by Fiona Gibson
‘Oh God, not tuna again,’ mutters a late-comer, slipping quietly onto the vacant seat beside me.
I turn to look at him. He looks at me, tilts his head and frowns quizzically, and there’s a spark of recognition between us. ‘Danny?’ I whisper. ‘From Starbucks in York?’
‘The playsuit shoplifter!’ he whispers back with a broad smile. ‘Well, I’m glad I came tonight.’
I grin, feeling instantly better. ‘Me too,’ I whisper. Perhaps I’m going to like it here after all.
Chapter Thirteen
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask softly as Belinda rambles on about brine and calories, striding back and forth across the stage and waving her manicured hands about.
‘Oh, I just come for fun when there’s nothing on TV,’ Danny replies. ‘How about you? This your first time?’
‘Yep. D’you think it actually works?’
He surveys his chunky body and frowns. ‘I’m worried it’s working too well actually. That I’ll fade away to nothing.’
I snigger. He’s perfectly fine, although a personal trainer would probably put him on some kind of ‘programme’ like the Bodyworks girl suggested for me. ‘Okay, everyone,’ Belinda’s voice rings out, ‘here are some meal ideas which you’re welcome to come and look at. Then we’ll do weigh-in.’
‘Look at?’ I splutter. ‘Don’t we get to try?’
‘Sadly not,’ Danny smirks. ‘She just brings piles of food along to taunt us.’
‘Do you two know each other?’ Kirsty asks as everyone surges towards Belinda’s display.
‘Er, not really,’ I say. ‘We just ran into each other in York and got chatting over a coffee. Kirsty, this is Danny.’ She pulls a quirky smile, and I feel a flush of pleasure at having a man friend to introduce her to. With a flourish, Belinda has removed the plates’ foil coverings. A cluster of women are studying a wilted Niçoise salad as if it were a covetable handbag. There’s a baked potato heaped with tuna, presumably in case we’d forgotten what a baked potato looks like, and some kind of fishy layer with a mushed vegetable topping, which Belinda explains is a ‘bake’.
‘It looks like something you’d see on the pavement outside the pub on a Saturday night,’ Danny mutters into my ear.
‘It’s very tasty actually,’ Belinda says defensively.
‘Oh, I’m sure it is,’ I enthuse. ‘I, er, love bakes. They’re so . . .’
‘Versatile?’ Danny chips in.
‘And something like this is so easy,’ Belinda adds, ‘even if you can’t cook at all. Even if you’re not remotely domesticated.’
I smile tensely, edging towards a dish of low-fat tuna dip which I try to fix with an adoring gaze. The hall has taken on a decidedly fishy whiff, like Grace’s lunchbox when it was returned from school after being left in her locker for two weeks. ‘Danny’s a cutie, isn’t he?’ murmurs Kirsty, sidling up to me.
‘Think so?’ I hiss back. ‘I suppose he is. I hadn’t really noticed.’
‘Oh, come on.’ She sniggers. ‘Don’t be so coy. Being happily married doesn’t make you immune to other men. You’re allowed to look, you know. He has lovely blue eyes, don’t say you hadn’t noticed? And a sweet, cheeky smile . . .’
‘If you say so,’ I laugh, wondering if I’ve been deprived of adult affection for so long that I really am immune to other men.
‘Is he single?’ she asks.
‘I’ve no idea, Kirsty. Like I said, I hardly know . . .’
He reappears at my side. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘It’s our big moment on the scales. Off with your boots.’
‘Er, that might be a bit difficult . . .’
‘Oh, no need to be shy around here.’ He chuckles and glances at my feet.
‘It’s not that. I mean, I don’t care who sees my feet. It’s just, these boots are tight and I usually have to ask Jed, my husband, to help me get them off . . .’
Danny snorts with laughter.
‘It’s not funny! I can’t get them off by myself. I bought them in a size too small.’
‘Why did you do that?’ He sounds mystified.
‘They didn’t have my size. And I really wanted them.’
‘Well,’ Danny says, smirking, ‘I guess I’ll just have to assist, if that doesn’t sound too forward.’
‘Um . . . would you mind?’
