I’m soon joined though by Arya, who informs me she’ll be my waitress. She doesn’t refer to me being alone, doesn’t ask whether I need more time, but takes up position, finger poised over handset, ready to take my order. Because of the aforementioned view-taking, I’ve not looked at the menu but don’t want to say so, or ask for extra time unless it’s more than I need and I’m left long enough to start gathering dust, not that there looks like even a speck here. It’s impeccable. As is Arya.
“I’m on a… bit of a diet. Could you…? Do you have anything that…?”
She grins, a very broad, very white smile against her dark skin. Her teeth are so bright that they could easily compete against the spotlights set into any of the beams. “No problem,” she says in an accent so rich it could outdo Charles on a generous day. She returns less than a minute later with a ‘Healthy-ish’ menu.
The passion fruit and mango supergreen pitta, as it stands would have been 477 calories, thirteen calories more than the lemon and herb version but when in Jamaica… South Africa. Stuffed with broccoli, edamame beans (I make a mental note to wikipedia it) and kale, it sounds lovely… for a low-calorie restaurant offering. I’m about to opt for that pitta but spot the sweet potato and butternut above it so go for that until I see that it’s 501 calories. Darn. The lemon and herb is only 488 so I compromise and order that. “And a diet something please.”
“We have Diet Coke, Coke Zero, or Sprite Zero.”
“Ooh, Sprite Zero please.”
“Any sides?” she asks, yet is shaking her head so I decline. I shouldn’t anyway if I’m to stick to below the five hundred calorie limit but then it’s thirty-one dishes in thirty-one days rather than meals. Or at least I think so.
I thank her as I hand back the menu and the first thing I do while I’m waiting is to google ‘edamame beans’. As expected, Wiki’s not far away in the search results and it tells me that ‘Edamame is a preparation of immature soybeans in the pod, found in cuisines with origins in East Asia. The pods are boiled or steamed and may be served with salt or other condiments. In Japan, they are usually blanched in 4% salt water and not served with salt.’ They look very much like broad beans, and while they wouldn’t be my first choice, they are nice mixed in with other things.
Arya returns really quickly with my drink and amazingly, with my food. I guess it’s not that big a deal for someone to have put it together that quickly and I’m sure it wasn’t already sitting under a heat lamp for someone to order it. Not that it needs a heat lamp but that’s the picture that sprung to mind.
The pitta is scrummy. It is actually slightly warm and the bread tastes as if it’s only just been baked and the insides are an interesting combination. There’s a nearby stand with a variety of sauces but I’ve stuck with the accompanying lemon and herb. I’ll have the peri-peri next time because it’s Nando’s specialty. If there’s going to be a next time. Perhaps next week with Frank.
I pay my bill, thank Arya for a VAT receipt and leave her a two-pound tip. I feel a little mean but for an £11.70 meal it’s more than the usual ten percent.
Before returning to my car, I look across the ‘park’ and see the climbing centre, XC, and can’t help thinking of James. I don’t feel the same as before and absence isn’t making my heart fonder in his direction. If anything, it’s helping my bond with Duncan.
Yes, Donna, you tell yourself that.
Chapter 56 – The Inside Does Match
I’m not ready to go back to my mum’s and feel I’ve not explored Tring enough yet. There’s a pub, The Anchor, I think, opposite the end of Miswell Lane. I often take Elliott to the park by the school off Goldfield Road so have seen it many times but not been in there since a pub crawl back in my early twenties… maybe even late teens. Was I driving? Not that night for sure. Anyway. I decide to go there for half a cider. My mum’s isn’t far away so I drop my car at hers – she’s not there (shocker!), and walk down so I can ‘drink’.
As it’s been so long since I’ve been inside, I’m expecting it to have changed, not that I really remember what it was like the last time. It looks rustic from the outside and the inside does match, although there’s a contemporary old feel to it, if that makes sense. I wait to order my drink and take a look around. The walls are brick but they’ve been sandblasted (as if I know what I’m talking about) to reveal the ‘exposed brick’ (just paler versions of brick brick). At the far end there’s a feature wall with a huge TV in front of some fascinating posters and Chesterfield-type seating the entire length.
