The Serial Dieter (The Serial Series Book 2)

by Rachel Cavanagh

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.

  Chapter 58 – Lots Of Maybes Flying Around

  After blanking James all morning, not difficult when tucked round my corner of the office, I think I might get away with not seeing him when who should loom over my desk… And he’s looking very pleased with himself.

  “Now we’ve established I’m not married to your temporary predecessor,” he says, “will you accompany me for lunch?”

  Oh.

  Erm.

  “I’m sorry, James, but I have plans.” Of course I don’t, because in the process of avoiding James, I’ve also been avoiding Leah. “Yes, my mum has made plans for me.”

  “Oh. Okay then. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Maybe.” Ooh, I like this new forthright Donna. “But maybe not,” I say a little too quietly as he leaves for his desk, or to go to lunch. I’m starving. I have to hope he’s gone out out so I can go… out out.

  Actually, why not go back to Tring? Ooh… Black Goo. Yes, let’s frequent Black Goo. Good plan, Donna. “See, James, I have a plan.” I even stick out my tongue. Not that anyone can see or hear but it makes me feel good. So there. I can’t help chuckling and it feels good. I should do it more often.

  I’m pleased to see no James when I go back through the office. Greta’s at her desk so I go to speak to her about tonight.

  “Oh gosh. I’m really sorry,” she says. “I hadn’t forgotten as such but…”

  I’m hoping it’s something to do with Owen and she does blush when our thoughts transmute. Not transmute. What’s a clever word for collide? That doesn’t happen, obviously, but she does blush.

  “I was actually going to say that I can’t so that’s worked out well.” I’d been looking forward to chatting to her, and of course getting the gossip, had there been any to have, on Owen but I’m pleased for her.

  “I’m off out for lunch so maybe see you later.” There are lots of maybes flying around today.

  The drive to Black Goo is fine, although it seemed to take almost as long to get out of work’s car park than it did to get three junctions on the A41. There are two for Tring, and Black Goo is sort of nearer (quicker probably at least) the second but I decide to pop to Tesco on the way – in theory just for a magazine but spend over twenty pounds including ice cream and snacks because Duncan’s coming at the weekend and it’s not fair to eat all my mum’s, even though I suspect some were bought for us (me).

  Ice cream means popping to my mum’s, a good excuse to leave my car at hers and walk, not that I have any intention of ‘drinking’ because I have to drive to work thereafter but figure the exercise – because I’ve not exactly stuck to only the five hundred calorie dishes, will do me good.

  She’s not there so she’ll be out somewhere enjoying Charles’s company and retirement. I’m not going to go all cynical and add ‘money’ because although he’ll undoubtedly insist on paying for everything, Mum has her own little pot of gold and is as strong willed as they come…

  I’d googled (of course) Black Goo before I left the office and they promise to ‘bring a taste of London café society to Tring and Berkhamsted’. I’d forgotten there was one there too. Maybe I’ll do that one lunchtime, seeing as it’s between work and my mum’s. Or I could go there now. No, I’d have to drive and parking’s tricky on the high street and… Decisive Donna. Mmm…

  I’d called in to the Tring branch once before, to ask if they knew when the pet shop on the same strip of shops might be open then felt foolish because they didn’t know and when I’d got back to Gosford Pets, I’d missed a post-it note that had said ‘back in ten minutes’. Which I’d been reading, blocking the path of the owner, manager maybe, who’d been waiting behind me to reopen her shop. I was only going to buy a bag of treats for Elliott but ended up spending over twenty pounds. I have a habit of doing that, on squeaky toys and rawhide chews, at the time debating which would last longer; the squeaks or the chews. The chews won.

  Thankfully no one at Black Goo recognises me, why would they, and I’m shown to the only free table, to the left of the main door. They take bookings, which I’d not been fortuitous enough to consider although I had noticed it on their website, but I’m grateful they don’t ask so they clearly weren’t expecting anyone else. I’d also spotted the ‘dirty’ afternoon tea of which I’d be ‘treated to the most generous, sumptuously delicious homemade savoury and sweet treats. From chunky sausage rolls to scones, clotted cream and jam, washed down with your choice of *unlimited refreshment... be it Tea, Prosecco or G&T’s (in high summer pimms!)’ with a small ‘p’. The asterisk limiting the unlimited to ninety minutes. I can imagine most people could drink their way through quite a lot in an hour and a half. ‘We also cater veggie and vegan’ (with a little cress picture) ‘options,’ it said. I may be hungry but not that hungry which is a shame as I don’t have company.

  The room is lovely. Not too big, not squished. It’s airy despite its size, probably helped by the cream interior and the hanging trendy light bulbs. There’s a bench, an actual wooden bench rather than a Chesterfield version, but a more comfy seating area to the right of the door, or it would have been had I come in and gone that way. It’s currently opposite.

  I look back at the menu and am still deliberating when a shadow looms over my table. For a fleeting second, I think it might be James, it’s so large, but it’s ‘Stretch’ from the Anchor.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi,” I say, hesitant that he’s saying ‘hi’ because he recognises me. We’re almost at as many words as exchanged between us last night.