‘I’d be delighted.’ Jesus, what was I thinking, wearing these boots tonight? I can’t see anyone else who needs help to remove their footwear. Women are gawping at us, giggling openly, as I grip the edge of my chair while Danny kneels before me and grapples with my foot.
‘Take your time, you two,’ Belinda trills with an amused twitch. ‘There’s no rush.’ Clearly, there is a rush, as everyone else has been weighed except us. I’m overcome by an urge to forget the weighing part and bolt out of the hall.
‘God, this is impossible,’ Danny gasps.
‘I’m sorry . . .’ I grab at my other boot and tug ineffectually. As my feet are slightly swollen – it’s far too hot and fishy in here – they’re even tighter than usual.
‘Isn’t it great to have a man about the place?’ Belinda snorts. ‘What would we do without you, Danny?’
‘Glad to be of assistance,’ he mutters.
‘Work at the heel, then it should loosen,’ I urge him. He yanks off the boot with such force that he staggers backwards, narrowly missing Belinda’s tuna display. Someone guffaws into their Menu Masterplan.
‘Thanks,’ I say as Danny – now au fait with the heel-tugging technique – removes the second boot.
‘Nothing to it.’ He grins at me, and we both explode with laughter.
‘Now could you hop on the scales,’ Belinda prompts me, ‘before the caretaker arrives to lock up?’ I step on obediently and peer down at the digital display. I am past caring that I’m wearing one red and one navy sock, both belonging to Finn. Belinda squints at the scales and bites her lip.
‘Is it bad news?’ I ask.
‘Of course not,’ she chuckles. ‘I’d say you only have twenty pounds to lose. Remember not to lose it too quickly or it’ll all just pile back on.’
‘How long should it take?’ I ask.
‘Around ten weeks if you stick to the plan. That way, you’re far more likely to keep it off.’
‘No problem,’ I say, hopping off the scales, feeling lighter already. Okay, I won’t be a skinny minx in time for Celeste’s party. Yet coming here week after week doesn’t seem so bad, not with Danny for company.
‘Slow and steady,’ Belinda sing-songs as I struggle back into my boots. ‘The key to success is to come every week. You can just drop by for weigh-in at the end, but I’d advise you to come for my talk. I think,’ she eyeballs me sternly, ‘you’ll find it motivating.’
‘I’ll do that, Belinda,’ I say.
Danny is weighed – ‘Better luck next week,’ she says, oozing sincerity – and we make our escape together. ‘So, where to now?’ he asks as we step outside.
‘Well, home, I guess.’
‘Where’s home?’
‘Bracken Lane, ten minutes’ walk away. How about you?’
‘I’m out in the wilds,’ Danny says with a grimace.
‘Which village?’
‘Not even a village, unfortunately. It’s three miles to the local shop and, even scarier, four to the nearest pub. Anyway, can I give you a lift home? I’m parked around the corner.’
‘Oh, I’ll walk, thanks,’ I tell him. ‘Could do with the exercise.’
‘See you next week then?’
‘Sure. You know, it wasn’t half as bad as I expected.’
‘It’s not too painful, is it?’ He pauses and smiles. ‘Don’t fancy swapping numbers, do you? So we can keep each other on track if, well . . . we run out of inspiration with tuna.’
I laugh and pull out my phone. ‘Oh, I don’t think we’re likely to do that. Not with all those bakes and jacket potatoes and, um, what was the other thing . . .’
‘The dip. Don’t
forget the dip.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. So what’s your number?’
He tells me, and I text mine to him. Then I hurry home to Bracken Lane, feeling light and happy and desperately craving a steaming hot chocolate.
Chapter Fourteen
‘Where have you been?’ Grace yells from her room as the front door clicks shut.
‘Had a meeting, love. It’s really late – gone nine o’clock. You should be asleep by now.’
‘Come up and see me!’
‘Shush, you’ll wake Toby . . .’ I head upstairs, wondering what to tell her about my mysterious ‘meeting’. I don’t feel good about lying to the children, yet nor am I happy about them knowing that I now belong to a diet club. I want them to grow up feeling at one with their bodies, blissfully unaware of low-fat ‘bakes’.
‘What sort of meeting?’ Finn asks, appearing on the landing in too-short PJ bottoms.
