The Serial Dieter

by Rachel Cavanagh

  I clap my hands and she looks back at me. “Lunch.” I give her an air hostess’s smile, no, a synchronised swimmer’s, and it seems to do the trick.

  Greta’s younger than me, early twenties, mid at the most, and I’m tempted to say she’s got plenty of time but I don’t think whatever I say will help so I say nothing as we head along the corridor and out to reception.

  Owen, miraculously, isn’t on the phone and gives us a cheesy grin. He’s a similar age to Greta, and hasn’t come across as gay, so I wonder if he’s single.

  “Owen…” No, I can’t do it. Go on, Donna, my brain eggs me on but I can’t. Izzy might, she’s the forthright one of the two of us but I can’t do it to Greta. I can’t be that obvious. So I resolve to speak to him later. In the meantime I go with the simple, “How are things with you?”

  “Good, thanks. And you?”

  On a scale of happy, Owen would definitely be at the top, Greta somewhere near the bottom with me in the middle but I don’t go into specifics. I just say, “Good, thank you. Taking my new friend here for lunch.”

  Owen looks at Greta and blushes. Ding! I wonder if they have a history, especially as she doesn’t react other than a part-smile, less than I got, but think that her mind’s still on her friend. Was life this complicated when I started at the Northampton office? I suppose it must have been.

  “See you upon our return,” I say, again feeling beyond my years, and usher Greta down the stairs and out into the fresh air. I neglected to see whether Phil was in his box – and whether that’s where James was; they seem to be friends, unlike James and Gavin the Gerbil, but I’ll have a better view ‘upon our return’.

  I shake my head but Greta’s still in a world of her own so doesn’t notice. I’ve never done an article about the benefits, or otherwise, of shaking our heads and wonder if anyone would be interested. Maybe only heavy metal fans… or their mothers. I smile at that thought and look round at Greta but no, still away with the Tinkerbells.

  It doesn’t surprise me at all when Greta suggests Subway and I’m pretty sure she’s going to go for a salad tub. I’m somewhat familiar with the town centre by now so lead the way. She’ll know it far better, of course, but she’s lost any enthusiasm she might have had and is traipsing. I’m not the quickest of walkers by any means but even I’m finding the pace a little too slow. I’m tempted to suggest stopping at a bench and talking away her troubles but think we’re best keeping going. It’s always easier to talk in between bites than with no official reason for pauses, pregnant or otherwise.

  The thought of that being Greta’s actual issue makes me shudder.

  “Are you cold?” a little voice squeaks beside me.

  We stop and I say that I’m fine. ‘Just someone going over my grave,’ I’m tempted to add but think better of it. Anything negative is best avoided in situations like these.

  We eventually get to Subway. I remember from my previous visit that the chicken tikka and Italian B.M.T. (R), still not forgetting the (R) trademark, are only 141 and 245 calories respectively. I’m not overly hungry, even only having had a small bowl of Asda’s Right Balance before I left my mum’s and the prawn cocktail crisps mid-morning, but I could have both salads and still be under the 500 calories. It would also mean two potential reviews in one as I went for the TBG (turkey, bacon and guacamole) wrap last time.

  Greta goes for the tikka and diet coke so probably 142 calories all told. I’m tempted to buy her a Mars bar to add to the count but she’s unlikely to eat it. The only meal deal this branch does is a sub roll and drink so we’d be little better off even if she went for that. I’m not her mother, legally or otherwise, so what can I do? My shoulders and brain are about all I can offer her.

  We find a bench on the way back to the office. It’s near the river and although it’s lunchtime and the weather’s improved, it’s fairly quiet. Perfect for a heart to heart. If Greta’s feeling up to it. I don’t waste any time in coming back to the topic. “Has your friend been dating long?”

  I’m hoping Greta says ‘no’ to show how quickly life can change… after all, mine has in the past year.

  “Five years, met at uni.”

  “Wow.” That blows that theory out of the water. Darn it. “Did you go to university?” I ask for want of anything better to say.

  She shakes her head. I only know this, as I’m not looking at her face because we’re sitting side by side, from the fact that her body, and therefore her salad tub, move left to right and back again. “My dad had a shop so I went to work there.”

