The Serial Dieter

by Rachel Cavanagh

  She sniffs. “Bit emotional. Silly really. I’m seeing him tomorrow night.”

  “No, that’s sweet.”

  “Don’t know how you manage a couple of weeks.”

  “I managed before I met him,” I say sagely. “Can’t imagine being without him now.”

  “Hopefully you’ll never have to be. Have you talked about…? Do you think he might…?”

  I’m surprised Izzy asks because she knows pretty much everything Duncan and I have ever discussed, the important stuff anyway.

  I deflect, reflect, the question. “Will William?”

  She blushes. “Sometime, I’m sure. When the time’s right. You know him.”

  “It’s the next natural step after moving in, isn’t it. And none of us are getting any younger.”

  Izzy’s not long turned thirty-one and I’m hanging on to thirty by too thin a thread. Not something I’m looking forward to.

  “We should think about what to do for your thirty-first.”

  “No,” I say a little too sternly, “we shouldn’t,” but laugh.

  Chapter 84 – Tender Bones

  Sunday 27th May

  We both oversleep, gone eleven, and it’s just as well we don’t have a dog as it would have seriously been crossing its legs by now. I think yesterday’s walk has caught up with us as everything aches. My head feels okay on the inside but everywhere else complains when I move.

  There’s no sign of Izzy when I get downstairs but the noise of the kettle seems to do the trick and I hear a thump, plod, thump, plod and her socked feet appear, followed by her pyjamas and finally a scowling face.

  “Did we drink last night?”

  I know she means alcohol.

  I shake my head. Neither of us fancied it despite thinking it might help the post-walk fatigue.

  “It feels like we drank last night.”

  She plonks herself, albeit gently, at the table.

  I’ve just put our mugs down when I hear a key in the door.

  “Sorry! Sorry!” my mum pants as she opens the front door, wiggling her key loose. “I know you said to be here… Oh, you’re not dressed yet. That’s good. Has it just boiled?” she asks, pointing to the kettle.

  “Want me to–”

  “No, you’re fine. You have yours. I’ve not decided yet.”

  I ask the obvious question. “No Charles?”

  She picks up the kettle and wiggles that as if to see if there’s enough water, the transparent strip in the side clearly lying. She adds a few millilitres, puts the kettle back on its stand, and flicks the button so it turns blue. “He’ll be along in a bit. Got something to sort out first.”

  A wife? I’m tempted to say but resist.

  As if she’s only just realised we have a guest, my mum turns to Izzy, rushes over and gives her a big hug. She’s too quick for Izzy to stand straight so she’s at an awkward forty-five degree angle and winces as her already tender bones are semi-crushed.

  “So how are you?” Mum asks, finally letting go and returning to reboil the kettle for her drink before awaiting the reply. She thumps a mug on the work surface, making Izzy wince, and spoons in some coffee and a sweetener. She turns and looks at Izzy for her answer.

  “Not bad, thank you,” she lies but my mum doesn’t seem to twig.

  “Great,” she chirps, turning back to pour on the water and stirring the drink far too loudly. She then taps the spoon on the edge of the mug with enough ferocity to chip the enamel, except it doesn’t. Joining us at the table, she thumps the mug onto her mat, making the coffee slop over the side slightly. “Oh darn.”

  Darn? Whenever does my mum say ‘darn’? In Izzy’s company.

  “Would you…?” Mum points to a box of paper tissues on a windowsill behind Izzy’s right shoulder.

  She turns carefully and retrieves the box which she equally carefully puts on the middle of the table as if placing such a weighty object would be tornado-loud.

  “So, Izzy. How are things with you? William?”

  Izzy nods gently. “Very good, thank you. We’ve just moved in together. I’ve… moved in with him.”

  My mum goes to clap but looks at our faces and clearly thinks better of it. Rather than ask us what’s wrong she remains upbeat. “Oh great. That’s lovely. Did Donna tell you about Charles and I?”

  Me, Mum, Charles and me. It wouldn’t be ‘Did Donna tell you about I?’ now would it.

  I gently throw Izzy’s earlier question back at her with as much gusto as a toddler throwing a ten-pin bowling ball. “Are you sure we didn’t have alcohol last night?”

