With her gone, Izzy and I excuse ourselves to go to the ladies. The guys are already deep in conversation about a new car William’s thinking of getting. Beyond its colour and interior design, a car is a car to me but boys will be boys.
Inside my cubicle, I do a quick Google search on my phone for ‘Anja’ and apart from several links to an Australian-Danish singer-songwriter, one for urbandictionary.com peaks my curiosity.
‘Anja is the most beautiful and cutest person you’ll ever meet,’ I read to myself. ‘Anja loves noodles and likes to eat sweets, but at the same time she wants to get rid of eating both.’ Interesting. ‘She likes hanging around guys but she secretly hates all her female friends, even the ones she calls “best friends”.’ That’s not good. I’d never do that to Izzy. ‘Anja loves long relationships and enjoys the attention from her boyfriend. She is the most loyal person if you prove that you are worth being trusted. Don’t hurt her emotions because that’ll be the biggest mistake you’ll ever make.’ Go, girl. ‘She doesn’t let anyone in her life that easily. Most of her love goes to animals, especially dogs. She already owns at least one, so if you love her, you must love her dog too and treat him like your best friend because she / he is her best friend. You can get her mad really quick, but be careful, if you go too far with jokes you can end up in bruises.’ I smile. ‘Pretty much, Anja is everything you need in your life to be happy, so hurry up before there is no single (not in relationship) Anja left on this world. Look at her, she is so adorable and cute. Of course, her name is Anja, what did you expect?’
Wow. The image of a Mr Men ‘Little Miss Perfect’ comes into my brain, not that I know whether there is actually one so I google that too. The results aren’t very forthcoming but without delving further, it looks like there is only a male version. Mmm.
“Are you okay in there?” Izzy.
“Yes, fine, thank you,” I say, stand, and flush.
We wash our hands in silence, not because we’ve nothing to say, we always have, but more that we don’t feel we need to; we’re enjoying each other’s company.
We walk behind Anja as she heads in the direction of our table. She’s carrying a huge tray in one hand and a folded tray support in the other. Superwoman, she certainly is, but all the other waitresses and waiters do exactly the same. I bet they’re not called Anja though. Of course the waiters aren’t called Anja. I shake my head. Our Anja stops at a table short of ours. I would have been surprised if our food had been ready in the time it took Izzy and me to visit the ladies, even with the extended Google searches.
It’s not long though, the length of the recap of my week, mostly for William’s benefit, before Anja reappears, in Superwoman mode, with our food. She snaps open the tray support and plonks down the tray. It’s a replica of how our table will look in a few seconds. My food in the nearest corner, Izzy’s to its left, William’s to its right and Duncan’s in the opposite corner. Anja distributes the plates perfectly with the sides in the middle, and extra forks should we need them. She thinks of everything, but it’s her job and I’m sure she’s well practised.
“Can I get you anything else?” We look around the table and shake our heads. All the sauces we could want have either come with our dishes or were there already. None of us are having pasta or pizza so we don’t need the usual addition of parmesan, although I love it so much I’d have it on anything. She smiles and is about to leave when I ask her a question.
“How do you remember which goes where?” I point at all the plates.
Anja turns the notepad round to me, and I see a column with little numbers one to four on the left-hand side. “I always start with the right, at the back… with you on this occasion.” She’s still looking at me so means me. “And I work clockwise.”
Smart as well as beautiful, cute, loyal, and whatever else the Urban Dictionary claimed her to be. Tall. It didn’t say tall but she’s really tall. Not William tall but around six foot I’d say. I’m tempted to ask one of the others to stand next to her as Izzy and Duncan are five-ten and William six-four, but that would be silly. And I’m braver bolder Donna not even more silly me.
“Thank you,” I say and sit back in my seat.
Izzy’s been talking to William but I’ve not heard a word. They’re both laughing though, as is Duncan, so it must have been funny and I’m sorry I’ve missed it.
It’s lovely to see them both so happy. Izzy and William. He’s come out of his shell so much since they got together, and I know they’ll work. Unlike me, Izzy will never consider straying. I know I won’t with James but if the thought was there, what does it say about my relationship with Duncan?