  “Oh?” Mine had too, years ago, so I’m especially interested.

  “A fish and chip shop.”

  “Yum.” I love fish and chips.

  She gives me a weak smile. “Gets a bit much after a while.”

  “I suppose it does.” I don’t think I would have minded, although batter’s incredibly bad for the skin. It needs fat but even so. I don’t want to harp on about her friend but I like helping and feel Greta needs cheering up, although even I’m struggling. Should I be direct and ask her about James, or would his name, or Owen’s, tip her over the edge? I risk the latter.

  “Owen seems nice.”

  Greta’s salad bowl quivers. I turn to look at her. She’s still smiling. A breakthrough.

  “Really nice,” I add.

  She’s grinning. A double breakthrough. James, if he were in her thoughts, seems long distance. “I think he likes you,” I venture and wonder if I’ve been too bold. If I’d misread his blush, I would be leading Greta up for more heartache, but…

  “He is,” she says and looks down at her part-eaten salad. She stabs at a lettuce leaf with her provided plastic fork and stuffs it into her mouth.

  I wonder whether to offer to put in a good word for her but decide to be more candid. A second after that decision though I think that candidity… if that’s even a word, never got anyone anywhere. “Would you like me to fish?”

  She looks at the river then at me. “Huh?”

  “With Owen.”

  “Oh. Erm…”

  “Only if you want me to.”

  She nods briefly and smiles. Her cheeks even look less pallid, rounder almost, and I know a simple lettuce leaf wouldn’t have done that. I’m coming to the conclusion that I wasn’t sent to Hemel Hempstead to do a diet project but to mend some hearts. I have my soulmate and want everyone else to be happy. Is that too much to ask?

  Chapter 44 – Too Much Of A Good Thing

  Tonight is my final first-week dinner out. It’s been an interesting time all told and it’ll be lovely getting to know my temporary colleagues better as time goes on, although of course I’m looking forward to seeing Duncan more. I’ll give him a ring later. The advantage of having dinner straight after work is getting back to my mum’s at a reasonable time, not that she’ll always be there but I can relax regardless.

  So yes, tonight is with Billy. That should be a hoot. I’m hoping he’s not forgotten or proxies Nathan in his place but either way, a hoot. After lunch, I type up my salad. I’m conscious of not making too many of the reports about salad as that’s the easy, and therefore very clichéd, option for dieters but there’s much more choice these days than when I first started at the paper.

  I see that Nathan’s in with Billy when I approach his office so pop down to see Phil to ask if he’d mind not doing Friday nights so I can head back home before the London traffic gets too bad, not that there’s a good time on a Friday other than really late and that’s not my idea of how to spend a Friday night.

  He’s staring at his screen when I reach his box of an office. I don’t like interrupting but tap lightly on the door. Without looking away, he raises his hand and beckons me in.

  “Yes?” he snaps. Oh dear.

  “Sorry, Phil. It’s Donna. I wanted a quick word about dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Huh?”

  “Dinner tomorrow night?”

  “Oh… yeah… that.”

  Oh, yes, that. Clearly not
keen, which makes my question easier to ask. “Would you mind if we don’t, only–”

  “Nope. Not at all.”

  It’s difficult to tell for sure as he’s still staring at the screens but he looks a little relieved. I don’t know whether it’s because I’ve done something to offend him or he’d rather be doing something else tomorrow night, or both. I’m hoping it’s the idea and not me, but I’d never be bold enough to ask, or want to know. I bid him a quiet, ‘Thank you. See you later’ and get the merest of nods in return.

  I head back upstairs. Owen’s off the phone. Peering through the non-bulletproof plastic sheeting that separates us, I look down at his hands. They’re looping a beige rubber band round an impressively large ball of bands. The advantage of dealing with the post is that he’s probably amassed those in a fairly short space of time. Duncan has a less impressive one at his house from all the bands he brings back from walking Buddy, courtesy of our local, and not-so-local as they seem to be wherever we go, posties. It’s no wonder Royal Mail struggles to make a profit. I’m joking of course but it would go some way.

