by Fiona Gibson
‘Oh yes. It’s out of this world.’ As we tuck in, feeling de liciously sinful, I glance at the window in case Belinda from Tub Club should happen to glance in. ‘We need our carbs,’ I murmur to Danny, ‘after all that exercise. Professional runners eat nothing but pasta for weeks before a big race.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he murmurs. ‘It’s called carb-loading, I think. God, this cake’s good, isn’t it?’
‘The best,’ I agree, stealing a glance as he wipes chocolatey froth from his upper lip. Eating with Danny is so pleasurable. He obviously loves his food as much as I do, and it feels so relaxed, as eating should be, instead of all tangled up in rules and shouldn’ts and those darn Tub Club faces which have started to haunt my dreams. Compared to Rawlton House, and my ‘romantic’ dinner in the garden with Jed, this is heavenly. I spoon melting whipped cream from my hot chocolate straight into my mouth.
‘You must think I’m so rude,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve hardly asked about your photography, the kind of work you do.’ Actually, I’m intrigued by his ex-girlfriend, and am keen to know more, and I’m hoping we’ll work round to it.
‘I do anything that comes up,’ he says. ‘Newspapers, corporate, bit of advertising occasionally. It’s what I studied at college, and although there have been a few rocky times over the years, I’ve managed to scrape a living out of it.’
‘Well, that’s something to be proud of,’ I remark. ‘Doing something you love, and sticking with it. I think you’re lucky actually.’
He shrugs. ‘At college I always imagined I’d do portraits. I had all these dreams of working on my own projects and having exhibitions of, you know, my art . . .’ He sniggers self-deprecatingly. ‘And of course, the reality’s been nothing like that.’
‘Does that bother you?’
‘What, taking pictures of weddings and fêtes and dog shows for local papers? Not really. I’m realistic, Laura. We all have to make a living, and you’re right, I am lucky.’ He pauses. ‘How about you? Do you like what you do?’
‘Sure, but . . .’ I stir the remains of the cream into my hot chocolate. ‘I’ve done it for so long, and things just become habitual, don’t they? And you stop considering if it’s really what you want.’ I tail off, wondering if it’s my job I’m talking about, or my marriage.
Danny looks at me. I catch my breath, and wonder what on earth I’ll tell Jed when I get home. He’ll be expecting me back. If I’m much longer he’ll think I’ve tripped over and am lying, whimpering, in a hedge somewhere. ‘How about you and Jed?’ he asks gently.
I sense my cheeks flush. It’s as if he knows what I’m thinking, and can tune right in, yet somehow, it doesn’t feel intrusive. ‘Well, you know,’ I murmur. ‘There are all the usual frustrations of living together, and we’ve been together for donkeys’ years obviously, but we’re generally fine . . .’
‘Apart from when he storms out to that caravan . . .’
‘Yes, well, that was a bit of a blip.’ I laugh and pop a sugar cube into my mouth. ‘But every couple has them, don’t they? I suppose we’re pretty normal really for a married couple with a bunch of kids.’ I reach down to poke my fingers into my sock and extract a rather sweaty ten-pound note. ‘This is my treat, by the way, before you start protesting.’
‘Oh no, it was my idea, I’ll get this . . .’
‘You can treat me next time.’ I flash a smile.
‘Okay, that’s a deal.’ He grins at me. ‘Um, do you have a habit of keeping money in your sock?’
‘Oh, I just put that there in case I had some kind of accident and needed to get a taxi home . . .’
‘D’you think Paula Radcliffe does that?’
‘Definitely.’ I snigger and place my tenner on the saucer. ‘I’d better get back,’ I add as the waitress tots up our bill, ‘before my family sends out a search party. That run wasn’t too terrible, was it?’
Danny smiles, and it feels as if my heart flips over. ‘Terrible’s the last word I’d use,’ he says.
*
I’m so revved up and happy that I manage to run all the way home, even with marble cake and hot chocolate sloshing inside me. Letting myself into the house, I find Jed stretched out on the sofa in front of the TV. ‘How did it go?’ he asks, eyes fixed on the screen.
‘Great,’ I reply. ‘Much better than last time.’ Mustn’t feel guilty. I have done absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.
His gaze flicks towards me. ‘You’ve been a while, love. I was starting to worry.’