‘A sort of . . . health meeting.’
‘At night? In the dark?’ Grace asks from her room.
‘What kinda health meeting?’ Finn wants to know. I pause, knowing I’m not going to get away with this. It’s like being asked how babies are made and knowing that they’ll no longer be palmed off with, ‘By a special kiss with Daddy.’ ‘You’ve been to that diet club,’ Finn adds, ‘with all the fat people.’
‘How did you know?’ I frown at him.
‘Your diary was on the kitchen table. I saw “Super Slimmers, 7.30 pm” written in it. Michael Tashford’s mum goes. It’s all fat people.’
‘Diaries are private, Finn,’ I mutter.
‘It was open,’ he says, the swirl of adolescent hormones almost audible. I notice that he’s dotted minuscule chin pimples with white cream.
‘Mum’s right,’ Jed says, chuckling as he emerges from the steamy bathroom. ‘You shouldn’t be reading her diary. God knows what dastardly secrets you might find in there.’
With a snort, I go to tuck up Grace in her room. ‘You’re not fat, Mummy,’ she murmurs as I hug her. ‘You’re just right.’
‘Thank you, darling.’
‘Will you read to me?’
‘Not tonight. It’s really late. Toby’s been asleep for ages.’
‘Finn’s stinky,’ she growls.
‘Don’t say that. He’s your big brother and he loves you.’
‘No he doesn’t. I made a hot air balloon while you were out and he stabbed it with scissors.’
‘Did he? That’s not very kind. I’ll have a word with him.’ I kiss her goodnight and wander into Finn’s room where he’s curled up under his duvet, reading. Although I can sense he doesn’t want me there, I perch on the edge of his bed. He slams the book shut, and I see that it’s not a novel but a red notebook. ‘Everything okay?’ I ask gently. I can smell his warm skin mingling with the faint biscuity scent from his duvet. It’s emblazoned with a jaunty rocket print, which tugs at my heart a little. Finn is too old for rocket duvets.
‘Yeah,’ he murmurs. ‘Sorry, Mum.’
‘What for?’
‘For saying that about the fat club.’
‘Oh, that’s okay. It does seem a bit sad I suppose, and anyway, my diary’s not really private. It’s just a boring mum-diary full of stuff I have to remember. I don’t have any dastardly secrets in there.’
He smiles then murmurs, ‘You don’t need to go to that club. You’re not like Michael Tashford’s mum.’
‘No, but it’s all relative, isn’t it? It’s about how you feel about yourself, and I think I could feel a bit better, that’s all. Come on, hon. Time for sleep.’ He grunts and clicks off his lamp obediently, although I know he’ll sneak out the torch from under his bed the instant I’ve left his room.
Later, while Jed marks Roman projects downstairs, I curl up on our bed with my Menu Masterplan and flick to the Rules for Success.
1. Stick to the Super Slimmers face system. You’ll notice that everyday foods are allotted ‘faces’ at the back of this planner. If a food has a smiley face, you can enjoy unlimited quantities. A ‘so-so’ face means proceed with caution. A ‘no-no’ face means danger – only for treats. I flick to the back of the planner. A quick check confirms that all of my favourite things have been awarded scowling faces. Now there’s a surprise.
2. Make fresh vegetables the centrepiece of every meal and enjoy their colours and textures. Here we go. The thing is, I know this stuff. A woman can’t reach the grand old age of thirty-eight and be unaware that broccoli spears will do her more favours than a doughnut.
3. Eating from a smaller plate fools the mind into thinking that you’re having a larger portion. My brain isn’t that easily fooled. Although, as an experiment, I’m tempted to eat off the dolly-sized plates from Grace’s china tea set which Jed’s parents gave her, and in which she has shown zero interest.
4. If you’re craving chocolate, try sniffing it. This often satisfies the sensory centre and helps to dispel the urge. No. I do enough sniffing around here – damp towels, the kids’ clothes to check if they’re dirty or not. I’m not prepared to sniff food that I’m forbidden from eating.
5. Keep a selection of crudités in the fridge to avoid naughty nibbling. Leave them to shrivel up, then throw them away.
6. Chew slowly, savouring every mouthful. Considering the unrelaxing nature of our family mealtimes, this might be a tad challenging.