  “Do you mind…” he continues then looks around at the packed café, “if I join you?”

  I shake my head. “No, not at all.” And I don’t. I really don’t. He’s too young for me but I certainly don’t think he’s asking to join me for any other reason than the chair opposite is the only one free.

  He sits and thanks the waitress who gives him a menu and asks if we’d like any drinks. I’ve had my fill of Coke, lemonade and the likes already this month so I fancy something different. Orangey perhaps. So I ask for exactly that, which makes them both laugh.

  “We do,” she says with a hint of an Australian accent that’s probably New Zealand or even South African. “There’s an orange juice and lemonade to play safe or we could do you a non-alcoholic cocktail.”

  “Ooh yes, that sounds nice. Thank you.”

  Rather than making a note, she keeps it in her head then turns to my new companion.

  “Double-shot espresso please.”

  “Great. I’ll be back to take your orders.” Before she leaves, he speaks again.

  “Could you do separate bills please.”

  She nods and returns to behind the counter.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, facing me. “I’d offer to pay but…”

  “You’re on a barman’s wages.”

  He frowns then the penny drops. “Right! Last night. Yes, Miss Half a Cider.”

  I cluck. (I cluck!? Where did that come from?) “That’s me.” Mother Hen.

  He holds out his left arm and it almost reaches my elbow. He draws it back until our hands are level. “I’m sorry.”

  I’m not used to left-hand shaking, most people are right handed (ninety percent of the population, I believe… I wonder why I’ve never done an article on left-handed cosmetics) so it’s a little awkward but he doesn’t seem to notice. “No problem.”

  I hadn’t noticed him being left handed last night and he coughs as it’s clear I’m staring at his left hand… which I’m still holding so now it becomes very awkward. I apologise, release his hand, and he laughs then apologises.

  “Why?” I blurt. I seem to blurt a lot. I need to learn restraint. What did I say about being thirty-one going on twelve? No, I didn’t because I’m thirty not thirty-one. Wishing my time away.<
br />
  “I do most things right handed other than eat and shake hands. Don’t know why.” He shrugs.

  “I think it’s sweet. Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound condescending.”

  “Not at all. I’m… flattered.”

  Again, I don’t think he’s taking this as anything more than the compliment it was.

  “Shall we…” He points to the menu then blows out at the description of the Afternoon Tea. “I think that would be too much even to fill my long legs.”

  “How…?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “How?”

  “I was going to ask how long your legs actually are but that’s silly.”

  He laughs. “They’re rather out of proportion.”

  “They are?”

  “I have a short body but stupidly long legs, like a spider.”

  “But thankfully only two.”

  He laughs again. “He’s a lucky chap, your…”

  “Duncan.”

  “He’s a lucky chap, your Duncan.”

  “Thank you.” Good, I’m glad we’ve got that sorted. “Right, food. Not the Afternoon Tea.”

  “No,” Stretch says and shakes his head in a very serious Winston Churchill manner. I can’t keep thinking of the man sitting opposite as Stretch. “I’m Donna, by the way.”

  Stretch goes to move his hand as if for us to shake again but changes his mind. “Finn. Two ‘n’s. After Finnegans Wake. My mum was a James Joyce fan.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh? Not a fan yourself?”

  “It’s not that… not that I’ve read much, any, if I’m honest. No, you said ‘was’.”

  I can tell the conversation’s going to get morbid and we’re thankfully interrupted by the waitress bringing our drinks. Finn and I sit back, giving the nameless waitress space to place our drinks. While she does so, I take a quick look at the menu.

  I like that the prices are in whole digits, no ninety-five or ninety-nine so we think it’s cheaper than it is. For a place as nice as this, it’s really not that bad. I’m not sure yet whether this is going to be a ‘project’ meal but it’ll be well within budget regardless and I’ll ask for a receipt just in case.

  The budget would stretch to er… Stretch, Finn, too but I don’t think Frank would accept a receipt for two ‘covers’ as they call a customer… or is that the table. I should know but then I’m not a restaurant critic, as such.

  I look up and see Finn’s not looking at the menu. Either that or he’s superpeeked and chosen already.

  “I’m a regular,” he says.

  Ah. I waft my hand to indicate for him to go first. He smiles and looks up. Even though he’s so tall, he’s average body height, the rest of him casting long shadows under the table no doubt.

  “Could I have the Veggie Goo, please.”

  I wouldn’t have had him down as a vegetarian. Not sure why though.

  Again, as if reading my mind, he explains. “I eat meat, lots of it actually, but you don’t get bubble and squeak with the meat version.”

  I’m glad he’s said that as I was going to change my Eggs Benedict for the Eggs Royale so he didn’t feel bad but revert to my original choice and hand back my menu.

  “Thanks, Sandy,” Finn says and returns his menu.

  “No probs, Finn… ma’am.”

  I can’t remember the last time I’ve been called ‘ma’am’. My mum loves it, thinks it’s respectful but it just makes me feel old.

