last session!’ Something seems to break in Margery’s demeanour. The tall, skeletal woman sits up straight as a post, focuses her eyes on Matilda’s soul like lasers, and snarls, ‘You can’t even enter my office properly. Come forward! Stand right there. There. No, there!’ Pointing at the carpet in front of her desk. Matilda comes forward. ‘Yes. Good. There.’ Margery looks her up and down, facial muscles drawing in towards her nose like a sour smell. ‘Do you have the slightest clue how incompetent you look? Do you own a mirror?’ Running her tongue along the inside of her mouth, Matilda looks to the side. She can taste the residue of the chocolate she just scoffed down. She wants more of it. ‘You do know that we can all see this little gut you’re sporting there, don’t you?…’ Margery sneers. ‘Which you can’t seem to get rid of– and in fact, seems to get… larger every time I lay my eyes on you. What in the flaming hell are you doing to yourself, girl?’ Margery’s eyes drill into her, digging for an answer. But when she receives nothing except silence, she sinks back into her chair, brooding in deep irritation. She chews on her paper-thin lip, looking for the words she will say next. When she finds them, she places her hands against each other and lines them up like a steeple in front of her chest. ‘You have grown fat, Matilda. Fat. Look at you. The girls think you are pregnant. But I know better; your rear is too soft for you to be pregnant. Your thighs are buttery, which is positively repulsive. And you will need a new sports bra, too; that thing can’t hide the slutty little overflow you pretend to be oblivious to for much longer. No it simply won’t do. I know that you know.’ Margery expels a gust of breath and allows herself to curl back into her chair, resuming a professional posture with her fingers laced together in the cup of her lap. ‘Matilda. You understand I have called you in here to inform you that there will be some changes, starting today. Drastic changes. Foremost, I shall be granting no more second chances. Not for you. Not after this. I am hereby taking your position away from you.’ ‘My what?’ Matilda’s heart folds inside out and is sucked down into her stomach like a plunged toilet. Her chest aches. ‘You have ears– you heard my words. Your position, Matilda. Your place on the field.’ ‘But–’ ‘You are not seriously wondering how this happened, are you? You’re not about to contest me on this, are you?’ Matilda chokes on her own voice. ‘You didn’t see this coming? I suppose you mustn’t have. You’ve been strutting into the club each week later than the white rabbit and squaring your shoulders to your teachers as if you know better than them; as though you were the invaluable asset of the club and you might act just as you please. Well, Matilda, there’s a very simple explanation for all that.’ Margery leans forward over her desk and opens her face up like a flower, full of poison. ‘I lied.’ Matilda can feel the wooden framework of the door behind her. She touches its nook with the tip of her fingers, slowly leaning her body against its various angles. The feeling offers just a dribble of distraction for her overwhelmed senses to cling to something else. ‘From now on, I can’t have you dragging your weight up and down the wing. We need pace, not lard, understand?’ ‘So that’s it?’ Matilda fumbles for words, every available sentence sounding too childish in her mind to utter out loud. ‘I’m just…’ ‘No, that’s not “it”. You’re not off the hook so easy. If you wanted that, you could simply quit instead of causing me problems. I’m putting you out in the midfield. I won’t hear any ifs-and-buts about this. You’ll be proving you are worth keeping in the club by playing in the centre– long enough until you get yourself back into some respectable shape.’ At those words, Matilda’s mind does a wailing U-turn. Emotionally smacked about and confused, she bites her lip, suddenly conscious of her fingers rubbing against each other behind her back. ‘You will not play on the left wing. Not as striker. Nor even a second-striker role. I cannot let you anywhere near the front of the line– not for a million years if you keep this rubbish up. You have lost your pace, and my patience for you has gone missing with it. Stacey will replace you on the right-wing. Thanks to you,’ Margery now adds in a matter-of-fact, ‘we now have to forego our attacking 4-2-3-1 and make do with a 4-3-2-1, in which you will sit, and I almost mean “sit”, if you get any fatter that is, in the middle of the three. In the worst case scenario, I have devised a defensive 5-2-2-1 in which you drop back to the centre of the backline, granted you may step forward now and then as a defensive mid. What rustles my jollies is that your infamous gift of acceleration and pace has deflated even as you seem to have inflated,’ throwing a dismissive gesture at her physique with two fingers, ‘and so I simply cannot trust you to move up and down the wing any longer. The last time you made an effort to run for ninety minutes, it exposed your inability to us, abundantly clear. However, I am giving you a chance in the midfield because while your laziness repulses me, I still believe in your sense of creativity with the ball. At least some measure of agility remains in you– though I suspect even that God-given gift is being buried alive, so to speak. You poor, stupid girl. You will look back, I tell you. You will look back on these days and regret what you have squandered with such flamboyant disregard. But!’ Margery slaps her hands on the edge of her desk in a spirit of wrapping-up this one-sided conversation. ‘This is the situation you have left us in, and I sorely regret not taking action much earlier. Now, you must go. Leave. I don’t want to look at you. Get out there and train as your new role demands. However, you have missed half of this entire training session. Again. No– do not bother leaving excuses on my doorstep, like dead animals. You will have to remain behind today with some of the others to make up for missed time. Am I understood?’ Margery peers at her with a face lined almost like a spider’s web. Its gaunt flatness makes her resemble a fascist, Matilda thinks. Like the swell of a wave, Margery’s expression shrivels into itself like a sour rotten piece of fruit, and there is deep menace beneath her eyes. ‘No,’ she states with flat severity. ‘Perhaps it does not matter if I am clear to you or not. I seem not to have been clear, so far. I won’t waste my time trying now. Leave. I swear, Matilda, if I keep turning around and you have gotten fatter each time, I will destroy your position in this club before I let you take this club down with you. The only thing that is allowed to be shaped like a ball, in this club– is the ball instead, Matilda. Become any rounder, and I will send you off. You are a professional. Be one. Now go. Get out of my sight.’ . . .

The morning of the next, Matilda decides it’s time to conduct an experiment. Training is to begin at 12.00pm. She has three and a half hours left, so she uses that window of time to cram in as much snacking as possible while surfing the web. She then gets in her car and leaves at 11.30am, in no particular hurry to get to her destination. Nobody bothers to call or text her, this time. Instead, she just turns up to the club in sweatpants and a grubby black hoodie and slinks inside the facility with her duffel bag over her shoulder. Managing to avoid running into anyone along the way, she walks into the change rooms as casually as a janitor so bored they’re on the verge of quitting. Listening to shouts from the girls already practising outside on the pitch, she pulls her gear out of her bag, all alone in the empty, tiled silence of the locker room. When she stands up to pull her training shorts on, she feels the fabric run up her thighs, loose at first, then fitting close, tightening, tighter, until the back of the waistband suddenly meets the underside of her ass cheeks. Pursing her lips, she tugs the shorts a little, pumping her knees until the waistband slips up each cheek — which makes her upper thighs wiggle. Running a hand over her backside, the pads of her fingertips report how close the nylon of her shorts are against her ass. It’s almost like a second layer of skin. Anxiety floods her chest. Is she really growing in such a sudden burst of pace? Are these kinds of changes in her body really arriving this rapidly, almost in single-week intervals? If so, then it won’t be long, now. Margery will have to see, in full, that she’s gained weight. What Matilda doesn’t see with her own eyes when she pulls her hoodie up and over her head, unveiling her torso, are the pudge-pale consequences of what she’s been doing. This is what will begin to happen when you eat bite after bite, snack after snack, already filled to capacity on gourmet food prepared by someone who is practically a stay-at-home chef, then having dessert afterwards, and doing it all again the next day, and the next day, week after week, month after month. When she throws her jersey over her head, suspicion creeps into her about some strange movement she thinks she might have just felt beneath her upper arms as she shoves them through the arm-holes. But she can’t be sure. Paranoid, she grabs the hem of her shirt and tugs it down — only to feel soft cotton slide against the forthmost curve of her belly. Well fuck. There is no hiding it any more. If that’s what’s happening, then it’s all too obvious. And one look down at herself is all it takes to put such doubts to bed. She can suck her insides back up into her chest as hard as she likes, until her ribcage feels like it’ll break under the pressure, but no matter: there exists a stubborn mound of softness that refuses to retreat from where it presses against the inside of her jersey. Gentle indentations of pressure cut into her hips where her underwear is squeezing her flanks into two small lovehandles just begging to be pumped with enough jelly to start really oozing over her waistband. If she was wearing a belt, they probably would be already. As she lifts one foot up onto the bench and leans forward over her knee to lace her boots, the damage done to her waistline sings fully to the ears of her awareness in a way she’s never observed before: the peak of her belly kissing her upper thigh, pressing into that crease between pelvis and and leg like some kind of cushion of organic matter. She lifts her other foot to lace her boots, and the exact same thing happens. Giving the security of her laces a test, she wiggles her feet around, then stamps each foot on the floor. Aside from proving that her laces are firm, all this does is send a small but aggressive wave of movement, quick as an eye-blink, up through her thighs, proliferating up through the front of her midsection until it peters out somewhere around her chest. Doing her best to ignore it, Matilda takes her bottle in hand, slings her towel over her shoulder, makes her way out the doors and jogs out onto the field, immediately seized by a step-rhythmed feeling of jiggly action in the surface of her stomach while other, stranger parts of her that she never knew could move try to do the same. She feels it under her arms. Around her back. Down the sides of her hips and thighs. Even under her sports bra, she can feel her tits jouncing with some kind of extra heft they’ve never had. Even her nipples she can feel rubbing against the sports-bra fabric that constrains them. A current of thrilling vigour bursts through her entire body, her nipples sent standing to attention so stiff that they hurt. Oh, fuck no. No way. Not now. Wrong place, wrong time. Fuck. This is so wrong. She slows to a walk so the faint jiggling feeling can disappear, and looks around the field. The girls run around yellow cones and dummy posts, passing, dribbling, doing side-step hurdles. Margery, however, is nowhere to be seen. Instead, the back of coach Karen’s head, located about twenty yards ahead to the left, turns from its sentinel watch over the girls, and spins around to look at her, pivoting at the neck, with the steady menace of an owl. An unfathomably disgusted expression falls across the coach’s face, but she keeps her lips pressed tight as she watches Matilda move past her into the fray of training. Bethany and Evangeline, jogging in a u-turn to begin another lap of the hurdle course, glance over at her — the late-comer. Their voices fall silent, eyes going wide. Then they jog onwards. As Matilda walks closer, April comes past at a jog, catching sight of her. Worry colours her face, but she turns away, hiding it by staring at the ground beneath her running feet. One by one, the girls cast similar looks at their teammate until everyone is on the same page: that Matilda has finally arrived. What’s more is that everyone can see why. She’s falling, undeniably now, out of fitness, sliding into that unspeakable zone of chubbiness. In her waist is a visible roundness, whether she realises it or not, and there’s only one thing that can mean. A few of the girls swap glances, knowing they’ll have to start counting