7. In place of proper food, enjoy a refreshing bowl of ice cubes (okay, I made that one up).
As I toss the Masterplan aside, my mobile bleeps on the bedside table. FUN MEETING TONIGHT, the text reads, HOPE U WEAR THOSE BOOTS NXT WK. Hearing Jed on the landing, I quickly place it back on the table. ‘Coming to bed soon?’ I ask lightly as he takes his work file from our bookcase.
‘I’ll be another half hour or so,’ he says.
‘Hope you get it all done.’ I form what I hope is a normal expression.
‘Thanks.’ He kisses me lightly on the forehead. As I click off the light, I’m still glowing inside, even though Jed’s ‘half hour’ will probably stretch to an hour, maybe two, and I’m unlikely to hear him when he finally sneaks into bed.
Tonight, I don’t care. The difference is, I no longer feel quite so alone. Danny and I will be friends, confidants, partners in crime – and we know twenty-seven ways with a can of tuna.
*
Saturday. Party day. Tragically, something seems to have happened to my gorgeous new dress. Instead of being a dazzling emerald, as it looked in the changing room, it now appears to be a less alluring pea soup green which has the effect of making my bare legs look paler than ever. As I rummage for tights, I spot the Body Reducer in my drawer. If any occasion requires it, it’s Celeste’s party – but when I open the box I find a sheet of instructions comprising nine steps to get the damn thing on. Who on earth has time for that?
‘Why are you putting on tights?’ Grace says, stalking in and plonking herself on the edge of the bed.
‘They’re not ordinary tights,’ I explain, hoiking them up into position. ‘They’re kind of . . . special.’
‘Why are they special?’
‘Because, um . . . they make your legs smoother.’
‘But they are smooth,’ she observes. ‘They’re not lumpy at all.’
‘Thanks, honey. It’s nice of you to say so.’
‘Except for up near your bottom,’ she adds, ‘where it’s kind of . . . crinkly.’
I smirk. ‘That’s the point of these tights. To smooth out the lumps and crinkles.’
‘But you’ve got your dress on! No one’ll see your bare bottom.’
‘No, thankfully . . .’
‘So what’s the point?’ She purses her plump, pink lips.
‘Oh, I know it’s silly, love. But I’ll feel better if I’m all smooth and, er, un-crinkly under my nice new dress.’
‘In case it blows up?’ she offers.
‘Exactly.’ I turn slowly in front of the mirror, figuring that I look okay – no, better than okay, as long as I hol
d my stomach in. ‘See what a difference they make?’ I ask.
Grace squints at my legs. ‘Can’t even see them.’
‘That’s the whole point. The colour’s called Barely There.’ I pick up the packet and read the blurb aloud: ‘Impregnated with skin-soothing extracts . . .’
‘What does impregnated mean?’
‘Um, that there’s stuff in there . . . actually inside the tights, that seeps through your skin and, er . . .’
‘What kind of stuff?’ Grace demands.
I scan the rest of the description. ‘It doesn’t say.’
She gives me a worried look. What kind of example am I setting, letting a seven-year-old think it’s okay to be impregnated by some mysterious substance? Fast-forward to a sixteen-year-old Grace: ‘Someone offered me a pill and I ate it.’
Me, horrified: ‘What the hell was it?’
Grace, casually: ‘They didn’t say.’
‘Are you ready, Laura?’ Jed yells from the bottom of the stairs. ‘We’ve been waiting for ages. Celeste did say it would kick off around two . . .’
‘I don’t think it’ll matter if we’re a few minutes late,’ I call back pleasantly. ‘It’s a garden party, love, not the cinema.’ Quickly smoothing my dress, I give my reflection one last fretful glance before heading downstairs with Grace bounding excitedly ahead.
Finn is lolling against the wall in the hallway, as if in capable of standing unaided. He smells freshly-showered, of pine with Lynx overtones, and his dark hair is mussed forward over his eyes. Toby, too, looks startlingly hygienic in his favourite custard yellow T-shirt and clashing purple shorts, with hair neatly combed (by Jed, obviously), as if he’s off for a casting for Gap Kids. I decide not to comment on the weird side parting.