  We look around the room as if there might be evidence of empties. Apart from a half-opened, lid on, prawn cocktail Pringles tub and two empty Asda bolognaise pasta bake ready meal card outers and black plastic trays, there’s nothing. No empty bottles of even fizzy water.

  “So you girls had fun last night?” Mum asks, trying to surmise the morning after the night before. So are we.

  “Watching a couple of movies and eating…” I look over again at the Pringles. “…things we shouldn’t have been.”

  Mum blows a raspberry. “It’s the weekend. Izzy’s a guest. It’s obligatory to have fun.”

  Izzy’s about to speak when the front door opens.

  “Hello, ladies.” Charles is grinning and I notice he’s carrying a Harrods woven bag. Not a bag for life as much as one for a millennium. He puts the bag down on the work surface and pulls out a white box with gold ribbon around it. There’s a label of some kind on the top but it’s too far away for me to see. It looks expensive. He carries it over and places it on the table as if the item were made of gold.

  I look at Izzy and she’s almost drooling. She sits up straighter, furrow on her forehead gone, and she’s smiling, no beaming. I look again at the box. “How did you know?” I ask him.

  He doesn’t answer but looks at my mum then back at me. Of course. Everyone who knows Izzy knows how much she loves banoffee pie and now he knows her. She wouldn’t kill for it because she’s too much of a goodie two-shoes and certainly wouldn’t die for it because I know she loves her life, but…

  “And in case it wasn’t your favourite, Donna…” Charles returns to the Harrods bag and brings over another box of a similar size. The label on this one lists three items instead of one: ‘Double Caramel Millionaire’s Shortbread, Tiffin, Florentine’. I never knew Millionaire’s shortbread was anything but single caramel. So the kind man had been to the bakery before coming over. “Your mother gave me some clues for you too.”

  I look at Mum who’s smiling.

  “They’re probably still warm.”

  I struggle to think of a bakery that would be open on a Sunday morning. It certainly doesn’t have a Tesco feel about it.

  “It took a bit longer than I expected because I couldn’t remember where I’d put the ribbons.”

  That’s sweet. He added the bows afterwards.

  “He made them.” My mum’s almost glowing with pride.

  “Sorry?” I say to her.

  “Charles, he made the cakes. This morning actually. I said he could have done it yesterday but no, he wanted them to be as fresh as possible. I put the boxes together. He had them from… Where were they from?”

  “A friend’s wedding. I helped with the catering. It was only a small affair. A hundred or so.”

  I’m struggling to think of fifty people I’d know, let alone like enough, to invite to my wedding… if and when I have one.

  “You…”

  Charles blushes. “Right, shall we have a bit now or pop out for lunch and come back and have some.”

  I can tell we’re all tempted to go for the first option but reality and sanity rule so we ‘plan b’.

  “What choices do we have?” Charles asks and I list some of the places I’d researched for all these evenings I was going to go out for dinner with my mum, none of which have happened yet.

  We decide on a Sunday roast, given that it is actually Sunday, so head over to the
Crow’s Nest across the local dual carriageway, the A41 that takes its quarry from the M25 to Aylesbury and beyond.

  Being a Beefeater, I suspect it’s going to be popular and wondered whether we should have booked but yet again, Charles knows the manager so we have a lovely quiet table near the fire. It’s been strategically placed to get maximum heat although it’s simmering gently rather than roaring, being a nice day.

  “I’m paying,” Charles announces as we sit.

  Izzy and I go to protest but he insists.

  “Please. It’s a… an engagement celebration.”

  My mum blushes but nods.

  Izzy and I order the Beefeater share platter, at a mere 2,147 calories between us. We love everything listed: ‘buttermilk chicken wings, slices of breaded crispy flat cap mushroom, lamb kofta, spicy potato dippers and grilled flatbread pieces. Accompanied by ranch, piri piri (aka peri-peri at Nando’s) and smoky BBQ dips with, at Charles’s instance, the spare ribs added, so the best of both worlds. So much for our Sunday roasts.