‘Not that long,’ I say with an exaggerated shrug. ‘I just, um, took it slowly.’
He frowns, checking his watch. ‘It’s almost nine o’clock.’
‘Uh-huh . . .’ I try to arrange my features to look normal, but worry that my mouth looks weirdly tense.
‘And you went out at, what . . . half-seven?’
‘Jed, I don’t think I have to justify . . .’
‘So you’ve been running for an hour and a half?’ he guffaws. ‘God, Laura, people run half marathons in that time! Where did you go?’
‘All over,’ I insist. ‘Around the park and, er, through town . . .’
‘You don’t look tired at all,’ he observes. ‘There’s not a bead of sweat on you.’
‘Would you be happier if I’d been brought home by ambulance?’ I retort, feeling genuinely aggrieved now, as if my cosy cake-fest with Danny had never happened.
‘Don’t be crazy,’ Jed says. ‘I was just saying . . .’
‘Mummy, you’re back!’ Grace announces, cavorting downstairs in her nightie.
‘You should be asleep, lady,’ Jed observes.
‘Yeah, but I heard Mum coming in . . .’ She winds her arms around me and presses her soft, warm cheek against mine. ‘You smell kinda . . . chocolatey,’ she adds.
‘Do I?’ I laugh, sensing Jed’s curious look.
‘Yeah.’ She grins. ‘I can really smell it. D’you have chocolate? Can I have some?’
‘Well, I um . . . I had a quick hot chocolate,’ I bluster, ‘after my run . . .’
‘Where?’ she demands.
‘In Café Roma. Come on, hon, it’s getting late. Let’s go up to—’
‘Can we go to Café Roma? You never take me.’
‘Yes, I do. We went a couple of weeks ago, remember? When you had that giant cookie that was as big as your face.’
‘Hot chocolate, huh?’ Jed chuckles. ‘They recommend that at Tub Club, do they?’
I blink at him. What is it about joining a wretched slimming club that makes everyone think they can force sorbet on you and tick you off for having a milky drink? ‘I was just thirsty,’ I say defensively.
He nods. ‘I see. You were probably dehydrated so, obviously, hot chocolate was the best thing to have.’
‘What’s dehydrated?’ Grace enquires.
‘It’s when your body’s crying out for liquid,’ Jed explains, smirking, ‘because you’ve over-exerted yourself.’ I pull a bitter smile and kiss the top of Grace’s head.
‘Up to bed now,’ I murmur. ‘I’ll come and tuck you up in a minute.’
She sighs dramatically, then skips upstairs obediently. Jed looks at me. ‘So,’ Jed says, ‘what really happened is, you went running for about five minutes, thought, “Sod this” and snuck off to the café?’
I smile unsteadily. ‘Uh-huh.’
He grins, putting an arm around me. ‘You’re stark raving mad, you know that?’
‘Yep.’
‘You’re my crazy wife.’
‘I know, darling.’
He steps away, giving me a lop-sided smile as relief floods over me. ‘Sure you want to carry on with this running lark?’ he asks.
I look at him. ‘I know you think I’m not cut out for any of this . . .’
‘It’s not that, Laura. I mean, you’re a mum, you’re thirty-nine years old . . .’
‘Hey, only just . . .’
‘Yeah, okay, and you’re . . . you’re fine, you know that? Honestl
y. You’ve got nothing to worry about.’
‘I’m overweight, Jed. Even the Tub Club woman said so.’
‘Of course she did!’ he exclaims. ‘That’s her job, to make you come back week after week and hand over your money and stick to their stupid diet system or whatever it is. So what if you’re on the curvy side? Neither of us are twenty-two any more, are we? It just seems, I don’t know, like it’s stressing you out . . .’
I nod, thinking how unstressed I felt while Danny and I were tucking into marble cake. ‘I’ll just go and check on Grace, okay?’
‘All right, love.’
‘And then I think I’ll have a bath and go straight to bed.’
He throws me a teasing grin. ‘Stirring your hot chocolate’s worn you out, has it?’
‘Something like that,’ I say.
*
‘I’m not tired,’ Grace protests, stretching her eyes saucer-wide. ‘I’m completely awake.’
‘Come on, sweetheart,’ I say. ‘If you don’t go to sleep now, you’ll be exhausted in the morning.’