  Owen looks up. “Oh hi.”

  I smile. “Hi, Owen.” Greta! Greta! my brain shouts at me. “I know,” I whisper.

  Leaning towards me, toned chest hanging over his desk, squishing the band ball, Owen whispers back, “You do?”

  “Oh no, I mean…” What do I mean? Greta! Greta! “I was wondering… It’s none of my business but…”

  Eyebrows raised, head tilted to one side, Owen resembles a curious dog.

  “It’s not for me but I get the impression…”

  He’s still waiting for me to get to the point. So am I.

  “I think we have a colleague who really likes you.”

  He leans back and I think I’ve offended him but he smiles. “Is it who I think it is?”

  I have no clue who he thinks it is but I’m hoping it’s the same person. “Greta!” I blurt, just as she comes out through the double doors.

  “Yes?” She has the same curious expression on her face as Owen does on his.

  They look at each other and blush. It’s sweet. I decide to bite the bullet, grab the bull, and any other cliché that comes to mind. I figure that if I’ve got it all wrong then what’s the worst that could happen. I’m only temporary anyway. “Greta. Owen likes you. Owen, Greta likes you too.” There, said it. I can scuttle away now.

  And I do, but not before Owen’s come out of his cubicle, crossed the foyer, and is holding Greta’s right hand in his. He almost looks like he’s going to get down on one knee and propose but all he does is raise her hand and kiss the back. She and I are speechless, and I decide to do the decent thing and leave them to it. I’m sure one or other of them will tell me all later. Just call me Cupid.

  As I walk down the corridor, I’m buzzing that I’ve coupled a… er… couple. Work relationships are often frowned upon but how else are you supposed to meet anyone? I met Duncan courtesy of Izzy and that was because of work and she met William that way, being our editor and boss. As she’d proven, dating sites are hard work and I’m so glad (and hopeful) that I’ll never need to go down that route. Mike, before Duncan, was a work colleague so proves my point yet again, although that was always doomed and he’s moved on to Frosty, another work relationship.

  I’m glad that Duncan and I don’t work together. You can have too much of a good thing, can’t you? We’re both animal lovers so him telling me all about his patients – the happy endings – gives me goosebumps, plus I love listening to his voice. He says I talk too much but we give as good as we get, no pauses, pregnant, thankfully.

  I get back to my desk and realise I’ve forgotten to see whether Billy’s in his office so I stand up almost too quickly for my bum to make contact with my seat, Veronica’s seat.

  There’s no sign of Billy but Nathan’s at his desk, audio headphones on. Again, I don’t like to interrupt but do need to know what I’m doing, so I hover. I hear a click of the audio machine and assume it’s Nathan releasing the pedal. It’s the same tape type that Janice uses for William’s dictations and I’m surprised that Billy’s still using old-school technology rather than everything digital. Now is not the time though to ask. “Sorry, Nathan. I was wondering whether Billy’s still okay to come out for something to eat.”

  Nathan’s face drops, as does my stomach, which is pretty empty at the moment. “So sorry, Donna. Forgot all about it. I thought I had a rem–” He looks at his screen as it pings. “Yep, there it is. Donna and Billy dinner. Unfortunately he’s been called away. Some family emergency up in Scotland. Will be away until Monday. I’d love to help but I’ve already–”

  “Oh, no. It’s absolutely fine.” And although it’s disappointing, it is fine. A night off won’t kill me. Maybe Mum. Ah, no. Guitar with Greta. Of course. So dinner for one. In Tring. It’ll make a change. “Thank you anyway.”

  Nathan nods politely, puts his headphones back on, and I hear the click as the tape restarts.

  Chapter 45 – Dinner For One Non-singleton

  Even though I prefer company, I don’t mind the thought of having dinner on my own. I rarely do; I’m usually eating at home or out with Duncan or Izzy, so this will be a novelty. And I’ve always fancied Black Goo. Tring has a large retired population, especially with money to spend, but eyebrows were raised when Black Goo opened. More the name than its contents, I suspect. It makes me wonder whether Veronica have reviewed or mentioned it so I dig around the archives, those fortunately are digitised rather than tape, microfiche, paper, whatever it was before digital. I should know but my brain’s too used to Google-type online searches, internet and intranet.