Part of me hopes there’s a space so I can kneel on the seat and read the posters but I feel that would be rude, but then who am I being rude to? An incredibly tall (even more so than William, definitely basketball tall) barman smiles at me and nods as an unsaid request for my order.
“Hi,” I say.
He nods again.
“Do you have any flavoured ciders, please?”
He nods a third time. “We have Rekorderlig,” he says the name with a hint of a Scandinavian accent even though the little he’s said so far sounds English, “in strawberry and lime… we have that in Kopparberg too, wild berries, rhubarb… that’s Rosie’s pig–”
As he says it, in a very English accent, I snort like Rosie’s pig. “Sorry.”
“Elderflower and Lime…”
“Mmm…”
“Passionfruit and Apple, that’s Old Mout.”
Having missed out on the passion fruit and mango pitta earlier, I snap a “Perfect” at that one before he says any more that might dissuade me. “Thank you,” I add and he goes to one of the fridges behind him then pours the drink into a matching ‘OLD MOUT CIDER’ glass with what looks like a kiwi sitting on the ‘T’ and a row of arrows that could be swallows underneath the writing. He goes to throw the bottle in the bin and I don’t stop him but have spotted some yellow writing on the label under the flavour.
I’m curious about everything so after paying for my drink but before heading for the postered wall, I google the drink and smile at the ‘You Old Romantic’. Sweet.
As I approach what I thought were posters, I realise the wall’s actually covered in wood rather than paper and, more specifically, sides of wine crates. Not as much writing as I’d anticipated but a really clever touch. The football’s on the TV, a replay of an earlier match, so few are taking an interest and being a Tuesday night, the pub’s not heaving as it might be at the weekend which means plenty of space on the Chesterfield sofa-cum-bench. Rather than kneel and read, I sit.
My face lights up as a message comes in from Duncan. He’s already in bed and is cosy after a lovely hot bath. He has a modern version of a rolltop bath which is bigger than the 1930s one Izzy has in her house and has the taps on one side rather than at one end which means we can lie face to face and chat (or anything else!) without either of us having stainless steel digging into our skin.
We have a tennis match of messages until I say I’ll text when I’m in bed. He says he can’t guarantee he’ll still be awake but he’ll try really hard. I have no doubt. Then I look around the pub some more. On one of the pillars in the pub there are some framed photographs and illustrations. Ever curious, I wander over and take a look. They cover the life of the pub’s centenary, although most are from the first couple of decades and one looks like instruments of torture but I’m assured they’re farming implements.
After finishing my really-lovely-definitely-have-it-again cider, I put my empty glass on the bar, and thank ‘Stretch’ for his hospitality, to which I get a polite nod as he’s busy drying an engraved pint glass with a very traditional white and blue striped tea towel.
I take in more of Western Road as I walk back to my mum’s. The road turns into the high street, via a roundabout at the top of… my mind’s gone blank… Christchurch Road, and while businesses come and go, especially one next to the church opposite the library’s car park, possibly because it sells designer clothes next to a charity shop that often has super-cut-price designer cloth
es, the town’s still retained its English charm.
I remember Mum mentioning something about someone, probably council-related jobsworths, wanting to make Tring be in Buckinghamshire rather than Hertfordshire but everyone (presumably those who live here) have fought against it. Aylesbury’s only at the end of the A41 and Aston Clinton, the nearest town (village?) to Tring, is Bucks too, I think, so it’s creeping like a… creepy vine thing.
As far as I know, the bulk of Hertfordshire is the other side of the M1 so most people think of St Albans, Watford and the likes, Hertford too, I suppose.
I soon reach my mum’s and I’m pleasantly surprised when I see her car. It doesn’t guarantee she’ll be there but I’m hopeful, despite only the hall light being on at first sight.
In case she’s asleep, it is gone eleven, I don’t call for her, and after getting a glass of water, switching off the hall light and using my phone’s torch to see my way upstairs, I see her bedroom door’s shut. Not knowing whether she’s alone, or even there, I don’t knock.