‘No I won’t. It’s not fair. How come you can go to bed whenever you like?’
‘Because I’m a grown-up,’ I say, laughing.
‘Grown-ups get everything they want,’ she grumbles as I click off her light.
How right she is, I think, as I sink into the bubble bath. Grown-ups are reminded that they’re thirty-nine years old and a mother so there’s no point in trying to fix anything. I’m like Vitesse – shabby and mottled and embarrassing to be seen with in public. I can’t even shave my nether regions without making myself look like a plucked chicken. Maybe Jed’s right, and there’s no point in any of this. I could just stay fat and refuse to take part in any ritual sporting humiliations at school. Gradually, though, the steamy lavender fragrance begins to soothe and relax me and I start to feel more positive. I lie there for over an hour, occasionally topping up with more hot water and mentally working my way through Café Roma’s dessert menu. Sweet, moreish and irresistible.
I realise, with a jolt to my heart, that it’s not cakes I’m thinking about anymore. It’s Danny.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Emergency weight-loss tactics before Tub Club:
1. Trim fingernails. Estimated weight loss (EWL): one gram.
2. Pluck eyebrows to rough approximation of elegant arch. EWL: negligible.
3. Exfoliate by rubbing face with flannel to slough off dead skin cells. EWL: nil.
4. Emergency wee. EWL: two, three grams?
5. Consider slipping on Celeste’s ultra-light Coco de Mers, but decide they’d feel all wrong for such an unglamorous outing (it would also seem weird, wearing them for a second time, as if we are cosy, knicker-lending buddies). Opt for high-waisted fat knicks instead. EWL: nil.
6. Put on summery print dress which is the lightest thing I own. EWL: a couple of pounds, as I wore (heavier) jeans last week.
7. Banish all lustful thoughts of Danny from brain. No more light flirting in Café Roma, no more letting him grapple with my boots. EWL: nada – but hopefully, if I can purify my thoughts, that’ll lighten me emotionally.
As I spritz on a little fragrance (does perfume actually weigh anything?), Grace sidles up and appraises my dress. ‘You look pretty,’ she says. ‘Are you going to a party?’
‘No, love,’ I say, laughing. ‘That’s very sweet of you, though. I’m just going to another of those, um, health meeting things.’ I kiss her, head downstairs and take my jacket from its hook in the hall. Jed is humming as he clears up in the kitchen. I’d rather leave quickly before he, too, registers my dress and starts firing difficult questions. ‘See you later,’ I call out, giving Grace a quick hug before scuttling out.
In St Mary’s Hall, I scan the milling crowds. No Danny. Probably just as well. I’ll be able to keep my mind on Belinda’s talk and maybe even learn something this week. ‘Where’s your friend?’ Kirsty asks as I take the seat beside her. I frown, as if unsure of which friend she’s referring to. ‘You know,’ she chuckles. ‘Danny. The cute one with the nice blue eyes and cheeky smile.’ She looks me up and down. ‘You’ve made an effort to dress up as well.’
I laugh awkwardly. ‘I didn’t mean to. Just grabbed the lightest thing I could find. And I don’t know where he is this week . . .’ I affect a casual shrug.
‘Oh, of course – something light for weigh-in. Me too. Anyway, how have you done this week? Managed to stick to the Masterplan?’
‘I’ve been a bit lax, to be honest. Had a few snacks, a bit of naughty nibbling . . .’
She smiles ruefully. ‘Ah well. You look great, though. Kind of glowing. Been using a new cream on your face?’
Smiling, I shake my head. ‘I’m strictly soap and water, or at least I have been since Toby squirted a whole tube of Lancôme moisturiser down the loo.’
‘That’s criminal,’ she murmurs as Belinda strides onto the stage and the hall full of women falls into a respectful hush. Belinda’s long, slim legs are encased in sheer nylon, and her lithe body moves elegantly in a snug, scoop-necked top and fitted skirt. Bet she’s never wolfed her child’s entire cookie production and hated herself for it.
‘Tonight,’ Belinda announces, ‘I have a shocking announcement for you.’ She pauses for effect, and the entire audience appears to be holding its breath. What is it this time? Our best friend is cucumber? ‘It’s nearly bikini time,’ she announces with a terrifying grin. Kirsty grimaces at me. I check the door; still no sign of Danny. It’s okay for him – he doesn’t have a bikini time. In fact neither do I, as we haven’t had a proper family holiday since before Toby was born.