down the months. . . . Matilda wakes up early in advance of a difficult day. The team has a match to play at home against Cortennay FC, which she already feels too lethargic to throw herself at headlong, the way she usually would. It’s not as if she doesn’t want to try and win for her team – it’s just that whatever happens, there’s going to be about fifteen minutes of frantic determination from the girls until they inevitably begin to fall apart, make sloppy passes, run the wrong way, mis-communicate, and hang their heads under the weight of dejected embarrassment when the game plan fails them. It’s unlikely they’ll win. If they do, it will be by some sale of the soul to the devil. As she drives to the grounds, she wonders if there has ever been a chance of them winning a game like this one, with Margery at the helm. It only takes her ten minutes of play before all of her predictions are proven true, and by half time, she’s too exhausted to sprint any further than the halfway line. She can feel a stitch coming on, and her calves are threatening to cramp as she trudges off the pitch to take a break, gasping for air and reaching for the nearest bottle – which happens to be handed to her from Elisha, who stands by the door passing water to the girls as they file into the change rooms. She stumbles to her locker and sits on her bench with a thud, a shockwave travelling up her body from the thump of her ass against metal. Mouth gaping open to suck air, face painfully flushed and sheathed in sweat, she waits for her stammering heart to slow, even just a little. It takes most of the fifteen minute break for her body to settle, and by then she’s so parched that she doesn’t even react when, as she plants her lips around the bottle, the first thing she tastes is sugar-rich cordial flooding her tongue. Shaking her head in disgust with the one who she knows did this, Matilda gulps the liquid down her throat nonetheless, savouring the sweet thrill of it in her mouth with a purposeful belligerence. The girls are all coiled into themselves with agitation. Mandy is sitting with her head in her hands and Evangeline is opening and closing the zipper of her bag with energetic frustration. The game plan has not been working. ‘Come on, girls,’ Elisha rouses them, captain’s armband wrapped around the number 10 on her sleeve, ‘we’ve got this, we’ve got this, but we’re letting them get too many passes down our flanks. Beth, don’t let them bully you into bad passes all the time. Grace, you’re letting yourself get caught under the ball. Head it calmly– calmly. Use your brain. Nysha, none of this build-from-the-back stuff, we’ve already told you this. Come on, girls, we can do this,’ she claps her hands together, ‘come on, come on, let’s communicate some more. Communicate.’ ‘Alright then I’ll communicate,’ Matilda huffs from where she sits in her corner. In her peripheral vision, she sees April turn to look at her suddenly. ‘The plan is not working.’ Elisha stares at her. So do the others, stunned by the unexpected burst of protest. Even as Matilda speaks, they can’t help spying on her violet shirt, whose sweat-darkened dampness clings to her small but obvious bulge of pudge like a soggy rag, and at her belly button indent visible beneath the unfortunate angle of lights above her, and the way her white shorts, which should be loose, hug a little too close to her newly thickened thighs. There is nothing about the inflamed version of their teammate sitting on the bench that commands the respect of such athletic women – and yet for whatever reason, most of those girls find themselves lured by feelings of trust as they listen to her speak. Perhaps it’s the way they feel spoken for. ‘We cannot keep trying to play like this,’ Matilda says, failing to mask her heavy breathing. ‘We can’t hold the ball forever, and when we get a chance to counter; there’s nobody to pass the counter attack along to – and like, yeah, sure, some of that’s my fault but–’ ‘Oh, is it?’ Elisha crosses her arms and glances pitifully at Matilda and her little poochy midsection. Fire curls like a fist in Matilda’s solar plexus. ‘–I wasn’t finished. Don’t interrupt me.’ Eyes peeling wide, the girls look back and forth between Elisha and their star player who seems to be entering a physical decline. Even as they watch, her face is red with heat and her eyes are smouldering with rage at a low simmer that could flare to a boil at any moment. ‘There’s nothing to counter attack with,’ Matilda continues, almost in a snarl, her nostrils flared. ‘Evangeline can’t do it all on her own. She can’t. Stop expecting her to. They swamp her the moment she gets the ball and she has to pass right back using the first fucking touch she makes because she’s blocked on all fronts. We’re already down by a goal, tonight– and that happened because we tried to counter when they weren’t even fully in our half! So they just got to form right up again! They see it coming every single god damn time. It’s stupid. We need to press deeper, play in from the backline so they have to pressure us– and we build up, encourage them to press in and get close to us. All of us need to do that. Then we pass it back a little, dink it around the backline, wait for them to get impatient and come too close… Then we can counter attack. Just like any other team in the world does. And Nysha needs to make some passes to you, and to Beth; cut down through the middle so we open them up where they’ve got less bodies. You know? How are we supposed to do anything when they’re just holding a low block the whole time? We’re just trying to counter attack against someone else’s counter attack stance.’ Elisha’s eyes seem to have closed off, as if a second reptilian lid has slid over them. Which is strange. Matilda was expecting some kind of immediate retaliation. Anger. If not anger, then frustration. But Elisha opts for an attitude as cold as the blue of her icey eyes. Turning her back on Matilda as though she’s not even there, Elisha simply claps her hands with an ear-ringing bang and shouts, ‘Alright girls! Two more minutes!’ Making rousing motions with her hands, she moves away to her locker and takes a swig of water before heading to the doors again. When they return to the pitch and spread out into their positions, Matilda feels different parts of her body jiggle. She can’t be sure if she feels it all the way down to her knees or not, but there’s something unsettled in the way the flesh of her legs respond to every movement. Not one moment later, the referee blows the whistle. The ball arcs into the night air and everyone is in motion again. It doesn’t take long for her body to remember how sore it is, her lungs how ragged and dry they are. Not even ten minutes go by, and she’s already made an embarrassing mistake with the ball, sending it too far left straight into an opponent’s path. In two more cycles of play, they launch yet another failed counter attack, and Matilda hangs her head, starting yet another jog backwards to their defensive half. Then she makes a mistake. Distracted by the tightness in her lungs, she fails to read the play as an enemy defender gives the ball off to a midfielder making a run down Matilda’s side of the pitch. She angles inwards to give chase, but it’s too late. Even if she had begun the chase on time, it wouldn’t have worked. Sprinting with weak legs, she misses her chance to intercept the midfielder by a matter of metres, and can only watch as they run the ball away, dribble it at a dead sprint into the centre of the field, then pass it at a forty-five degree angle to a teammate who is bolting forward through a gap in the backline to catch the ball, remaining on-side, and carries it through at a sprint. The opponent angles in towards the goals, squares up for a shot even as Talina comes racing over to throw a desperate blocking foot into the air. Nysha spreads her feet and arms ready to make a save. Nysha lunges to the right, but the attacker has faked a shot, before readjusting her footing to smash a shot in with her other foot, the ball curling over Nysha’s right shoulder instead. The back of the net ripples as the ball spins home. The few dozens of Cortennay fans in the Purple Vale stands shout and cheer as the goal scorer punches her fists into the air, then goes for a celebratory jog, her teammates crowding around her to celebrate. ‘What the fuck, Matilda!’ screams Elisha. Bent over at the waist, with her hands on her knees, huffing with all her might to fill her lungs with air, Matilda looks up from under eyebrows about to drip with sweat. The Purple Vale girls stand around the pitch like listless dolls, hands on their hips, some walking with slow resignation back to their starting positions, ready to reset. Elisha paces left and right ten yards away from Matilda, sending a glare full of all the world’s fury into her very existence, and is about to shout something else at her when Evangeline, making her way back up field, grabs Elisha by the arm as she comes past, shaking her head and saying a few words to placate her captain’s spirits. Matilda watches Evangeline trot away, then drops her head to search for her lost composure somewhere in the filaments of grass between her boots. There is an atmosphere of injured acceptance among them all as Matilda straightens and walks back to her starting position, hands planted on her hip bones whose bony ridges can be felt as if through a layer of putty. She can feel her belly expanding and contracting against the front of her shirt as she pulls and heaves with her lungs to get her breath back. What an alien feeling this is. To have your belly, once flat, turn into its own appendage, as if separate from you, making micro-movements and gestures seemingly of its own fleshy accord – wobbly, unstable and infirm movements. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the limit of her endurance, twenty minutes away from the final whistle. Maybe this is where she needs to stop binge eating, stop gluttonising, to stop putting on useless weight. The whistle blows to resume play. The final stretch takes whatever breath she had regained while she’d had her hands on her knees, and then takes even more, leaving her beyond exhausted, and irritated, and causing her to make stupid decisions in possession, to make lunges at the ball that she is a fraction of a second too late for, only to be outpaced whenever she does manage to get her feet behind the ball. After the game wraps up, at a 0 - 3 loss, the girls file into the locker rooms and, more or less, mope in solitary silence. With nothing to celebrate, they change in a swift, isolated manner. Matilda has only just managed to swap her drenched shirt for a baggy blue hoodie in the brief window of opportunity while no one was looking, when out of nowhere Elisha approaches her with a strangely inverted mood of careless calm. In her hand is a large cup with a straw. She holds it out. Matilda peers up at it with one arm still halfway through the sleeve of her hoodie. ‘I’m sorry for yelling,’ Elisha smiles flatly. ‘You look exhausted, actually. Here, have this, you’ll get some energy back.’ She lowers the drink down to Matilda’s line of sight. It appears to be a large, thick milkshake infused with creamy little layers of froth. Matilda pushes her arm the rest of the way through, airs the hoodie out loosely to obscure any obvious shapes of indulgence in her midsection. Then she simply takes the drink. ‘Thanks,’ she says with simple brevity. Elisha seems to hesitate, surprised how easily whatever game she’s playing at was accepted. No need to even bribe – Matilda just takes it. Just greedily snatches. But once Elisha has turned and walked away, Matilda sends a dirty look at the space between her shoulder blades, then puts the thick shake down on the seat beside her and continues to change. Thanks very much, you bitch, she thinks to herself, Won’t give you the satisfaction of seeing it happen in front of you, but I’ll enjoy your little present later. Matilda begins to pack up her bag. She can sniff out what this is from a mile away. Some sort of Hansel and Gretel type act. Of course it is. Elisha wants her gone – she secretly always has. There’s competition, in clubs, sure, but then there’s toxic competition. If she was in charge of her own team, there would be no toxins. No glory hunters. No Elishas. Just players jonesing to be their best selves on and off the pitch. Just then, Margery bursts in through the club-side door, the force of the handle as it slams against the wall echoing throughout the tiled room. Looking ghostly and jetlagged, the boss wastes no time. ‘What are we doing?’ she yells. ‘I told you demented hens in the backline to keep formation, and yet somehow there was always a gap to run through! Leading to two goals! Grace! Talina! Why was it the two of you, both times? Neither of you want to hold the line when it counts! You looked like you were at a funeral.’ Margery’s eyes flit like tongues of white flame across the room. Then she sees Matilda – who sucks in and clenches her teeth, huddled all the way back in her corner. Margery seems about to shout, but nothing comes from her mouth. Instead she just watches Matilda for a long, long while, so drawn out that it turns stale. When she does finally speak, it’s in a quiet and measured tone. ‘No. Now that I think about it, the second concession was because of you, wasn’t it… Can you tell me why you failed to intercept that pass? I am listening. Tell me. Tell me your side of the story. Please, do go on.’ A set of two or three different possible answers come to Matilda all at once, but she foresees them all being turned back on her. So she remains silent. Which frustrates Margery above all else. Margery’s lips curl. ‘You may have proven to be the saddest case of a footballing prodigy I have ever watched deteriorate before my own eyes, Matilda. I hope people learn something from you, and I hope to God nobody ever has to see it again.’ She draws a breath and stares down her nose to her feet. ‘Good work, everyone. Double your energy next week and we might concede one less goal. Keep it up. Yes. Keep it up.’ Then she looks at Matilda, one last time. She opens her mouth to deliver a line, then her breath catches. Scanning her up and down, she shuts her mouth and shakes her head slowly, then turns and leaves, the disgust drawn so visibly on her face that her disappearance through the door seems to catch her expression in a snapshot that lingers the way the sun might when you look at it for too long. . . . So Matilda resumes her binge-eating escapades, sometimes in the confines of her solitude, often in the company of Carlile whose presence she feels safe within. The morning of the following Wednesday, Matilda decides to bring out the scales before heading to training. Margery’s outburst in the change rooms after the match had impacted her in a way that hung around for two days – a loitering mood filled, and somewhat worsened with, continuous bouts of snacking. But the past four days only turned any shame she felt into anger, and then anger into spite. Still in her pyjamas, she makes her way into the bathroom, stands on the scale several times, and makes a note of 163 pounds in her mind. A bitter laugh slithers out her lips as she does rapid mathematics and realises she must be carrying around twenty pounds more than she’s used to. Her belly presses against the inside of her pyjama top, round, and vaguely pregnant-looking. She slaps the side of it, its stuffed roundness taking the hit like a wineskin, and the layer of blubber pulled taut around it jiggling slightly. She presses her hand into her hips, testing the depth of sinkage, then grabs the flesh around her thighs, shaking her head side to side in disbelief. She still remembers the feeling of firm muscle like it was just yesterday. At training, a warm, slow spring wind hangs over the pitch. She just manages to keep up with the routine. The girls make sure to say nothing around her. Nor does she. Head down, she keeps her mouth shut and talks to no one. From the sidelines, Margery observes them with her arms crossed, cradling her chin in one hand, and pretends not to notice Matilda’s presence even though a twinge of disgust creases the corners of her nose each time she enters Margery’s general proximity any closer than ten yards, sweating and losing energy, breath by lost breath. That night, venting about her day to Carlile, she’s suddenly made to shut up, and thrust into a fit of love-making after the sheer sensual innocence of one movement that kills her dead on the spot. All he has to do is fold his arms behind his head and stretch, elevating his shirt and exposing his little happy-trail – formerly a straight line from his navel to his underwear – now a curve sweeping gently outwards over a lazy swell of puppy fat that her fingers cry out to touch. She leaps on him without a word, entranced, smothering him with her lust. But as they make love, and the hour ticks past midnight, she notices how he keeps pushing her hands away from his softening midsection whenever she comes too close. It’s enough to make her want to screech. . . . Spring is supposed to be a month or two away — and yet, on her drive to Harriette’s house, the Sunday morning's weather is all too warmly crystalline to believe in appropriate seasonal change anymore. The sky's stark, bold blue makes the pine and gum trees along the arterial roads look taller, their leaves bright green in the sunlight, bringing memories of summer and an onset of cravings for the refreshing zing of summer time snacks like ice cream cones, and ice blocks by the pool. Grabbed by the scruff of her whim and yanked, she pulls into McDonald’s for a frozen soft drink and slurps it down so hard and fast she nearly gets a brain freeze. The warmth in the air this morning had forced her into wearing thin, sparse summer clothing. Such a sudden shift away from the thick, coddling clothes she’d grown used to wearing, now in nothing more than a tank top and shorts, makes her feel sort of half-naked. Maybe it’s because of the brand-new blubber she can feel giving off tense little jiggles across the face of her thighs, exposed to the world below her line of sight. Her clothes feel small and dainty, a ghost-thin weave of concealment that brushes her skin only now and again. It’s all mixed emotions as she locks her car and walks up Harriette’s driveway, the sun on her back, birds squirrelling in the trees. The better part of her soul adores this summer feeling of liberation. Right now, all she feels is a constant risk of exposure, of humiliation, as if at any minute, an onlooker, raking the leaves in front of their garden, might catch sight of her softening physical form, and scoff to themselves. All Matilda can do to combat the feeling is to look down at herself so that her brain is reminded that she is, in fact, not in the bare. Or at least mostly. Her arms have no tone, anymore. Actually they’re getting kind of sausage-like, and it’s all too easy to see. So are her exposed shoulders – especially in this light, a soft sheen in her skin illustrating their state of growing smoothness. Every step towards the front door seems to create a unique beat of tiny jiggles around her body. Her legs. Her chest. Her belly. She tries not to look at her reflection as she passes a shuttered window. Putting her hand on the handle, she does her best to wash away the intrusive ruminations before entering. The renovations in the front room have come some way since she visited last, with the wall completely knocked out and remaining gaps in the process of being filled as she comes in through the front door. The two tradesmen pressing putty into the wall don’t turn to acknowledge her, for which she feels an unfamiliar flit of relief. She finds Harriette in the back garden, kneeling on her hands and knees in front of a bush, cutting a tall white peace lily at its base with a pair of secateurs and slotting it into a little glass vase. Matilda approaches silently, standing a few feet to the side to watch. When she places her hands on her hips, she tries not to cringe at the feeling of her thumbs sinking into flesh. Harriette is singing a tune to herself under her breath. She must have noticed Matilda’s shadow suddenly, because she looks over her shoulder. Matilda bursts out laughing. ‘You look like a goblin, hunched over staring at me like that.’ Sticking her tongue out, Harriette drops the secateurs and stands up on awkward, stiff legs, wiping her hands against each other. ‘Whatya doin?’ Matilda says. ‘And aren’t you hot in those clothes? It’s like it’s summer for some reason today.’ Harriette, swaddled in sweatpants and a chunky knit jumper, glances at the vase on the ground. ‘Yeah. I was just collecting a peace lily. I’d give you one too, but I can only clip one. They take too long to grow…’ Suddenly her eyes wander away. ‘Unlike me.’ With that, she gives an awkward laugh and bends down to pick up the vase, holding it in front of her chest. ‘Shall we venture inside?’ Coming into the kitchen, Harriette keeps the sliding door open for the breeze and puts the vase down on the bench. ‘I haven’t had anything to eat yet,’ she says as she opens the fridge. ‘You had lunch?’ Matilda shakes her head, lying. She’d scoffed down two bread rolls and a few cookies before heading out, and then scoffed the frozen coke. Perhaps that wasn’t “lunch”... but still. ‘I could make you a milkshake,’ Harriette suggests. She reaches into the fridge, then stops. ‘Ah.’ Her reaching hand falls away, along with the expression on her face. ‘Dang.’ ‘What’s up?’ ‘Ah, nothing. There’s no milk.’ ‘Serious? I’ve never known your house to not have milk…’ Harriette looks in the freezer compartment, and her shoulders slump. ‘I see. Mum didn’t buy ice cream, either.’ She gently shuts the fridge, her hand lingering on the handle. ‘She must’ve done that on purpose.’ ‘Why?’ ‘She thinks I’m getting fat.’ ‘Aw… Harriette–’ Matilda begins, not knowing how to go on, or whether she even should. ‘Yeah but, no, I mean, what if I am? It’s embarrassing…’ ‘You can talk to me about it. Is anybody here?’ ‘Just those guys in the front room. Let’s go upstairs.’ In her room, Harriette arranges the vase with the peace lily on the window sill above her computer screen, then gets into her bed and opens her laptop to scroll through her Spotify playlists while Matilda sinks into a beanbag beside the bed. ‘Eugh, why is it so hot?’ Harriette pulls her knit jumper off and relaxes against the bedhead, kicking the blankets away with her bare feet. Her eyes catch on her body. ‘Ugh. Maybe I am.’ ‘Hot? So am I.’ ‘In the good sense, you are, my little Ladybug. Me? Not in either sense.’ ‘Whatcha talking about, Beetle?’ ‘Mum can lack tact– but that doesn’t necessarily make someone wrong. Just makes them what we call an “asshole”.’ ‘You wanna talk about something?’ Matilda narrows her eyes, ready to gauge Harriette’s reaction. ‘Ah. Don’t mind me. I suppose none of my clothes are fitting the way they should,’ Harriette says with a derisive hand wave. And it’s true. That knit jumper already looked filled-up with her body when she was wearing it – now that it’s off, it’s plain to see that Harriette’s been growing from chubby to chubbier. Her light blue top looks as tight as a second skin, her belly showing its shape as plainly as if someone had sewn a tube around her waist and filled it with air, along with a second roll rising into its own league beneath her breasts. She might have pulled the drawstrings of her sweatpants too tight, as well, because her hips look like they’re having the life choked out of them, swollen right out into chunky lovehandles, and the crest of her paunch is pushing way out, bulging over the knot. As much as the waistband strangles her middle, her ass retaliates by swelling right back out again from underneath it, her upper thighs pressing against her sweatpants. Even her sleeves dig into her arms a little, the seam under her armpits showing stress creases. Sensing the force behind Matilda’s gaze, Harriette slithers her forearm over her stomach like a snake. Her eyebrows tighten into a frown as she peers down at the laptop, her chin’s softness eliminating some of the distinction between neck and jawline. ‘It’s all changed so intensely, with such pace,’ Harriette admits. ‘I just don’t understand why. Or I do. But it’s nothing to worry about, I guess.’ There must be at least ten, hell maybe even fifteen pounds more of her since last they saw each other, and even then she’d been chubby, her middle beginning to resemble a pool floatie. In a way, it overshadows Matilda’s own recent gain. She doesn’t know how to feel about that, or what to think, either. Either Harriette really is fatter than her, or the weight packs onto shorter people in a way that looks more severe than it really is. Harriette bites the nail of her thumb. ‘I can’t make sense of it.’ ‘Why not?’ Matilda asks. ‘You shouldn’t be ashamed or anything, anyway– nothing is ever unworkable.’ ‘Because it all happened so fast.’ Harriette regards her body with inquisitive dismay. ‘Maybe…’ Matilda begins to suggest, ‘maybe you’ve just put on a little comfort weight, already? That’s a good sign, isn’t it? You’ve been going out with… uh…’ Matilda wags her fingers in the air like a magician. ‘Mister Mystery? He who shall not be named? If you name it, you kill it–’ ‘–Chris.’ Matilda looks at her sidelong, and says in a slow, sceptical manner, ‘With Chris… for… how long now? Maybe you’ve just grown comfortable with him. It happens, you know.’ Harriette’s eyes drift off. Then she seems to double down on whatever train of thought she’d been careening down the tracks of this whole time. ‘Wait a moment. Let’s say, for the sake of hypotheticals, that I am– that I have– put on what you’re kindly calling “comfort” weight… Well, it would only be because we share so much food, the two of us, Chris and I. Maybe too much. But then again, that can’t be the entire story, because… the food we’re eating isn’t necessarily unhealthy. Plus, I’ve never gained weight so fast in my life. I have moments in which I wonder if I contracted some unheard-of virus, or something, that I’m the first subject in the entire medical world to be infected with it. A disease from outer space, preserved in ice, crashed here on a meteor until it thawed and spread out. Fat-icitis. Gain-arolia. Flab-flu.’ Harriette belts out a cynical laugh. Matilda puts a knuckle to her chin pensively. ‘But if you’re eating a lot of food, then… uhm… you know…’ She really would not prefer to state the obvious, here. They stare at each other. Suddenly Harriette gets a text message. She reaches forward for her phone, which lies between her feet, and has to put her hand over her stomach to keep it from rolling into her lap. But what’s the point anymore? Even Matilda, sitting on the beanbag with her own arm draped nervously over her own belly, knows that if her belly ever grew that obvious, she would forget trying to hide it ever again – a day which may not be as distant as she wants it to be, either. Until the tension with the whole Margery situation finally snaps into however millions of pieces, that is. Harriette puts her phone down, with an expression on her face that is so blank that it sets off Matilda’s suspicion sensors. ‘Everything alright?’ she asks. Harriette is pursing her lips now, and is apparently unable to look Matilda in the eye. Something is eating her mind from the inside out. ‘Beetle?’ Matilda croons, concerned. ‘Yeah. Sorry. I, um…’ Suddenly she rolls out of her bed and starts moving around her room, needlessly rearranging things with a lack of direction. When she bends over to aimlessly push a small rubbish bin back into its corner under her desk, her belly snowballs into her lap, before resuming its taught orb-like shape when she stands back up – the movement taking the hem of her shirt for a ride up with it. Matilda watches the ring of Harriette’s exposed flesh cause the front of her shirt to bounce along, time and again, as she continues to fluster about, until all of a sudden, she stops and faces Matilda with a momentous huff. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, then decides to take a seat at her desk, her chubby thighs spreading under the weight of her new bulk, the chunk of fat inside her shirt gathering into something that resembles a full blown sail. ‘Look,’ she says, red-cheeked. ‘Matilda, I’m so sorry. I’ve been acting weird all day. I know this. I shouldn’t have let you come around, but now you’re both going to be here, so…’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘They just texted me and said they’re just around the corner, so–’ ‘“They”?’ Harriette deflates. ‘Chris. I mean, no. Wait. Not Chris. Look, Matilda, I’m so sorry– I’ve been telling you all a lie.’ Matilda’s face goes funny. ‘There is no Chris.’ ‘Wut?’ Matilda almost drools. ‘I don’t know how to say this… I don’t know… You have to promise me you won’t think any less of me when I do. When I say it, that is.’ Harriette pinches the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes. ‘Oh my god, this is too hard for me to say out loud. And I haven’t said this to anyone, yet. Not even you. I didn’t even realise all… this until recently… which blows it all out into an even worse, even more confusing squiggle of– ugh!’ ‘What is it?’ Matilda pleads, cupping her palms to make a point of confounded sincerity. ‘Seriously. You can tell me.’ Harriette lays the palm of her hand against her skull and leans into it, stretching out and massaging the skin of her face. After a moment, Harriette begins speaking. ‘It all happened… I think towards the end of last year. I, um– I suppose I finally started answering my own questions about it, when one of my aunts asked me– in jest, that is– in that whiney house-wifey voice of hers, about “any boyfriends?” on the horizon. Well, of course old Harriette over here, well she didn’t know how to respond to that, did she? I sat there quite literally gaping at the mouth. After all these pubescent, teenage, young adult years of my life being asked the same braindead question, I finally could not answer. Not in the usual way. And no, not because, like, of anything that would usually confuse someone. What I mean is that I didn’t feel embarrassed, or anything– just… I don’t know. In that moment? In that moment, I realised I’d never been able to answer that kind of question with anything approaching honesty for my entire life. And then I started wondering why that was. And then the conversation got awkward and had to move on. And then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And by the time I got home, I spent the next week holed up, in this here cube of walls and roof, confused and depressed as hell. It’s not like I was sad about it. I shouldn’t be. Not anymore. But I felt guilty. Like I’d lied to myself all my life. And therefore to others. Because I had! I have been! It’s crazy. I didn’t know how to look anyone in the eye, anymore, and so I discovered that couldn’t open my door to–’ ‘Harriette,’ Matilda interrupts. ‘Here.’ She leans forward and reaches for Harriette’s hand to offer support. Harriette looks at her hand, floating there, and almost takes it, but the stairs suddenly creak. Harriette’s face becomes a battleground upon which openness struggles for dominance over sadness as she turns to look at her door in such a manner as if nothing were wrong. The last dark glimmers of panic dissipate from her eyes just in time for the entry of an enormous body belonging to a Latino girl in her late twenties, so large she would have to be weighing in her upper 300’s. Matilda looks up at the newcomer with gobsmacked incredulity and wonder. What was once an Instagram-tier face, with doll lips, wide cheekbones and a strong nose between bright brown eyes, appears swallowed by the pockets of flesh cushioning her neck and round shoulders completely devoid of anything close to angular. She might be expected to dress the way most people of her size do, in moomoos and clothes that may as well be bedsheets draped over her shoulders – but instead her outfit looks like it’s been taken from the trending feed of Instagram and received an enlargement procedure by some black magic that allows it to contain every last inch of her girth with exact fitted precision. Each of her basketball sized breasts hang almost flat under the pull of their bulk, but the way her huge frilled camisole tucks with such supportive smoothness under their weight, you are simply left marvelling at the existence of two uniquely gargantuan curves that nothing else in the world could come close to imitating the glory of. All of a sudden Matilda feels tiny as an ant. It’s all by comparison, of course, but perhaps she isn’t as fat as she’s been anxious of. As the newcomer steps fully into Harriette’s room, the size of her midsection brings itself to attention. Her hips – twin anchors in a triumvirate of curves – are almost as large as her stomach itself. To name that appendage a “** belly” or “paunch” simply would not be appropriate, and nor does the word “gut” apply, since there is no clear delineation between where her belly ends and her lovehandles begin. The word “muffintop” insinuates something that is too squat, too short for what this woman possesses. “Paunch” invokes too narrow a protrusion. No, this girl’s stomach is comprised of so much shifting, heavy lard that it seems to have stopped growing upon its own real estate and been forced to push out higher up, leaving a roll thicker than someone’s thigh to spill over a pair of large high waisted jeans, the insides of which already display a few holes from being filled like balloons day after day. She’s breathing heavily from the climb up the stairs, and when her eyes lock with Matilda, she beams, flaunting a huge bright grin full of big straight teeth. ‘Hi there! You must be Matilda! I’m Christine.’ All Matilda can really do is sit there with a grin and nod, holding onto as friendly an expression as possible while she pretends she hasn’t been shock-blasted out of her boots at the size of this girl. Matilda looks over at Harriette. This entire time, her friend has been trying to make eye contact, but failing on account of an internal distress so severe it’s clearly scrambling pieces of her brain into a scattered mush. Harriette’s eyes dive to the floor, where they remain fixed. Christine’s grin loses its power as the awkward pause stays around for longer than it should have. Finally her lips make a small O shape of comprehension, and she looks back and forth between the two of them. ‘If I’ve walked in on something… serious here? I’ll just…’ Christine begins to gently retreat, every round surface of her body kicking into motion with bulky wobbles as her hips roll back a few steps. ‘No! Wait.’ Harriette moves halfway out of her desk chair, reaching out with her hand. ‘Oh, boy.’ She sinks back into her seat. ‘Oh, shit, this is so awkward. I feel sick.’ Christine stops moving. ‘Is everything ok?’ ‘I have something to confess.’ Harriette looks up with great difficulty at the huge woman. ‘I… haven’t told her yet,’ she admits, indicating to Matilda. ‘I’m sorry. This is all so new to me, I didn’t know how to do it.’ She turns to face Matilda, her expression tense as if ready to flinch back from an attack. ‘Matilda… I should have told you this earlier, I should have been honest with you, honest with everyone, but… here goes.’ She puts her hands on her knees and draws a deep breath. ‘I’m gay.’ Despite such an awkward delivery of phrasing from someone who writes novels, Matilda finds herself smiling and nodding at what Harriette just said. It seems rather simple to do – something she should do, for her friend. Blunt, unassuming acceptance. Harriette taps her forefingers against one another. ‘…I, uhm. I have been all my life. I think. So. Yeah!’ She slaps her knees sadly. ‘I’m coming out, now. Here I am? I’m gay. And I’m sorry.’ ‘Don’t be sorry,’ is the only thing Matilda can come up with. Then she takes a moment to ride out a wave of delayed shock as it travels through her. There are so many possible trains of thought she could launch into, right now. So many things she could say. Drawing a deep breath, Matilda slowly nods. ‘Okay.’ She gets up from the beanbag, sits down on the corner of Harriette’s bed, and leans towards her with her elbows on her knees. ‘Harriette? I want you to listen to me. Please don’t worry. I’m here for you. And I hear you. I mean. Yeah, sure,’ she shrugs, brows curling upwards, ‘it kind of is a shock. But… you look like you’re taking this really badly. Worse than I am, that’s for sure. Well, just know I don’t want that for you, okay? I want you to be okay. I’m your friend. So okay, fine; yeah I didn’t know I was coming over today to hear this, but I get it. It’s a big thing. It’s huge. It’s a lot for me to hear, all at once, especially cos you thought you couldn’t tell me earlier, but… It would be even harder for you to come out about it. So…’ She shrugs again, helpless for words. ‘I am shocked. But maybe not even in a bad way. And I’m not angry. At all. Know that. Just maybe... a bit hurt that you thought you didn’t think you could tell me? I love you, Beetle. You know that. I’ll always be here for you.’ Harriette’s eyes are wet, and her neck and cheeks look swollen as she strains to hold back tears. Christine, still standing near the door; has an expression that is unreadable to Matilda, half due to the fact that she only just met Christine, and half because there are so many emotions layered on top of one another, persistently shifting and changing across her face; embarrassment, realisation, confusion, uncertainty, all looping back in towards shut-lipped embarrassment. She seems to almost retreat into herself, shrinking a size or two (contradictory, given her bulk…), and Matilda can sense the energy of the room drawing back into itself like a whirlpool, a collapsing star threatening to explode. Her eyes glint as she looks back and forth between the two women. She has to do something, say something. She can ask questions later; right now a social bomb needs to be defused. Turning to Christine, she extends her hand. ‘Well! It’s lovely to meet you,– is it Christine?’ The girl slowly nods. Then something seems to click behind her eyes, and there is a touch of enthusiasm when she nods, taking a step towards her and accepting her hand. They shake gently, and Matilda lets herself giggle at the obscenity of all this. Christine smirks a little, her full smile held back only by an uncertainty that persists behind her eyes. Matilda offers a false little bow from where she sits on the edge of the bed, laughing. ‘Well, it is lovely to meet you nonetheless.’ She looks at Harriette and smiles, hoping to delay her friend’s tears. With a quick look at her phone, she says, ‘I wish I could stay longer to meet you, but I have to leave for training in a moment. I have a minute or two, though. So, just out of curiosity– can I ask when you two met?’ She narrows her eyes playfully. Harriette and Christine exchange a glance. It’s clear a conversation is going to take place in private once she’s gone. It seems Christine is the one to take the lead here. ‘I don’t know what you’ve been told, or how much,’ she says, exchanging another glance with Harriette, ‘but we met around the new year.’ Matilda smiles and nods, crossing her legs and leaning forward to appear more interested. ‘Hmm.’ Christine touches her chin and glances around. ‘I should probably sit down. I feel awkward standing while you two are sitting.’ The only spot to sit is the beanbag across the other side of Harriette’s bed. In the eye of her mind, Matilda keeps visualising Christine falling backwards onto one of the pellet-filled sacks, with an ass just as big, only to rip every seam of it and send a billion little foam balls bursting across the floor. Evicting the intrusive thoughts from her mind, she wonders if she should get up off the bed and offer her spot. But it’s as if the girl has already read her mind. ‘Yep,’ Christine admits, flashing her eyes sassily, ‘we know what happened last time, don’t we?’ with a quick glance at Harriette, then at the beanbags, one of which Matilda suddenly realises is actually… missing? Harriette usually has two. Making a small O with her lips, then politely standing up, Matilda more or less swaps places with Christine. Then she makes her way over to the door, needing to leave soon anyway, and Christine carefully lowers her weight onto the end of Harriette’s bed. Nobody can stop themselves watching as Christine’s massive teardrop shaped body bends the mattress into a shallow V, one or two springs crackling against each other and the very timber of the frame creaking quietly. Her already giant midriff seems to expand its bulk outwards as she sits, and it’s a wonder that the waistband of her overfilled pants don’t just bust open with a bang. The upper half of her belly, with nowhere left to go but to ooze over the top, threatens to push her camisole out of the way just to make room for its greedy reach. ‘Yep, that’s me,’ Christine says, preemptively patting the top of her belly with a sigh. ‘Hi. Christine Alvidrez, quite obviously someone who needs a bit more space, shall we say, than most people?’ giving them a sidelong, sado-masochistic glance with her eyes. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ ‘I’m Matilda. I guess Harriette’s probably told you about me.’ ‘Ah. Now has she? Or hasn’t she? Perhaps we don’t know anymore, do we?’ Christine throws a cheeky, fat-cheeked grin at Harriette, who lowers her head. Christine’s smirk is somewhere between affection and sadism. ‘No, no– of course she has,’ she closes her eyes and smiles. ‘Harriette talks about you all the time, she can’t shut up about you. Calls you her Ladybug all the time. You’re a really good footballer, right?’ ‘I play for a local club. Nothing special.’ ‘She says you’re in a special league.’ That makes Matilda laugh out loud. ‘No, no way. Not really. Just state-level. League One. We got promoted last year from the lower division after a pretty good run, is what she meant. But…’ Matilda’s face sags. ‘Now we have a new boss who thinks it’s more important than it really is– she acts like it’s division two English football, and makes us all do this ridiculous, over the top stuff, but she’s absolutely terrible at being a manager at the same time…’ She stops speaking before she feels the heat rise to an unretrievable level in her chest. ‘I hear you’re a local talent, though.’ Screwing her face up with a bashful grin, Matilda shrugs. ‘Was, maybe. But, yeah, the club’s been in some… interesting times… mostly because of our new boss. You know? Margery. Don’t know if Harriette’s told you anything about her, but yeah. Margery’s kinda a bitch.’ Pulling her phone from her pocket, Matilda checks the time. ‘Speaking of. I have to go, now. To training. I’ve been late like a million times now.’ With Harriette still incapacitated by embarrassment, her girlfriend appears to assume the role of host. Matilda makes her way towards the door, and Christine stands up, squeezing her breath when she has to lean forward against the bulk of her gut to gain momentum and move her weight onto her bent knees, then straighten her legs as she leans slightly on one arm to push herself up using the mattress. She adjusts the hem of her bra around her left breast and begins to follow Matilda out to the top of the stairs. Looking past Christine’s shoulder, Matilda catches Harriette’s ashamed eye. ‘I’ve gotta go now, Beetle. I just want you to know everything is fine, okay? I’ll call you later, alright?’ Harriette nods. And with that, Matilda smiles ruefully, makes a small loveheart shape with her fingers, then turns away. Pausing with one foot on the stairs, she half turns to Christine who stands at the door and whose breath can be heard after the mere act of standing up. ‘Well it was nice meeting you.’ Christine smiles in agreement. ‘You too!’ ‘Sorry I have to leave so quickly. I’ll get into so much trouble if I’m late.’ Secretly knowing she hardly gives a fuck. ‘I’m sure we’ll see each other around some other time, anyway. We’ll get to know each other better then.’ They exchange a farewell wave with each other, then Matilda turns and walks down the stairs, carrying with her the last impression in her mind; the image of Christine standing in front of Harriette’s door, her body so wide it takes up the entire frame, all curves and bulges, not a single straight line to be seen. . . .

Matilda is reclined sideways on Carlile’s bed and scrolling Instagram on her becoming-out-of-date iPhone, which has a hairline crack in the bottom right corner of its screen from falling out her bag onto the bitumen after a match one night. Carlile is at his computer, seated diagonal-wise with his forearm on the edge of the desk as he shops online for a portable movie projector he says he wants to set up in place of the TV in his bedroom’s partition. Hours of time and all its wasted potential passes by, and then passes what has already passed, until she at last depletes the serendipity of scrolling. Deprived of new content, she returns to reality’s patience-requiring mundanity, feeling her brain struggle to adjust to the slower tempo of things. Looking up and away at the ceiling, she yawns. She closes her eyes and stretches out in a catlike motion, arms and legs sticking out straight as pegs – then her shirt slips out from where it was tucked down in her shorts, revealing the curiously pale skin of her bare tummy, bulging out slightly from the food inside. Its stuffed mass droops to one side like a water bag, just barely coming into contact with the bedsheets. Leaning back from the screen, Carlile glances over at her with uneasy arousal as he watches her squeeze the stiffness out from her body, wringing herself like a sponge, then relaxing with a satisfied grunt, only to then curl up as if asleep, with her shirt settling back down over her belly without exactly covering her navel. The delicate pinhole of flesh just sits there, right in plain sight, kissing the air. It looks especially squishy today, with the lower section of her belly just laying exposed in the open like that. Her phone falls limp in her hand as she strokes the side of her stomach with the other hand’s fingers, and ruminates within her thoughts. It’s all so fucked up. She’s still struggling to admit the grotesque, permanent truth. How nice it feels to squeeze, to rub, to pinch and slide her fingers along what used to be paper-thin skin. Her stomach has a deepened, more substantial squish now, and it feels more similar in texture to a stress ball than anything else. Which she finds herself enjoying… That strangely hypnotic sensation; her blubber rolling back and forth all smooth and silky warm, tender between her fingers. It’s a hypnotic spell she’s been falling under, as of late, more and more often. A spell she hasn’t figured out how to break. She swears under her breath. ‘Look at that,’ she gently marvels, holding a portion of blubber between thumb and forefinger. ‘All your cooking’s actually started to make me fat.’ She glances up at Carlile from beneath very serious eyebrows. ‘I’m beginning to think this all might be your fault.’ ‘What?’ His face tightens, oddly defensive, and his eyes go dark. ‘Now hang on a minute, you were the one who–’ She stares at him incredulously. ‘Carl!’ she exclaims, unable to hide the note of dismay in her voice. ‘I’m joking…’ After a moment, he relaxes. He runs a hand through his hair. Something fights to break free behind his bright grey-blue eyes. But he’s keeping it back. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. ‘Sorry.’ Matilda sits up. ‘Come on, babe.’ She sticks her leg out, nudging him with her toes. ‘I was joking. Ya silly old man.’ For a moment, his eyes dawdle around the location of her midsection. The left side of her stomach is overtaking her waistband’s jurisdiction, pressed into a lopsided muffintop by the way she’s sitting, lazily hunched and bent sideways with her hips cocked. Carlile brings his eyes up to meet her gaze, chewing his lip. She frowns. ‘Why are you so tense today?’ ‘I don’t want you to feel like this.’ ‘Like what? ‘Bad.’ Matilda squints out the corners of her eyes. ‘When… When did I say I felt”bad”?’ ‘You just said– joked, I mean– that it’s all my fault. I just don’t want to be causing you to feel like shit, like a lump of mouldy soup, or anything.’ ‘About what exactly? Going up a size or two? Carl, we’ve been through this already. Do we have to keep doing this?’ He sighs and gets up out of his computer chair. Then he comes over to sit beside her on the edge of the bed. She looks up into his face for a moment, the way someone at an art gallery might read the plaque beneath an installation. ‘Listen, Carl. Babe. I don’t know what it is, but…’ She places a hand on top of his. ‘I think I feel okay? Being the way I am? Right now, at least. Or at least when I’m around you, I do. You know? And I like that. I want to feel comfortable around you.’ She snuggles into his arm. He returns the favour. She shrugs contemplatively. ‘I mean, I still feel like a fat pig. Which I’m not used to. In front of anyone else, I feel gross. I really do, sometimes. But I’m okay around you. I don’t know why. But I’m not gonna question it, either– I don’t wanna ruin it. Like, if you’re winning a match, and you start thinking about how you’re winning, or if it’s really real– and then you end up tilting and **. Look, what I’m tryna say is; stop feeling bad for nothing all the time. Like– yeah, I’m getting chubby. I know. But it’s got nothing to do with you, okay? And when I’m done? I lose it all anyway. Back to my old self. Don’t you worry about it.’ He shifts his leg a little, then says, ‘What if it was the other way around? If I was in your position. If I got fat, would it be the same?’ A wild thrill pulses through every vein in her body as the truth of it almost blasts forth like a pressurised plumbing disaster, a blast of a horn of war, a catastrophic outpouring from her lips – but… No. She can’t send everything off to sea all at once, and expect it to return undamaged, or worse, totally missing. She reins her urges in, handcuffs them, and injects them with tranquiliser until they flap limply to sleep in her heart. He’s still waiting for an answer. ‘Hmm.’ She tilts her head ineffectually, disguising the visceral currents of pleasure she feels growing out from the roots of perverted thoughts that have been building up within her like an overdue, swollen energy needing to be released. ‘If you felt comfortable?’ she says in a strange, over-forced, cool manner. She shrugs. ‘Then whatever, I guess? But… are you telling me you’d just… go and turn your back on all that hard work you did at the gym? All that dieting? Starving yourself?’ Suddenly her voice turns a corner, slipping into a cheeky register. ‘My silly little diet-boy?’ She jabs her finger into his side, far enough from his belly to go unnoticed, but near enough to get a scientific clue about what potential-laden softness is there. He contorts under her probing attack. ‘Ow, fuck, don’t–’ his deep voice giggles. They jostle against each other’s bodies, rolling around the edge of his bed as they spar, and play-slap, and gently wrestle. Then Carlile’s hand comes into contact with her hip, and she feels his fingers turn into a claw, sinking into her pocket of flesh. ‘Oh god,’ she breathes, shocked by the reminder that she has developed a new part of her body. Carlile freezes at the sound of her voice, but doesn’t exactly let go either. She looks down at her side, her breaths gaining pace. She lays her hand on top of his hand, then runs her fingers between his own like water streams down gullies, until her fingertips touch the little, smooth ridges of her flesh… squeezed between the webs of his fingers, each of them yielding faintly to the pressure she applies to them. The orbs of their eyes roll up, meet, and lock with one another. Then, out of nowhere, Carlile asks, ‘Do you think we should track your progress?’ The way he sounds reminds her of a teenager for some reason. She pulls her hand away, brows pressing together. ‘Why? You think I should?’ ‘Uh. Well. Maybe?’ He hesitates, letting go of the squishy bit of her hip. Something urgent, more mature and held-back, comes into his voice. ‘If you want to stop all of this once you’ve reached a certain… point… then you could keep track, measure things, so you know when to stop.’ ‘My “certain point”,’ she scoffs, ‘is when Margery finally cracks like that brittle-boned little bitch she is and it brings her shitty little faux-empire down around her. Then I come in. Rebuild it like a fallen Rome. My god, that sounds so deluded. I’m sorry.’ ‘Hmm. No. It sounds good.’ Neither of them say anything for a time. Until she groans. ‘What the hell am I doing? They’ll tell me all about it, next physical – all about how fucking unfit I am, how I’m this, and I’m that, and I need to do this, and that. I may as well just get it out the way right now. So I can see it for myself. I need to be ahead of them in the game plan.’ Almost a little too eagerly, Carlile springs up. ‘There’s a scale in the laundry.’ With a bewildered expression, Matilda sits up and follows him, grabbing a chocolate-coated nut bar from the box on his desk on the way out. He gives her a look when he sees the snack in her hand. ‘What?’ she says. ‘I have to keep my calorie count up.’ ‘I know.’ They enter the laundry. Cici the labrador gets up sleepily from her doggy mattress – one of four beds she has to choose from in the whole house – and looks up at them with imploring black eyes, swishing her tail, before lowering her snout and dragging her feet out the door once it’s clear they’re too focussed on other business. Carlile fishes around in the rickety old cupboard behind the laundry door and pulls out a thin, dusty scale. It’s a digital slate mechanism, and looks old as hell. ‘Do you know the last time you weighed in?’ he asks. ‘Oh. Yeah.’ Memories, from not so long ago, of the chilly change rooms, the indifferent lockers, the cold tiles beneath their socked feet during the concerted humiliation-fest that was Ilda and Karen’s surprise medical exam. She’d taken a bullet that evening. More than a bullet. She’d taken a whole casing of shotgun pellets. But she’d only looked pregnant, then, having carried no more than a harsh bloat, and she’d been sporting no more than a lick of pudge anywhere on her body. What would they say now, if they saw the shape she was in? With this visible belly bulge that, last time she checked, actually jiggles with a real-life, un-hallucinated, factually-there, soft, pliable handful of fat? ‘Yeah,’ she nods absently. ‘I remember the last time I last checked my weight. Or had it checked by them. I think I’ll always remember. That was when they popped that surprise physical on us that I told you about. I think I was… uhm… I think one hundred and forty-three pounds? Or something like that? I had, like, a bit of chub back then, not this beer gut looking thing.’ She presses the back of her fist into her stomach, bending over it with a self-mocking scowl. ‘Like, where did this come from?’ Then, nudging the scale into place with her foot, she taps it with her toes to activate its sensor. ‘God, I’m so sick of them. Margery, Ilda, Karen; this one goes out to you guys.’ She steps on. Placing her hands on the back of her hips, she looks down her nose at the display between her feet. ‘Uhm.’ Her face goes slack as a rubber mask. The way he says, ‘Oh…’ is slow and drawn-out. ‘What’s wrong?’ Carlile asks. She holds her fingers over her chin in dainty, almost pathetic concern, then leans over slightly to get a closer look. She blinks. ‘Um. Okay. That’s freaking me out. Yeah. No. That’s not right.’ ‘What?’ Her eyebrows tighten. ‘I can’t actually be that much heavier…? Can I?’ Carlile’s mouth slackens. ‘What does it say?’ ‘I can’t actually be fifteen pounds heavier? Can I?’ ‘But what does it say?’ Matilda raises her head, and meets his gaze with a face gone blank and eyes without focus. ‘One-fifty-nine,’ she says. ‘Pounds,’ she adds, looking back down at the scale, angry disbelief beginning to tighten her facial features. ‘A hundred and fifty-nine of them? That can’t be right.’ Carlile doesn’t respond. But she can hear him breathing. He moves closer to get a look, then scans her body up and down, and casts a timid glance up into her eyes. ‘…Sixteen pounds?’ he asks cautiously. She shrugs as if to say I guess so. ‘Already?’ he asks. ‘Apparently. According to this thing. Are you sure it’s still working?’ Looking down again to triple-check the number, Matilda’s body draws her attention away from the display, distracting her with its features as if bathed in new, brilliant light. Her stomach protrudes out from her body in such a way that makes her want to confirm that it’s real. She takes each side of her belly in a firm grip, fingertips and thumbs plunging in, forming twin pockets of chub like symmetrical ellipses towards the front her belly where her navel hides in the compressed pouch of flesh that shimmers unsteadily as she fumbles for all the flesh she can gather into her hands. Looking at it now with her own eyes, she begins to feel the scale might be telling the truth. When she lets go, a little shockwave peels across her belly as every last fat cell beneath her skin wobbles back to its natural position. Feeling uneasy in her heart, she looks up just in time to catch Carlile’s eyes pinned to her body, lids heavy with some strange breed of hunger. Then a ghost-note of threatening nature leaks into his voice. ‘Please cover that up before I lose my mind.’ A thrill travels up and down her body. She tenses, feeling as if she’s standing before a lion awoken from sleep to find the door of its cage left open and the live lamb left unattended. Does it excite him? Or is he angry? Does he hate it? What is this? Is it a blend of all the elements? Pure, undiscerning animal energy? Stepping onto the side of caution, she decides to assume the worst. ‘I’m probably just bloated,’ she says, appeasing his disgust. ‘It’ll go down later, I won’t be a fat cow forever, I promise. Don’t worry.’ He looks up at her from under his eyebrows. ‘I’m not worried.’ Her mouth makes a small O shape. Before she can ask what he meant, they both spin around. The sound of footsteps creaking down the stairs, coming closer down the hallway. Matilda shoves her shirt back down and kicks the scale into one corner before Carlile’s brother, Brad, appears in a flurry of Kramer-like suddenness around the doorway. Carlile turns to face his sibling, who leans casually against the doorframe with one arm and looks into the room with a bemused, smug little grin. ‘Hey Matilda!’ he nods at her before looking back at Carlile. ‘I, uh– I haven’t walked in on something here?’ ‘What do you want,’ Carlile says. Matilda stares at the back of his head in astonishment. She’s never been able to witness this dynamic directly before, with Brad so rarely being home to interact with his family members. ‘Alright!’ Brad flashes his eyes, then puts his hands up as if in defence. ‘Was gonna show you the sick gear I picked up on the way back from gig practice today, but oo-kay then, I’ll just get going; leave you two to it.’ Carlile waits until his brother disappears. Then turns back to face her. She sees the shadowy lines of malice and can understand what’s happening in his head. She knows how much he hates when his brother threatens to go on a boasting-spree like it's a kind of forbidden chocolate to be engaged in every now and then – sudden, uncalled-for exhibitions of faux superiority. With an exasperated sigh, Carlile reaches past her and bends down to pick up the scale up off the floor. Whatever mood he'd found himself in when she was on the scale is now visibly destroyed. He puts the scale back in the cupboard, and then tracks back to his room. Matilda follows along behind, observing him, thinking ahead to conjure up some kind of speech in her mind that will convince him he is, and always will be, the better man of the pair. Humility. Integrity. Authenticity. And talent. Natural, innate ability to cook anything from anything. He ought to take his culinary art to the next logical level. Professionalism, that’s what. Something to hold over his brother’s head and say “but you can’t do this”. There’s nothing more impressive than a man who can cook. It's something to make Carlile feel worthy. The poor boy, the thinks, smiling gently to herself. The poor, stupid, silly boy. She is in love with him. . . . p a r t s i x : “has-been” On that week’s Thursday morning, the team arrives for training only to have depressing news slapped straight against their ears without even a polite “good morning” to soften the blow. Caitlin, who has been Mandy’s centre-back partner dating back almost three continuous years now, had called the offices late last evening to inform the club of her decision to quit, and would not be showing up for practice today. Following this news, a funeral-like hush comes over the girls. It’s not like she’s passed away, or fallen ill with some unfair terminal illness, but the over-abundant lack of her presence in the club’s atmosphere can be felt like a forcefield, like a crime scene nobody wants to look at, come near, or touch. Turns out Mandy knew it was going to happen way before anyone else did. It takes a while for the girls to get it out of her, but eventually she admits it, in shameful, hushed tones so the coaches don’t overhear. Word spreads to the rest of the team at almost lightspeed. Nobody asks why Caitlin decided to quit. The answer is all around them. To speak it out loud would be to allow the oppressive truth to penetrate even further into the club than it already has. Matilda changes into her training kit and makes her way out the pitch-side door, fuming. Out on the grass, she trains like she’s trying to burn through all her fuel as fast as she can – every movement, twist and turn of her limbs made jagged and ungraceful by the fury coating her soul. She feels rage in her feet, rage in her knees and hips, rage in her hands, rage in her heart, until slowly it vanishes like a vapour, leaving her stuck under a cloud of exhaustion as thick as the fury had been, her throat achingly parched and her mind’s eye foreseeing visions of her bed’s blankets warmth with snacks scattered all around her. Maybe she’ll stay home, next training session. Just… not show up. They’ll wonder where she is. She will be laying precisely in bed, eating a million snacks and accumulating weight gain debt. While Margery will be staring from the sideline with silvered hawk eyes of scrutiny as the girls work their asses off, Matilda will be ruining her body at home, growing into the physical embodiment of her coach’s worst nightmares. After today’s training session is done, she collapses ass-first onto the bench in the change rooms and swaps back into her personal clothes, sweating so profusely that her body is still creating dampness after towelling off. She remains seated the whole time. It’s uncomfortable to stand. It isn’t until later on, when she’s almost made it to the exit, that coach Ilda intercepts her like a police car, and tells her that Margery was just looking for her. With a great inward eye-roll, Matilda obeys the implicit command. When she arrives at the door of her office, the manager is at her desk sitting at an odd angle in her high-backed chair with the office phone in her left hand and strange, dark lines clinging to the outsides of her eyes. ‘Don’t bother sitting,’ Margery instructs, dropping the phone on the desk and sitting up straight. ‘Caitlin resigned last night.’ Matilda twitches her nose. ‘You mean quit.’ Standing in the doorway feels awkward, and she suspects she’s being made deliberately to feel vulnerable and displaced in the open like this. Margery blinks heavily. ‘She resigned,’ she corrects. ‘ … ’ Saying nothing, Matilda turns her eyes to the side, then up a fraction, becoming absent. Margery takes an agitated breath. She flexes her tongue behind her teeth, then continues, ‘Caitlin has resigned. There is now a growing gap in this team that we did not foresee.’ Oh, it wasn’t foreseen, was it? Matilda wants to retort. ‘But… it shall be filled by Grace. What I want is to leave you with some fresh understanding. An understanding that all of this levies a new responsibility on you, now. Kelsey, also. For a few weeks, we will need to wrest the opposition’s attention away from our back line. Maintain possession in the opponent’s half for as long as possible. Yes; it will mean less goals are scored–’ ‘We’re already scoring “less goals”,’ Matilda snaps, an anxious flush erupting in her cheeks and down her neck. Ignoring the interruption, Margery says, ‘You will have to play it safe. Very safe. I want you to pass safely. Understand? Give yourself space. Do not make any risky plays, nor any cute passes. Keep their defenders guessing. Waste time, if you have to. If you are in any danger, pass backwards immediately to safety. The midfield will be instructed to sit at low depth with a backline of five. What I am trying to impress upon you, Matilda, is that you need to step up now. For good, this time. I am serious when I say this. Our sequences of play will be built around yourself, Kelsey, and Evangeline as a sole trio. Now, I will be honest in what I am about to say. You show signs of growing dangerously unfit. It is obvious, and a blight on my eye. It is not something I can accept any longer. Not in my club. You are better than this, Matilda. I can see you beginning to slow down. I notice you have training with less vigour. Do you realise those… clothes are not working for you?’ Matilda feels her body turn cold as a bucketful of humiliation washes over her, settles into her bones. She shouldn’t be weak enough for Margey to strike her like this. She galvanises her mind and tries to prepare a response. But she comes up short. Margery’s observation has handcuffed her attention, holding it hostage to the need to take a casual-as-possible glance down at herself – just to see. No sooner than she looks down does she understand that Margery is right. The presence of her belly’s swell is faintly visible even in the woolly top she wears over her body, and her hips seem to have filled her sweatpants so that the entire softened curvature of their flanks is made apparent. Margery sighs. ‘It is a monumental shame to see a body gifted as yours go to degradation, given the skills you possess, the natural state of your physique, had you not… begun to waste it. Matilda. If you keep going this way, I will displace you from the team until you return to an acceptable form. And that is the final line I will draw.’ Shaking her head, Margery meets her eyes. ‘You understand. Now get out of my room.’ Without another word, Matilda turns her back on her manager, and walks away down the corridors and back to the exit where she’d left her bag. Only for her belligerent strut to have the wind sucked out of its sails when she feels, deep between the top of her inner thighs in that triangular intersection where legs meet genitals, a never-before-felt rubbing of skin. It is only small, but now that she’s noticed it, she cannot forget it. Her hatred for Margery clings to her like wet dust as the day wears on into the afternoon, turning into a persistent, simmering resentment she uses to fuel herself through a prolonged episode of binge-eating. The fact that she cannot share or vent this rage to her folks, who are the only people around other than Carlile, prevents her from being able to compartmentalise it away into a harmless corner. She laughs cynically as she eats in solitude, a slow and sadistic cackle, mocking Margery’s pointless attempts to scare her with empty threats. Even after Caitlin’s exit from the club, Margery refuses to look at herself and ask the question “if it’s not them, is it me?”. What will it take to have her head whipped around? A mass resignation? But that can’t happen, not without disbanding the entire team and liquidating the club into financial oblivion. At the end of the road, Matilda still wants the Purple Vale Strikers to survive. It’s her club, a part of her she cannot bear to amputate any less than one of her own limbs. But until Margery withdraws her stale finger from the pie, there can be no hope. Like a starving, predatory animal, Margery simply needs to be scared off, and forced to never return. . . . Two mornings later, Matilda decides on a whim to test her weight on the scale in her bathroom before hopping in the shower to wash off the layer of perspiration on her skin from a night spent trying to push herself to eat three whole pizzas in a row. The number that greets her is the number “161.2”. ‘How the f…’ she hisses, face falling slack and eyes sagging open in revolted, but exhilarated, astonishment. She thinks she can actually feel the difference, somehow, physically, in a strange, extra-sensory manner in which mind is married to body – and also by the way the soapy water she lathers all across her body causes her skin to feel like it’s in an eternal state of melt, trying to escape in quick, slippery bubbles of flesh from beneath her fingers. After towelling down and fastening the high-waist slacks she’s going to wear for her shift at Dr Goodwynn’s office, she finds that the upper half of stomach wants to sit out further than the point at which the waistband clasps. When she wraps the belt around her waist and buckles it, that same upper half of her belly juts with ridiculous belligerence not just over the front, but now the sides of her waistband as well, tightened by the belt. What was once a firm, directly flat face of abdominal musculature has become enlarged in all directions, turned into soft adipose tissue that can’t help itself but emit feeble little jiggles with every jerky movement her hands make as she wrestles with the belt to shift it into such a position that her skin doesn’t feel like it’s being pinched in somebody’s sharp fingernails. Her internal organs feel pressured, and her tummy bulges like the ring of a thin doughnut over the leather strap’s unbending constraints. She stares at the wall for a time. At last, laying her hand against her cheek in sombre surrender, she gives up on the idea that the belt can buckle at the first hole, and concedes to the fact that things have to change, even this early on in the piece. Sucking in a little to make things easier for herself, she loosens the belt one hole further down, then re-clasps it. It fits properly now, fine, with the contour of her upper belly sinking into it by barely a hair’s width – except that leaning forward sends a roll oozing straight back out again, the metal buckle jabbing metallically cold up under her little bulge of pudge. The mere act alone of standing straight to see what will happen when she tries on her white button up blouse injects a shudder of terrified arousal through the map of her nervous system. Something tells her the shirt won’t fit the way she remembers. Holding air in her cheeks and pacing herself nervously, she slips the white garment on, one arm into each sleeve, then introduces one button after the other to its corresponding hole, starting from the bottom, rising to the top. Then, as she fixes the last button shut, she moves her hands away to look up at her reflection. Almost the entire roundness of her belly can be seen pressing behind the column of buttons. Breath caught motionless in her throat, Matilda blinks at herself. The shirt was a small size to begin with. Even so, she used to fit inside. It isn’t until she sneaks down the hallway back into her bedroom and sits down on the edge of her bed that she feels the full consequences. The rigid fabric grabs her stomach immediately, a few faint stress-lines appearing along the flanks of the shirt. Locked in a spell of marvelling, she touches her arms. Are they getting fatter? For the first time ever, she swears she can feel seamwork grazing under the carriage of her armpits… She runs the tips of her fingers, ever so gently, up the ridge of her jaw, but is unable to decipher whether or not the skin there feels fluffed up in a paper-thin layer of fat, or if it’s just… her skin, painted in paranoia. . Later on, at the clinic, Dr Goodwynn greets her without showing a hint, nor a scratch of evidence of suppressed recognition, that she sees anything different about Matilda's body since last they saw each other. By the time one o'clock rolls around, the thirty-minute break sees a doughnut, a sausage roll and a soft drink down Matilda’s throat in no more than half the allotted time, making the egg-round bow of her belly more obvious than it needs to be — so she returns to the office wearing her white knit jumper after retrieving it from the backseat of her car, its wavy rumples and woollen slack arranged in a particular, deliberate way. She sits in its layers, sweltering in her own sweat in the stuffy, crowded warmth pouring from the heating unit for the rest of this wintry afternoon. It’s almost like some form of self-punishment. She watches Dr Goodwynn receive a procession of different physiologically-pained patients. One of the last they receive that afternoon is an overweight woman aged in her mid thirties and weighing in her upper two-hundred pounds with an apple shaped body, most of it stomach and ass, Matilda notes, that makes her appear bloated more than flabby, despite the intensity with which the girl’s gut seems to move around at its own whim. Even under layered clothes as the patient lies down to perform a set of stretch routines, Matilda can see how her body seems to slosh about with hypnotic, lethargic heaviness. Aside from taking notes and participating in the work she’s assigned, Matilda observes the dynamics of this woman, studying her form, her physical attributes, her laboured movements, and her behaviour, the same way she might study a world-class player – the way they hold themselves over the ball below their diagonally poised feet, knees bent just lightly to break into the first twitch-reflex movement required. She observes this woman, all the particulars of how she embodies her weight, carries it, adjusts to it and makes it adjust to her in turn. Matilda feels she may learn something. If she has to end up getting as fat as this woman before Margery is finally repulsed enough to leave the club, then she might as well get used to the idea now, ahead of time. Prepare herself. See what it looks like in real life. Familiarise herself. Train her mind. Study and practise the art of being overweight. . . . Ever since Brad had blasted into Carlile’s bedroom a few days back and launched into a boastful catalogue of all the details about where he’s going to be playing his next gig with “the guyz”, Carlile seems to have bent himself into a knot several which ways about it. Snuggled up against him, Matilda listens to his complaints, and finds herself half in attention, half in distraction. They’re watching a qualifying play-off between Czechoslovakia and Belgium’s national teams, and she’s wrapping her forearm across his stomach, trying to see if her limb sinks into anything in his midsection that is telling in nature. They’d practically fed each other to the point of sickness last night, and the resulting sex episode had sent them climaxing somewhere in outer space’s warm reaches – such an alignment in the stars of pleasure perhaps having something to do with of her humiliating new desires tentatively emerging into reality from the woodwork of hidden fantasy. What had happened, is that she’d succeeded in coercing Carilie into stuffing himself, and then forced him to keep going after that, until his belly had bloated even larger than hers, freeing her to dominate his groggy, immobilised body in more ways than they’d been used to, as a new couple. Then, catching him in a vulnerable and swooningly opened-up state, in the apex of sex’s heat, she’d held off making him climax and forced him to eat a little bit more. He complained that he couldn’t do it anymore, that he was going to pass out or throw up. But she saw right through his lie, with his facial expression squeezing the sponge of melodrama a little too desperately, none of that calm, ** confidence she needed to see to take him seriously. She didn’t even need to threaten him with no more sex; he’d simply caved in at the lightest push of the idea, as if his will broke as easy as a plaster wall under the weight of pressure, and at last, having spooned in six or so extra mouthfuls of pudding, Matilda had left him with a stomach bulging so hard and large that she had no choice but to ride him all the way into the night, and then the black abyss of unconsciousness once she’d cleaned up and disposed of his protection. They’d woken up late this morning and transitioned straight into preparing a high-calorie brunch, with his parents out at work and Brad out doing whatever Brad “does”, leaving Carlile alone to prepare his food in the rare serenity of an empty kitchen. After eating, she makes him snack all throughout the day. It’s a nasty habit she’s formed, recently, and now that they’re lying in each other’s arms again, she thinks something has changed in the last twenty-four hours of stuffing. Not only has he been eating pretty much on command, which is a brand new phenomenon – one she can’t tell if he’s completely aware of – but his belly seems softer than it was. Having been in a constant state of bloated sphericality throughout the day, his midsection has finally been given a chance to relax and digest the bombardment of food. The result is a bulge under his shirt that doesn’t feel firm, the way it ought to. Pretending to adjust her elbow, she rolls her forearm back and forth along his stomach where it rests. The act isn’t very subtle, but he’s ignoring it. Instead of standing stout against the pressure, like a balloon, his belly actually moves with her arm. Thrill bursts through her chest, and she takes a shaky breath, trying to contain herself. But it's no good. Every pore of her body is dilated with overwhelming arousal, pooling like syrup in the well of her pelvis. She puts her face up against his arm, smothering her lips against his skin and nibbling him with her front teeth to grab his attention. But Carlile’s mind is elsewhere. She puts her arm back over his rounded stomach and looks up at him. ‘Baby,’ she says. ‘What’s going on…? You still thinking about Brad?’ He nods, sour. ‘Well we need to do something about that. It’s clearly getting to you all the time.’ ‘He doesn’t even realise he's doing it. That's what fucks me off the most,’ Carlile admits. ‘He's so goddamn unseasoned, so raw, and I never even did anything to him. He’s so oblivious, sometimes. Actually all the time.’ ‘Yeah, but so are you.’ ‘Oblivious? What am I oblivious to?’ She nibbles on the flesh of his upper arm again. ‘Forget about him. I don’t even like him right now, he’s taking my boy away from me. Come back here.’ ‘He just doesn’t get it.’ Blowing air from her nose, she lifts a hand up to delicately touch his jaw, then wraps her hand around the back of his neck and kneads her thumbs into his muscles, feeling around for any knots. She finds several, each of them corded and tight. ‘Carl. Baby. I’m serious. You should do more technical cooking. Take it to the next level. You’re actually masterful at it– your brother? He couldn't cook scrambled eggs without making the milk burn. He can make toast and beans.’ ‘Not even that.’ ‘So—’ Matilda says with energy. ‘Go and rub it back in his face? Really, like, smear it in? You have to take your wins wherever you can get them. Even small ones are important. Otherwise you’ll never win.’ ‘I can’t do that.’ ‘Why not? He kinda deserves it, way he’s acting. It’s one thing to be proud, it’s another to be a sore winner. Even worse when it’s mostly good luck.’ ‘If I gave him shit about not being able to cook, first thing he’d do is remind me how fat I used to be.’ ‘And you’re worried about that? I’ll tell him to piss off– personally. Me. I will. Carl… you need something fulfilling in your life. You hate your job. Why stay there? I know you’re in the kitchen instead of bartending, but what have they let you do in there since bringing you in, exactly?’ He hums in reluctant agreement. ‘Why can’t you just see that what I’m telling you is true? Seriously. Like, people need to do what makes them happy. And I can tell you’re not. Please. Just give it a shot. For my sake, not just yours.’ ‘I’ll think about it.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Fine. “Think about it”, then. But you better think about it good and hard. You’re a quality cook. Not a short-order lackey. You’re a chef. My little chef-boy.’ Then her eyes widen. ‘Do you know I sampled some of your food to Harriette once? She couldn’t believe what she was tasting. And remember, you brought that dish over? When you met my ma and pa? They said they thought it was from a restaurant, it was that good. Honestly, you can’t let shitty boasting from your older brother of all people stop you from doing things. It’s all bluff, anyway. He’s covering for himself. He’s just pretending to be competitive, because he thinks being a sibling means being in a rivalry all the time, even though it’s not really. I know a bluff when I see one, Carl; I deal with them on a weekly basis. When a player does a feint, or a pretend flick– that’s a bluff. A lie. So you know what you do? You go in with confidence. You call their bluff. Know what your skills are, you know where theirs aren’t, and go in hard. You’ll come out the other side and realise you like, negged the defender because they overrated themselves but you didn’t. Realistic confidence, okay? Then, all you gotta do is line yourself up right, and you’ll realise the goal is right in front of you– then you smash it into the net. You just do it. You don’t even think about it.’ Carlile massages the tops of his thighs, looking back up at the television screen. ‘You’re right, I guess.’ ‘I know I am.’ She shuts her eyes and lays her head on his arm again. ‘So why aren’t you a coach?’ ‘Hah. Good one. Because Margery is.’ ‘If I could make her just… disappear – you know? – I would. For you, I really would.’ ‘I know,’ Matilda smiles. Her mind wanders, and then after a short time returns. ‘I should ask Simon if he thinks Brad is full of shit.’ ‘Don’t.’ ‘I won’t mention you at all! I’ll just be like, hey Simon I keep noticing Brad’s kind of a braggy guy, what’s with that? And see if he says anything.’ ‘He might say I’m getting fat again.’ Matilda manages to steal a glance over the ridge of his arm without moving her head to do so. She can see the beginnings of a ** belly forming under his loose, dark grey shirt. Her hands itch to touch its soft shape. Fighting back a smile, she straight up lies to his face, scaring herself. ‘You aren’t getting fat, babe. Don’t be silly.’ . . . The following afternoon, after coming back home from a shift at her internship, a series of notifications come dinging from her phone. Looks like it’s the team group chat. Before reading anything, Matilda peeks through the gap in her door to check her parents aren’t too close, then shuts her door, locks the latch, and gets on her hands and knees to lower her eyes underneath her bed. Out from the secrecy of the darkness within, she sticks her hand in, feeling across the carpet, and withdraws a packet of chocolate coated marshmallows, proceeding to snack on them while sitting at her desk. She looks down at her phone and opens the chat, chewing as she scrolls up to the beginning of the conversation chain. -Mandy: Remember girls, don’t even try to attack this weekend. -Evangeline: I love not having to do anything, it's been so relaxing, u should all come join me some time, we’ll have a few pina coladas and ice creams -Talina: yeah wowww I love not making any forward passes… looking at you too Nysh -Nysha: fuck off, margery told me to stop so what am i gonna do? -Talina: I’m kidding? Never said it was your fault... -Suri: 😠 -Elisha (C): Nysha, remember not to pass into the backline, just long balls please. We need to possess possess possess, we have to play as deep as we can without losing the ball from the back, press in a low block so our backline isn't left with all the work -Nysha: I’ll pass into Margery’s face. I’m so over this. -Elisha: Ummmmm ok then? Take that up with her, not me. -Evangeline: lmao see u in sport court -Grace: ok but isn’t that a bit mean Nysha? -Nysha: what are we doing? she thinks we can keep possession for the whole game while were set up for counter-attacks all the time? Literally makes no sense at all. i’ve never had to make so many saves per game in my life -Mandy: Sorry -Nysha: not your fault Mands -Bethany: Yeah like what am I even supposed to do anymore? Suri and I aren’t allowed to do anything but pass sideways. Neither is Jessie… -Nysha: because she reckons if we ever try to play direct we’ll just lose possession -Kelsey: Beth, try being on the wing. Last time I played I didn’t even see the ball. Stacey doesn’t either. It goes up midfield, back sideways then back to Nysh again cos there’s not enough of us in their half and we get swamped so fastm.it doesn't make any sense, it’s literally a losing plan -Suri: ffs this is the first time we actually use this chat properly and it’s just us arguing, wtf guys? -Elisha: look, team, that’s not what’s meant to happen… we need to be defensive because we don’t have a solid attack right now. -Talina: I can think of four people right now who that is a direct insult towards. -Elisha: Tali, please… Right now, Margery needs us to either counter attack or hold possession as long as possible, thanks to Caitlin quitting on our asses. Does no one remember we have one less centre back now? We have to compete. Safe quick passes. Keep possession. Then we break. Suri and Beth, that means you and me run the ball up to Evangeline. If we can’t clear their defence, pass it straight back understand? That way if they take possession, it’s still in their defensive half. The rest of us form back up quick and guard our half before they can get back in, and then we slowly let them in without conceding. When we take possession again, someone can put a longball forward just like Margery told us and counter, or if not, just maintain the ball and stay calm. We have to be fast. That includes you, wingers. Does everyone get what I’m saying? -Mandy: Yeah but it’s so predictable and boring. That’s my problem. And not to mention we'll get punished for trying to hog possession of the ball without using it to attack. -Nysha: ok so then why don’t I get to pass to the backline to do build up play if that’s the plan? -Elisha: Because passing out from the back is a liability -Nysha: so is trying to pass the ball around without using it! wtf! In the safety of her room, absently touching the mound of her paunch, Matilda smiles to herself. This type of indignant, frustrated talk in the chat is a positive sign. Thin strings of collective awareness are finally taking shape. A swell of comradery fills Matilda's heart, and she begins to type out her own thoughts. -Matilda: Everything you guys have said so far I agree with. It’s repetitive, predictable, boring, and a liability. -Elisha: No, it’s necessary. Unfortunately we have to do this. -Matilda: Then why do we keep losing? -Elisha: Because we have people like you on the team who don’t trust when our coach says it’s necessary. -Matilda: No. It's not necessary. It's not even working. We’re trying to play a 4-2-1-3 formation but we want to pull them into a counter attack trap as well ON TOP of maintaining possession. Which is impossible with such long passing lanes between us. So we end up cramming ourselves into a 4-5-1 kind of thing all the time while Margery just screams at us, and that leaves Evangeline with nobody to pass sideways when she’s just sprinted all the way into the opposition's final third? Come on. How is that a good counter attack? She just gets bullied by the defenders and can’t keep the ball. That’s not even her fault, its just her being isolated. Then we have to fall back and it starts all over again. If we even maintain possession. Which we can't. Because were all panicking. Which the other team can sense like every single week. So they just pressure us and then bam there’s a loss pass and it’s defence time again. -Elisha: well if our wingers ran fast enough then maybe Evangeline would have someone to pass to? Matilda scowls, the words sending a dull jab of pain through her solar plexus in spite of her better understanding. She knows she’s slower now. She’s not as fit. Her body is approaching chubby, and it’s getting visible. But that’s not the reason the girls haven't been winning for so long. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, Matilda decides not to defend herself against Elisha. It would make her look vulnerable, too prone to reaction. She’s forgotten about her posture, having been in her chair for the last minute or two looking down at her phone, her senses pre-occupied. Suddenly she realises how much of an awkward figure she must seem, sitting there, shoulders slouched, pooch filling the lower half of her sweater like she's got a small pillow inside it. With the sudden awareness of her droopy posture comes corollary thoughts about Dr Goodwynn’s perfect stature, and so she quickly sits up straight as a rod with her shoulders back, belly sucked in, and pelvis angled straight. She thumbs out a response to Elisha, spurred on by a gust of renewed dignity. -Matilda: Okay then so if Evangeline went and pressed all the way up to their net and then passed to the wing, where do we pass to then? Not back to her. She's blocked off now and she wouldn't be able to move quick enough to open up for a new pass. And YOURE not going to be there, are you? The midfield will still be running and playing catch up. And then by the time you get here we will be tackled by three or four defenders at the same time, then lose the ball and now they have it again, and the rest of you have to turn around again instead of being there to support the wingers and pressure the defenders. We are just going back and forth forever and just get too tired to do anything. So instead you have to stay back all the time because the most likely thing is we lose the ball and watch them slowly pass it back and forth into our half all over again. Then we just magically get the ball again? And lob it forward to Evangeline who has to do it all on her own again? What are we trying to do, draw nil nil every damn game and make it go back and forth forever without any goals? We aren’t being aggressive like we used to. Counter attacking only works if the opposition presses deep and shows gaps to run through. Were just running into walls. And nobody is gonna press us that deep when they realise they can just walk it through us without sacrificing pawns. It's just not gonna work for us. She watches Elisha’s “typing” icon pop up, but the other girls get in first. -Nysha: Yes! -Mandy: Agree with this totally agree -Bethany: guys this what I’ve been trying to say... -Evangeline: i didn’t want to say this but she’s actually right -Suri: I know I haven’t been playing much since I got booted out, but it’s actually really obvious from the sideline, she’s Right Elisha’s typing icon persists, for a time, then stops, and proceeds to vanish. Nor does it reappear for the rest of the evening. Seems she's crawled back into the lapdog-sized hole upon Margery’s knees and disappeared. . . .