I’ve just brushed my teeth and am making my way to my bedroom when I hear a giggle come from my mum’s. I’m hoping she’s reading a funny text, seeing something cute, if not adorable, on Facebook, but have my suspicions that she has company.
With my mind reverting to my beau, I snuggle under my duvet and text Duncan. I wait a couple of minutes but there’s no reply. I can’t help feeling sad, even more so when I hear another giggle as I switch off my light. I bury myself deeper under my duvet. I’m sure I’ll find out the cause of her merriment in the morning.
As Scarlett O’Hara said, “Tomorrow is another day.” And it certainly is.
Chapter 57 – Not Only My Comfort
Wednesday 9th May
It’s no surprise when I come downstairs that there’s Mum and Charles at the breakfast table. I had expected love’s young dream but they’re acting their age. But then by me not wanting them to be all over each other, I feel I’m acting their age too, older. I’m the disapproving old spinster great aunt who tuts every time there’s something jolly going on.
“Morning,” I say breezily as I remove a bowl from a cupboard and the familiar packet of Tesco’s four-nut and maple cereal from another. I tip a small amount as I’m not terribly hungry.
I’ve missed two ‘morning’s in return but smile as I return the packet with one hand and pour on some milk from a bottle my mum must have left out, figuring I wouldn’t be long coming down. I wasn’t paying attention and have tipped in too much and now have to carry the almost-full bowl from one end of the kitchen to the other, the dining area, without spilling a drop. I could do a Will Ferrell in Stranger than Fiction and ‘curse the heavens in futility’, when he’s soaking wet outside Maggie Gyllenhaal’s bakery, except there’s no need and it’s not fate, just me being careless.
Mum moves along one chair as I approach so she’s sitting diagonally opposite Charles. She tucks a strand of my hair behind my nearest ear which almost wants to make me cry. I’m usually a strong independent woman, as Beyoncé and Destiny’s other children, Kelly something and I can’t remember the other one’s name, would say, but today I’m feeling vulnerable. I only hope James isn’t back today.
“So everything okay?” my mum asks. I’m eating to hide my blushing face. I look over at Charles and give a non-toothy smile because I’m sure I’ll have something stuck in one of them. I nod and take another mouthful of cereal. “Great,” my mum says and switches on the television, although she immediately stabs at the mute button and Philip Scofield is silenced while trying to persuade us to sell our cars because it’s so much easier than trading them in. I love my Swift and while it’s running well, I have no wish to do either.
Charles is also eating but toast, and for a big man, he’s being incredibly graceful. Not even the toast is making a sound and I really don’t know how he’s doing that. Maybe it too is intimidated. I cock my head. Is that what I am? I look down at the tablecloth and imagine the ladybird fluttering its wings and flying off, I hope to somewhere nicer than a suburban kitchen.
“I like your top,” Charles says. It’s one of my favourites, a simple blue and white striped affair with a red fake bow, giving it a nautical look.
“Ah, thank you.” I know I was hesitant, and then some, at first, but I’m really warming to the man. He’ll never take my dad’s place, of course, but it’s been so long that my mum deserves to be happy. I look at her and I can tell she is.
She looks from me to Charles and back again. I’m willing her not to say my dad’s last words: ‘You are a lovely lot’ but then he was saying that to my mum, Izzy and me, and Charles and I aren’t exactly a ‘lot’. Instead she says, “How lucky am I?” We know she’s not expecting a reply and it’s not forthcoming. Charles and I just look at each other and smile.
“Right, I’d better get to work,” I say and add, “Lovely to see you again, Charles,” as I’m putting my plate and spoon in the dishwasher. And I mean it. “See you later maybe, or sometime.” He nods. I turn to my mum, who’s sitting on the side of her chair with her legs between it and the one I’d been sitting on. “See you later maybe, or sometime.”
She laughs and they both wish me a good day. Not knowing yet whether James will have returned, I hope it’s going to be.