I don’t know why I’m feeling so insecure; everything’s fine. I just don’t feel like me at the moment. I think it’s being apart. I don’t like it. Only four more weeks. Urgh! That sounds like forever. But it’ll fly. This first one has. PMA, Donna, PMA.
So I put on a broad smile and make myself enjoy the rest of the evening. It’s not that difficult as we work so well as a foursome. William hadn’t met Duncan until after he and I had started dating but they clicked, like we did.
The rest of the evening flows. We stay for coffees, a Bailey’s latté in Izzy’s case, of course. Anything Bailey’s. I’m more of an almond girl so go for a café Amaretto whereas the guys have black Americanos. I’d spotted something recently on Facebook that said if you drink your coffee black, you’re more likely to be a psychopath. Other than Izzy, we all like black coffee but I can’t imagine any of us being psychopaths. Threaten us though and I’m sure we could turn, even quiet diminutive me.
We finally spill out of the restaurant, one of the last parties to leave. It’s been such fun that I don’t want the evening to end, but end it must. We do a round of couple hugs – we’re not really a group huggy party – and promise to catch up again next weekend. That only goes to remind me that I’ll be the absent one for five days and I get sad but everyone else looks so happy that I keep on my smile.
I drive Duncan back to his and Buddy’s ecstatic to see us, Duncan first of course but Buddy then leaps all over me as I fill up and switch on the kettle to make Duncan and me a final coffee to take up to bed. Duncan pops Buddy round the block while I do that and the dog’s equally energetic when he rushes back in and paws at my dress. I don’t want to discourage him but I have only just bought it so I turn, crouch, and we hug. We’ve not bonded as well as Elliott and me but we’ve known each other longer.
Buddy is a very sweet dog. I need to spend more time with him, one on one, buy him toys, take him for more walks, and we’ll be fine. He’s always been more loyal to Duncan, but a dog can have two masters… can’t he?
Chapter 52 – Playing House
Sunday 6th May
Sundays vary in this household. Sometimes we’re at my flat, but mostly we’re at Duncan’s house. There are always chores to do but more so this Sunday because we let them slip last weekend and I’d not been around to help during the week. There’s been a mix of rain and sun so the lawn needs mowing, one of Duncan’s favourite things so I leave him to it while I de-weed the borders.
We don’t say a lot because of the noise of the mower but it’s lovely being together. Buddy knows not to get in the way of the machine so he stays over the other side of the garden trying, and failing, to catch butterflies fluttering around one of the huge buddleia plants. He’s the same with squirrels although that’s much more fun and more of a chase but he’s never quick enough with either, which is just as well.
When the front and back gardens are done, I get lunch. It’s a fine day but not too hot, always useful when working outdoors. We eat light as neither of us is particularly hungry after last night’s dinner out and with no leftovers, a couple of rounds of toast each this morning do nicely. There’s tuna, couscous, and most of a washed bag of Sainsbury’s mixed salad leaves between us, with some baby tomatoes and sweetcorn thrown in.
After a quick bit of television – the rest of an unfinished episode of Suits, we
head upstairs for a shower. There’s a wet room in the guest room’s en-suite and standing up, naked, we’re conscious of our size difference; seven and a half inches, but it’s never bothered either of us, although we both get neckache we never complain about. Izzy, at Duncan’s height, is still six inches shorter than William so not too different from Duncan and me, but they seem better matched, not sure why; I guess they’re just tall to me.
There’s nothing quite like skin on skin, especially when it’s wet and soapy, and without getting all Fifty Shades, I’ll just say that we end up in our bedroom. With the door closed. Buddy outside. Whimpering. While I’m inside. Whimpering.
We finally emerge two hours later, mostly so I can take Buddy for a walk while Duncan prepares dinner. Having had a cold lunch, we have lasagne, accompanied by the rest of the salad leaves. Remembering I’m on this project, Duncan gives me a portion that sits comfortably within my 500-calorie limit. He’s such a darling. We talk about Izzy and William, and I shudder slightly at the thought of how perfect my life is.