  Mum and Charles though do go for the roast and have ‘rump of lamb’ and ‘slow-cooked beef’ and they swap pieces. They’re just like Izzy and me. Actually a great pairing. I decide I’ve been far too judgemental of him. He’s really nice, thoughtful, and generous. Almost the perfect guy in every respect. I blush as I think of seeing him yesterday morning but take a sip of my lemonade, pretending that my spicy potato dipper is hot, which it actually is. I take an extra sip.

  Although the desserts look and sound divine, but don’t they always on a menu, we agree to skip them and coffees and go back to Mum’s. It’s lovely chatting at the pub but it’s been rather overtaken by families, as you would expect for a Sunday lunchtime, so Charles pays the bill and thanks Jodie our waitress for stellar service. She is lovely, and particularly attentive, probably having been told the identity of her guest of honour, and we leave.

  Mum puts on the kettle as Charles deboxes the cakes and puts them onto platters Mum got out before we left.

  “Are you retired then, Charles?” I ask, despite knowing about his P.I. work but am über nosey, as he cuts the cakes into too-generous portions.

  He avoids answering the question directly, I note, as he replies, “I was…” He seems shy or reluctant but I can’t work out which. “I was er… in the police.”

  Izzy’s eyes light up. “Really? I’m thinking of writing a crime novel.”

  “You are?” I ask, once I’ve pulled my jaw off the table.

  “Yes. I’ve told you loads of times.”

  “Not that it was a crime novel.”

  “Yes.”

  Now The Luckiest House definitely doesn’t sound like a winner if it’s supposed to be a crime novel. Oh well, at least she’s made a new research buddy.

  Charles retrieves his bulging (I smirk) wallet from his trouser back pocket, opens the wallet and pulls out a gold-embossed business card which he hands over to Izzy. “Anything you need.”

  She blushes and almost gushes. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  My mum isn’t the only one glowing with pride and it feels good.

  Chapter 85 – A Little Cold But Familiar

  Monday 28th May

  Being school bank holidays this week, the traffic’s going to be really light. Most people would have gone away for the weekend. Izzy and I both have the day off but she wanted to spend some time with William, as to be expected. I’d suggested she come down a different weekend but workaholic William said there were things he needed to do in the office Saturday / Sunday. I guess a paper doesn’t run itself.

  So indulgently, I spend the entire day in my pyjamas. I’m tempted to collect Elliott again but I fancy vegging so that’s exactly what I do. I am however very restrained and not a mouthful of ice cream passes my lips. I do make up for it with crisps, finger pizza and a mini Twix, but the rest of the time, I’m an angel personified with salad, pasta and spring water.

  Yesterday, after we got back from the Crow’s Nest, Charles delighted and entertained, and I could really see what had attracted Mum to him, apart from the obvious. He had the perfect attributes any woman would want in a man, while he did have flaws. Yes, even Charles. It turned out, when one walked up the kitchen door, that he’s scared of spiders. Fair enough he had been bitten by a tarantula while working in Egypt, as you do, but this was only a money spider. You’d think, out of us all, before his confession, that Charles would have been the first to pick it up and throw it outside but no, Izzy did that. Another tick in the Izzy:Charles log book.

  He didn’t outstay his welcome, nor stay over, and left before eight last night.

  “He’s amazing, Lesley!” Izzy gushed before she too headed away.

  It was Mum’s turn to blush but I still felt proud.

  “Feeling better about him now?” Mum asked me, when Izzy had gone, and I could honestly say I did.

  “Love him. Not love-him love-him but you know.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Being a four-day week, I’m hoping the next few days will fly. The project officially finishes on Thursday, leaving Friday simply to write up the final article should I have my ‘last’ meal on Thursday, and answer any related emails.

  Come Monday I’ll be back in Northampton, at my gone-a-little-cold but familiar desk and all will be well with the world again. I shall throw myself, be myself, back into Donnaland… and now I feel like a Dolly-type theme park.

  I’m not a natural exhibitionist but wonder if I would have done, will do something, one day so that people would know my name. Local people do, back in Northampton, they only know Veronica’s here, but it’s not the same. I’m sure if you stopped a thousand people on the street back home, no, the tens of thousands who buy the paper on a regular or semi-regular basis, only a fraction, fewer than ten, five percent, one more likely, would be able to say who writes the health and beauty column.