My stomach’s in knots as I walk down the corridor towards the open-plan office. I feel sick as I see James at his desk but he’s chatting to Frank. They’re both laughing, which is a good sign. Frank’s such a positive person, as is James really, sometimes a little too positive, and I feel rather a dread at speaking to James rather than a longing feeling. I love Duncan. I will always love Duncan. I don’t love James. I don’t, of course. How could I after ten days and some of that with him not being here? Because he’s all you can think of. No, that’s not true. It isn’t.
And it really isn’t. The men turn as I approach their desks, not actually with the intention of saying more than a ‘hello’ or ‘good morning’. And I don’t get the ‘pang’ of longing for James. The fact that he clearly caught himself shaving as he still has a tiny square of tissue on one side of his chin that has a red splodge dead centre, does help. I smile a nonchalant smile at James then Frank, only because James’s desk is first and say a sprightly ‘morning’. They repeat the greeting in unison and laugh, only at that, I think, not at me. I continue walking so there’s no opportunity for ‘how was your long weekend’s or anything else and head to my desk.
It’s only when sitting that I realise I don’t have a drink. I hang my head over my desk and sigh. Although it means a trek back past ‘the’ desks, I am thirsty, only having had milk with my cereal this morning. I sit for a few seconds, open hands either side of my face, index fingers touching my forehead, thumbs on my cheeks, elbows on my desk. My arms and hands look like two swans coming together, except I don’t feel that graceful.
The sick feeling’s returning again. I know I have to face him so I make the epic journey back through the office. Nathan’s there but on the phone. We do jazz hands at each other and smile. He smiles. I laugh. Which is good. Very good.
James and Frank are still chatting but no sooner have I gone past, not looking or speaking, than I hear someone walking behind me. I refuse to turn but whoever it is (James) follows me into the kitchen.
“Donna,” he says before I can even reach for a mug. He puts a hand on my hip and I swing round. I want to slap him but he’s already too close for comfort. Not only my comfort but that of any non-dating colleague.
“No,” I say and push him back.
“I’m sorry, I was just getting past to grab a mug. I’m expecting a call.”
Likely story. “Mmm.”
“But seeing as we’re here.” His eyes are doing that annoying sparkly thing but I’m strong. I can resist. I shall resist.
“No, James, I won’t do that to Veronica… or more importantly to Duncan.”
James frowns. “Veronica? What’s Veronica got to do with it?”
“Your
wife.”
James puts down his mug and bursts out laughing. “I’m sorry. You thought…” He points his finger at me which I don’t take kindly and go to bat it away except it’s already gone in the direction of his mug and I’m batting air. “Veronica’s not my wife. She’s my sister.”
And now it makes sense. All the ‘James and Veronica’ mentions because they’re related but only by blood rather than marriage. And of course he’d take time off because his new nephew’s poorly, very poorly, which reminds me. “How’s Ethan?”
“To change the subject.”
I think I’ve done that rather well, although it wasn’t my intention. It doesn’t alter the fact that he’s married. To someone other than Veronica.
“He’s on the mend. Thanks.” James takes a sip of his drink.
“So who are you married to?” I blurt. I don’t see the harm now of asking.
“Callie. Veronica’s soon-to-be ex-husband’s sister. All very incestuous.”
“Mmm.” That doesn’t give him the right though to hit on me. Just because things aren’t going well in that direction, and presumably not well between him and Callie…
“True.”
“Huh?”
“Things aren’t going well between me and Callie.”
Oh bugger. I thought I’d only said that in my head. Still, it had to be said, thought, said.
“Of course I’m going to take Veronica’s side.”
Of course. You only have howevermany-never-been-confirmed children with Callie. I feel the slightest bit of empathy though for him being stuck in the middle until he badmouths the mother of his howevermany children.
“Right, well,” I say. “I’m terribly busy so I’ll see you later… or not.”
I feel like Bridget Jones when she confronts Daniel Cleaver. She does so with her head held aloft so I do the same, turn and high tail my way out of the office. Or I would, had James not reminded me that I’d forgotten my drink.
The Serial Dieter Page 25