Duncan frowns and looks at the fireplace below the television. “You cold? Would you like me to put that on?”
I shake my head. “But thank you. No, just happy.”
“Ah, okay. Good. Great.” He smiles and my heart swells.
“Mind if I carry on with my book?” he asks when we’ve finished eating, tidied away, and we’re sitting side by side on the sofa.
“Ooh, good idea. I’ve been meaning to get back to Robert.”
“Robert?”
I pop upstairs and return with a rather battered copy of Robert Galbraith’s The Cuckoo’s Calling.
“Oh, isn’t that JK Rowling in a suit?”
I laugh. “I have the series, charity shops of course, but only just started this one.” I point to a bookmark about a dozen pages in. I open it and it’s page thirteen. Unlucky for some.
Duncan smiles and shows me his book. I’d forgotten what he’d been on last weekend and am reminded that it’s Richard Branson’s autobiography, Losing my Virginity. It always makes me smile and see from Duncan’s bookmark, a bright orange post-it note, that he looks no further forward.
As if reading my mind, he says, “I did pick it up a couple of nights this week and got on to the next chapter but both times was woken up by the book hitting my nose.” The same thing happens with me. We’re usually so tired that we don’t get very far. It’s just as well we prefer paperbacks to Kindles or iPads as they’re more solid, although a bit of a brick, Duncan’s book would hurt more than mine.
Having had a fair amount of adult fun over the weekend, we settle for some simple skin on skin, and soon fall asleep, despite the sound of a police helicopter flying overhead.
Chapter 53 – Imagine All Sorts
Bank Holiday Monday 7th May
Although it’s a bank holiday Monday, Duncan has to pop into work. It’s his practice so it’s to be expected and thankfully he’s not there long. It gives me time to pop back to my flat, swap a few things over, go through any post (bills, a bank statement and takeaway leaflets). Buddy’s gone with Duncan so I don’t even have him as company. My flat feels eerie and I’m hoping I don’t have to spend more time in it in future than I am now.
Duncan and I should have the ‘what next’ conversation, meaning me moving in with him, especially as he owns his house, but I’ve put it off for as long as possible in case the answer’s not something I’d like.
I figure I’m going to be here for an hour so do a load of washing. Even though Duncan’s happy for me to do it at his (for him to do it, more accurately) – and I do love the feeling of him being all domesticated there, I pick things that will stay here so they can hang on the airer before I leave.
After closing the washing machine door, I shiver as I stand. I’m sure I heard a scratching sound but then remember next door’s teenage son is home and his bedroom’s behind this end of my kitchen so it must be him.
I wonder what he’s doing and imagine all sorts including him lying on his bed, looking at a particularly racy magazine and I shiver again. I’m thinking of teenage boys now? Having spent more time than for a while with Duncan, I guess I have sex on the brain. No, not sex, making love. And I love when I do so with Duncan. I’ll spare you the details but he’s very… generous.
I set the washing going and flush as I picture a scene from a movie where a woman sits on the counter above a moving washing machine, let’s just say to ‘enjoy’ the vibrations. I can’t remember the movie and it’s not something I’ve ever done. I’m tempted but then I have the real thing later, may well have as I’m off in the morning, back to Hemel until Duncan joins me at my mum’s Saturday morning. Can’t wait… then I realise how silly that sounds as I’ll be seeing him in… I look at the washing machine’s countdown timer… fifty-seven minutes and hanging / driving time. The clothes hanging, not me. My brain’s like the washer, going round in circles, although I’m not sure mine ever returns to the same place.
The scratching sound’s back so I head to my bedroom to sort out some clothes. Despite only being a health and beauty columnist, some clothes do come my way, usually from Karen. Izzy and I often get second (after Karen) dibs before other girls in the office are given the choice and any that aren’t snapped up (not many) are given to charity.
