I start to head out but his bedroom eyes flash inside my mind, buying him ten more minutes of my time.
I sit in a booth against the side wall of the café and take my tablet out. Might as well get some work done while I wait. Turning on the device, I check to make sure no one I know is around, before connecting to the café’s Wi-Fi and logging onto my website: Miz Peggy.
Immediately, the centre of the screen is covered by a curvaceous cartoon pig in a long, blonde wig, fishnet stockings, red stilettoes and a French corset. She shakes her overflowing bosoms and the rest of her jiggle and undulate like a hypnotic lava lamp. I hurriedly minimise it and my logo goes to the upper right corner. Animated hearts and cartoon sex toys adorn the screen while the message in cursive font reads: Welcome to Miz Peggy where curves are celebrated, adorned and titillated.
I’m such a fraud. The website is an extension of my love-hate relationship with my body. Or rather, it’s the love part. The part that says, if I can’t beat the fat, I’ll enjoy it. The other part of me is on a diet plan that I would never tell my subscribers about.
I check my list of new members. Five more since I checked this morning. Two of them have signed on for the deluxe membership which gives them a bigger discount on anything they buy on the site, as well as access to all areas of my webpage. This includes the Write in for Advice column, and the “sealed section”—weekly erotic fiction instalments that I’ve been posting for the last three years since I launched my website. A lot of subscribers who choose to go deluxe, also do it to receive Jiggle magazine—a publication totally dedicated to fat fetish. I don’t publish that myself but any subscriptions sold through my site earns me 5% of those sales.
The image of a giant phallic sex toy flashes on my tablet, making me jump. I have new products set on alert, even for me—which is fine when I’m alone at home. I scramble to tap the X and close the image. I quickly look around, wondering if anyone else saw it. Miz Peggy is probably my biggest achievement in life. A website that started from a blog I began four years ago, it now earns me enough money to slowly but surely save up for the minimum deposit on a home loan—the very first I would live in that’s not a rental, even if it would technically be the bank’s for at least twenty years.
“Would you like to order something to drink?” the waitress comes up to the table with a smile, extending the menu to me.
I peruse the choices, start to order the mango frappe, then change my mind when I remember the sugar content of a drink like that. Gah.
“Just tap water, thanks. Two glasses.”
The slightest of frowns flits across her face, her eyes clocking the raunchy images on my screen before she turns on her heel to get my free order. Her disdain is exactly why I’m not outwardly proud of my tawdry site. In fact, no one, not even Jillie, knows that I’m the brains behind Miz Peggy. That I’m Miz Peggy.
A minute later, she’s setting down the chilled bottle and two glasses in front of me.
“Are you ready to order?” the waitress asks.
I look down at the menu again, determined to find something.
“Crap. Shit. Fuck. Good. You’re still here. Sorry. Sorry. Mad house at the bank today.”
I lift my gaze to find the bearded Keats McAllister in a grey suit and dark aviator sunglasses which he tears off and sets on the table top. There’s a film of sweat along his brow, and his chest heaves with every breath. Did he run here?
The waitress and I both stare at him. She regards me, then Keats, then me again, this time with admiration like she’s ready to give me a high-five for landing him. Keats is even more delicious in the day time, the bright sun making his light eyes stand out, and his wavy hair and almost-beard shimmer. With his designer business suit and tie on, he looks more like the angst-filled lead singer of a band than a banker.
“Could I have the club sandwich, please, no onions, and a cup of doppio,” he tells her, flashing his easy smile at the waitress before looking at me and cuing her to do the same.
“I’ll have the green salad with the balsamic vinegar dressing,” I say, then add, “Thanks,” because I’ve learnt from other people, not my parents, that that’s what functioning members of society say.
“Hey there,” Keats says to me as he finally takes the seat opposite mine. “Shit’s going down on Wall Street today and it’s affecting our market. It’s so bad, the bank’s sending me there tonight to meet with our biggest shareholders. Thanks for sticking around and waiting for me, Hog-gen.”
I cringe, as I cover up and pack away my tablet with crisp moves. “It’s fine. Can we just get this over and done with?”
He raises a brow. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve got the shits with me again? I thought we settled things last night?”
“Me, too.” I give him a pointed look which he returns with a blank one. “I’ve told you not to call me that name.”
“Your last name?”
“Yes. It’s pronounced, Hay-gen.” Actually, it’s not. Haugen is said as “Hoggen” with a little less emphasis on “Hog”. But Keats doesn’t need to know that after high school, I stopped answering to that way of saying my name.
“Sorry, I never knew. Hay-gen,” he sounds it out, eyes dipping to my chest.
I follow his gaze and see my frilly top that