  I may not change lives but I know I make a lot of people feel better about themselves. I imagine it’s like people who read books; out of every hundred who read a book, I guess only one leaves a review. I might be wrong but how dispiriting must it be for authors when they’ve put however many hours in it takes to write a book – a year? – and struggle to get it published then when it is and they check their reviews for there to only be a new one every full moon.

  But what do I know? I’m a journalist, not even that, a columnist, not an author. I don’t know what it takes to write a book of what, seventy, eighty thousand words, more if you’re the likes of J.R.R.R. Tolkien, or however many Rs he has after the J, or erm… the Games of the Thrones guy. Martin something with a lot of initials. G.R.R.R.?

  Being a bank holiday, I’ll miss out on my final Nathan tonight, which is really sad. Billy had told me last Thursday of Nathan’s plans with a mystery man (still Brad, I’m hoping) so I wasn’t going to interrupt that. Instead, I do go to Hemel’s Wetherspoon, The Full House, the other nearest ‘spoon’ being The Bell in Aylesbury so I thought I’d stick with Hemel as it would have felt a little traitory.

  I’m glad I went for the one I did as it had an amazing mural behind the bar, very Romeo and Juliet, the perfect thing to remind me that I’m going home to Duncan on Friday.

  Chapter 86 – And Splurge

  Tuesday 29th May

  Leah, it turns out, has extended her holiday with her boyfriend. Like a scene from the ‘warts and all’ (not that any of them would have had any) television series ‘Selling Sunset’, Leah’s landed herself a rich boyfriend and they decided, with no days off taken since Christmas, to holiday wherever the fancy takes them.

  I don’t mind at all having the days to myself. After hitting the charity shops with Izzy on Saturday, I plan to resist the urge to hit the ones here. I’ve got more emails in than normal because of the day off so the morning’s gone just going through those. I can also get my articles ready for the last three days of the month, this project, even if they don’t have all the details… like the venues or food! A minor… er, detail.<
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  Speaking of which, I didn’t bring any lunch with me, and having been in the ladies when the snack van arrived I didn’t hear the claxon – I really must be getting deaf in my ‘old’ age. Oh gosh. Thirty-one nearly. So I head to the town centre, grab a turkey and stuffing (it’s only May!) sandwich and do indeed hit the charity shops.

  Duncan loves his bargains as much as I do so will be delighted with the remote-control Ferrari for a fiver! The box is a bit tatty but that doesn’t matter. It’s not like we have a child to sit in it. Had Buddy been a cat… or a child… although Duncan would dispute that.

  Frank and I head to The Olive Indian Restaurant on Lawn Lane, on sort of a triangle with the Boxmoor Steakhouse and K2, with the River Gade running along two sides, for the final Indian of the week. I think.

  “I’m under instructions,” he tells me as we walk to the front door, having driven in convoy and parked next to each other, “for ‘the works’ so, my dear, you have a night off from ‘the project’. So I hope that’s okay.”

  That sound more than okay as Indian is one of the most difficult, with all its lovely sauces, to get a healthy version thereof. We therefore take, presumably Billy’s, word for it and splurge on a buffet of starters as mains: bhajis, poppadoms, tikka potato cakes, samosas, duck Nizami rolls, Konkani crab, Chatpata crispy calamari, chicken pakora, a portion of pilau and lemon cashew rices, not forgetting the obligatory aloo gobi and saag aloo.

  Even though I’m not working, I take in the array before me and try to memorise them, like a contestant at the end of the Generation Game. All that’s missing is the cuddly toy, and it probably would have been easier to name the things we weren’t going to have. Oh, and our waitress, Avani, is bringing something else.

  “Lamb keema tawa tak-a-tak,” she announces and moves one of the other dishes over to make room on our table for four for two.

  “The restaurant’s ‘street food’,” Frank informs me as if he’s a regular here too. It wouldn’t surprise me but I hold in the ‘do you come here often’ question.