With clothes packed (dry) and hung (damp), the scratching noise ignored – I really don’t want to know what Mason’s doing behind our shared wall, I’m ready for the off. I won’t be home, here, for at least a fortnight so I make sure everything’s switched off that should be, and shut and double lock the front, pausing to stroke the front door as I remove my key. I don’t know why, some affinity to somewhere I’ve cherished because it’s kept me safe when I’ve been having a tough time yet I know, hope, I’ll be deserting it at some point in the future.
Buddy’s unusually enthusiastic when I get back and open Duncan’s front door. He, the dog, usually comes to greet me but then realises it’s only me (as if it’s likely to be Duncan when he’s already there) plods back to wherever he was sitting, lying or whatevering. Even if I bring a treat or toy, it’s a short-lived enthusiasm but today he’s especially cheery even though I have nothing for him.
“He’s just back in from the garden,” Duncan explains, “and chased a squirrel,” he concludes as he pulls me into a clinch for a long lingering kiss then tips me back as he leans in towards me.
I squeal and ‘kiss him right back’, as Julia Roberts said in… in… Pretty Woman. Yes, when she’s describing Edward, a.k.a. Richard Gere to her friend, the diminutive Spaniard. No, that wasn’t it. It was Julia and Richard on the fire escape for their weird kiss. It was all kind of… lippy. I shiver and that reminds me of the scratching sound. “You’ll never guess what I heard Mason, my next-door neighbour’s son, doing…” I tell Duncan ‘all’ as I follow him into his kitchen. It’s a little late for lunch yet he’s made a full Sunday roast. He’s even made it being careful of calories in case I want to include it as one of my thirty-one ‘dishes’. He’s amazing. He’s so capable and I sometimes wonder what I bring to the relationship. Of course I say nothing.
We take Buddy to Harlestone Firs to walk off our lunch. For a nice day, especially a bank holiday one, and given there’s a garden centre opposite, it’s surprisingly quiet. We only meet two other couples, with their dogs, Giles a cockerpoo very similar to Elliott, although darker in colour and far less springy – not difficult, and Dante a springy springer spaniel whose on an expandable lead ‘because he can’t be trusted’.
Although he’s suitably sociable, Buddy’s more interested in squirrels so runs off as soon as pleasantries (sniffing bums and doing their circular dances) are completed. He finally finds one and although he has no chance of getting anywhere near it, he’s in his element, barking at the tree it shot up.
“Of course it’s going to come down for you,” Duncan says and squeezes my hand.
I smile, squeeze his hand back and nuzzle into his shoulder. Being seven and a
half inches shorter than him, that’s more or less where I come up, down, to anyway. He’s often said how he loves me being ‘pocket sized’ and he doesn’t mean it in any derogatory way. I always thought, or rather Izzy told me from experience, that most tall men liked tall women but Duncan’s ex, Daff – her real name was Daffodil rather than Daphne. Daffodil! As if I wasn’t jealous enough of her already. Duncan’s ex was six foot tall and half an inch so he had to stoop, he said. He still has to when kissing me, especially when he does his gallant sweeping swooning kisses. I like that: sweeping swooning. I’d love to get that into one of my articles but unless it’s for a particularly sexy dessert, I can’t see that happening. Just like keeping Buddy clean on this walk.
It’s not been raining for a few days but if there’s a muddy ditch to be found, Buddy finds it and true to form, his white bits are now darker brown than his brown bits. He’s having such a fun time though so I can’t complain and, of course, Duncan’s not going to tell him off. Buddy’s like the child Duncan doesn’t…
“You know what,” I say to change the topic we weren’t on, although I’m not sure what topic I’m changing it to.
He stops and turns to look at me, still keeping hold of one of my hands. “Ooh, what?” He’s got such a childlike expression that I sometimes wonder whether he’s the child he doesn’t…
“We should come here more often,” I blurt.
“We should,” he says, and leans forward to kiss me, before we continue walking.
“Oh by the way,” he says, “the helicopter last night…”
I’d forgotten but glad he reminded me.
“Turns out to be a boar loose on Bradlaugh Fields.”
I stop and turn to face him, still holding his hand of course. “A boar? As in a pig-type boar?”
The Serial Dieter Page 23