‘I know it’s still only May,’ Belinda trills on, ‘but take it from me, your summer holiday will creep up on you before you know it and then, of course, it’ll be too late.’ Christ. She makes it sound like brittle bones or sprouting nasal hair. Not something you’d actually look forward to. ‘If you’re anything like me,’ she trills, ‘you start wishing your holiday was months away, and not lurking around the corner!’
There’s a burst of knowing laughter but I can’t join in. I’d give anything to be somewhere hot and sunny with the ocean lapping at my feet. I certainly wouldn’t feel as if it were something to be dreaded. Belinda is now telling us how to eat on holiday, trying to sabotage any pleasure we might have had before we’ve even got there. ‘What I do,’ she confides, ‘is ask for a small, child-sized portion whenever I eat out.’
‘Would you ever do that?’ I hiss at Kirsty.
‘Only for a starter,’ she says with a snigger.
‘Stick to your plan religiously,’ Belinda goes on, ‘and don’t even consider cheating. Dine out less, drink less . . . and it’s goodbye porky, hello saucy!’
My entire body wilts. Hello saucy? I’m too far gone for that. Even my cleavage, which I’d thought looked almost attractive before I came out, seems to have lost its allure. I have to stop coming here. It’s not doing my psyche any good. I was happier, I realise now, before I entered this weird world of beetroot jellies and tuna bakes. Belinda holds up a picture of a woman posing in a white bikini. ‘Gemma’s got a bikini body,’ she announces. ‘She’s the star slimmer from our Oxendale branch. With a few diet tweaks and a whole lot of willpower, you too can have a body like hers.’
I gaze at the picture. The woman is even skinnier than that girl who was trying on a playsuit in that changing room. A few diet tweaks? Apparently, I haven’t even managed that, as I have actually gained two pounds since my last weigh-in.
Belinda smiles tightly and writes the figure on my yellow card. ‘Never mind, Laura,’ she murmurs. ‘It sometimes happens that way, even if there doesn’t seem to be any reason for it. You’ll probably see a bigger loss to make up for it next week.’
I smile stoically. ‘I hope so.’
She narrows her eyes at me. ‘Been picking at the children’s leftovers? I know you mums are prone to doing that, without even noticing. And it all adds up.’
‘Um, I
probably have. It just seems such a waste not to.’
‘Top tip,’ she says, grinning. ‘Before your hand even lands on the plate, do yourself a favour and squirt washing-up liquid all over it. That’ll stop you picking.’
‘Good idea,’ I say, making my way back to my seat, even though I have no intention of doing such a thing. Does she really expect me to ruin perfectly edible food? It would be tantamount to vandalism. I leave the hall, shivering in my thin sundress, and pull my jacket tightly around me as I step out into the drizzle.
That’s it, I decide, striding away from the hall and all the women who are tumbling out, chatting and laughing and congratulating each other on fabulous weight losses. I will be good. Next week, I’ll show Belinda that I’m capable of controlling my urges. But first, to prepare myself mentally, I think I deserve a little treat. Instead of heading straight home, I turn left along the damp high street and into the sweet, warm fug of Café Roma. I see the hot chocolates first – two of them steaming in tall white mugs on the small circular table. And two wedges of marble cake on white plates.
Seeing me, Danny looks up and smiles. ‘Hey, Laura,’ he says, his face lighting up as I make my way towards him. ‘I really hoped you’d come.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘Why didn’t you come to the meeting?’ I ask, my weigh-in anxieties melting away as I take the seat Danny saved for me.
He sips his hot chocolate. ‘It’s not really me, you know, going to something like that. I mean, I know it works, it’s all common sense, and I’ve nothing against Belinda and her bakes, but . . .’
‘Danny,’ I cut in gently, ‘what made you join up in the first place? I mean . . . it’s unusual, isn’t it, for a guy? Most men I know, they’d do the Atkins for a couple of weeks – Jed did that once, when he’d gained a bit of a tum, and the weight fell off in about five minutes.’ I smile and nibble a corner of cake. ‘Infuriating really.’