  It brings up all the reviews and articles, and I filter by food rather than music, books etc. but there’s no sign of Black Goo. I spot one for Lussmans, a ‘fish and grill’ restaurant which used to be one of the banks on the high street, HSBC I think, and that certainly appeals. I’m surprised to see it’s actually Greta who did the review, but pleased that it appealed to her too.

  A quick Google search tells me it was originally built as a bank in 1922 but doesn’t tell me what it was when it closed. I don’t feel particularly inclined to look further until I go to leave the internet but curiosity gets the better of me. I think I’ve killed quite a few proverbial cats in that respect in my time. I can only apologise. Enhancing a search from ‘lussmanns tring bank’, which told me the building’s name was ‘The Old Bank’, to ‘lussmanns tring was which bank before it closed’ tells me, courtesy of tringtoday.co.uk, it was indeed the HSBC. I congratulate my little grey cells.

  So, Lussmanns it is. I double check, again courtesy of my friend that is Google, whether I need to make a booking. I’m not told I have to but am invited to do so by several of the links so decide to. That way I don’t have to go in on my own and announce the fact that I’m only looking for a table for one.

  The default on the Open Table website is for two, of course it is, and I click the down arrow and go up one for ‘1’. Despite the website defaulting twice to two people, I finally get it to accept that it will only be me then I’m told they’ll hold my reservation for 5:00 minutes, 4:59, 4:58 and counting, allowing me plenty of time to Sign in or Sign up. I need to do the latter and quicker than the clock and ignoring the three ‘send you offers’ tick boxes, my reservation is confirmed.

  Thursdays are tricky days when it comes to restaurants. It’s often a friends’ night out night, the lads together, the girls-only parties, and I could have run the risk of having an available table for one but having never been there and got the place in my heart as well as my mind, I now have something concrete to look forward to.

  I’m also impressed by the fact that they support Herts Young Homeless. I click on the link to hyh.org.uk. Websites like this one make me realise how lucky I am, not that I didn’t know that already. Even if I lost my flat, if Duncan and I broke up, my mum would always have me back. Actually, she’d have me back even if none of that happened. She has got me back
, albeit for a month. I click on the ‘donate’ button and PayPal thirty pounds, leaving a brief message, using a nickname.

  After popping back to my mum’s, I’m glowing a little as I walk down into Tring’s town centre which takes me past Black Goo. Even if I’d wanted to go there, I couldn’t have done. It closes at four every day except Sunday and then it’s two pm. If I spend a weekend here, which I’m sure I will this month, I’ll pop in and see if they can accommodate my temporary diet.

  I continue along the high street, cross the road at the zebra crossing, then back track slightly and push open the heavy door into Lussmanns. I’d only ever been in there once when it was a bank and it’s changed out of all recognition, unsurprisingly. It’s spacious, as to be expected, but much brighter than before. It’s still daylight outside so that helps but the walls are a pale blue with white wooden lower halves, pale wooden hatched flooring, wooden or grey marbled tables and wicker cane chairs or salmon pink sofas. It reminds me of a scene from Raffles. I wasn’t born when it came out but remember my mum loving the reruns on UK Gold and the likes, so I can recall snatches.

  An enthusiastic waitress comes up to me and I nod when she asks if I have a booking. I tell her my name and she smiles and guides me to a table at the far end of the main area. I have the choice of a wicker chair or sofa and go for the latter as it looks far more comfortable, enough to make me nod off if I’m not careful. I’m pleased I’ve not been led to the middle as I’d have felt like the solitary goldfish with everyone at the fair peering in.

  I don’t know why singletons are so hard done by, not that I am one of those, and maybe it’s just singletons who feel hard done by, or me thinking they are. I did cover being single briefly, when I was single, and what the stigma from the press can do to our mental health, and think a revisit of that topic is probably overdue.

  The same waitress asks if I’d like something to drink and seeing as I’ve walked, I ask for a vodka and lemonade. It’s light and refreshing to start and I’ll be eating soon, hopefully, it is quite quiet so far.