  Finn and I, thankfully, don’t pick up where we left off; his mother.

  “So you’re a regular here,” I say to make sure we don’t.

  He nods. “I eat at The Anchor most of the time but I love it here. Have you seen the sofa’s at the end?”

  I know there is another seating area past the counter but have never been that far. Instead of moving, he googles the place and shows me. “Oh wow.” There, in all its fabulous glory, are two non-button Chesterfield-type (which probably means without the buttons that they’re not Chesterfield at all) brown sofas adorned with black and white leopard print cushions.

  After our meal, which was dee-lish-us, we retire to the aforementioned comfy area where we have cappuccino coffees and talk about everything and something. We do have separate bills although I insist on paying for the two cappuccinos because he’s such enjoyable company. Given his knowledge of Duncan there was awkwardness – unless you count the sofa farting when I went to stand. “Does that to me all the time!” Finn says and we laugh.

  We’re kicked out, not literally, when the place closes at four. I’d already decided not to go back to work. Suspecting that my Eggs Benedict was way over the five hundred calories (nutritionix.com confirmed it was 733, more generous than foodnetwork.com’s 1,020), I knew I wouldn’t be including it as one of my thirty-one dishes. Even the Eggs Royale would have been 600 or I don’t know how many as I couldn’t find that on the foodnetwork site. Although their Canadian site did have a recipe for a 328-calorie version, I don’t suppose it was one that Black Goo had used.

  “So…” I say as we stand outside. “It’s been lovely seeing you again.” I make sure I don’t include a ‘really’ in case it comes across as… you know.

  “And you. I’m at The Anchor all evening if you’re at a loose end.” Like me, he says it in a friendly but not friennndly way.

  Knowing my mum, she’ll be at her needlework class, needling who knows what (I must ask her as I’m curious), I know my end will be ‘loose’. I’ve never been one to stay in and watch television, unless I have someone (Duncan) to snuggle up to. Even so I say a non-committal, “I probably will be.”

  “Great. Maybe see you later.”

  “Yes, maybe.”

  I think of James as I walk back to my mum’s. The charity shops would have still been open but I feel like going back and slobbing, if not for the whole evening, for at least an hour or two. If Mum’s not at Charles’s, she’ll hopefully be there. With or without him.

  She’s not, although I think she is but it’s only her car. He must have picked her up and gone wherever it is they’ve gone. It’s too early for her class but he might drop her off there. I wouldn’t put it past him to join her – they are cemented at the hip – as he constantly surprises me, and her, I’m sure.

  And she’s still not back by the time the class would have started; they’re usually seven until nine, so The Anchor it is. I think I would have gone anyway, having an evening off, but dragged my mum along with me – not that I’d have to do much dragging, she’s always loved going to pubs with anyone who asks.

  Chapter 59 – Not So Little When You’re Missing Duncan

  The Anchor’s surprisingly busy. What a difference a day makes, twenty-four little hours. Little when you’re having fun. Not so little when you’re missing Duncan. Although I do know someone (Finn), it’s not the same being in a pub on your own, especially when the ‘someone’ is working. Better though than home alone, even if no one but you would know you were.

  Seeing as I wasn’t having a low-calorie dish, I’d not mentioned the ‘project’ to Finn so I’d forgotten to ask what they might have that would fit the bill. Unlike Izzy’s one man a day (sort of), I could have a work work lunch and dinner on the same day, tomorrow, but I’ll try tonight if I can in case it doesn’t work out. Plus I have to have something to talk about. I don’t want to get behind.

  “Hi.” Finn grins at me as I walk through the door that someone, having a conversation with himself, is holding open, not for me I don’t think. As I walk past, I see a white ‘bud’ in his ear so he’s obviously on the phone, not with himself. Izzy, being the techie, would have likely spotted it earlier.

  “Hello.” I grin back and laugh as Finn’s holding up a cider glass. “You know me so well.” Although it’s a repeat of yesterday, it’s exactly what I fancy. “And a menu please.”

  “Ooh… okay. That I can do.”

  He pours me the cider and gives me the menu. I’m about to tell him about my ‘requirement’ when he points to
someone waiting to be served.

  “No problem,” I say and am happy to peruse the menu. I don’t fancy salad or a pitta-type and spot a delicious looking veggie ensemble which has to fit the bill as it’s only the cheese that can do any damage. It looks like the old ‘Mac and cheese’ except it’s vegetables instead of macaroni pasta. Offer anyone a plate of vegetables, even with melted cheese, and they’d probably say ‘fine’ as a side dish, but whatever they’ve done to this, in the picture, at least, makes it look divine.

  “Hi, sorry about that,” Finn says when he comes back to me.

  “No problem,” I repeat.

  He looks at the menu, at my finger on the description of the ‘Anchor’s Away Veggie Cheese Bake’. “Good choice. A popular dish.” He nods sagely, making me laugh. “No, honestly. It tastes as good as the picture. I don’t know what Wally, he’s our chef, does to it but…” Finn forms a circle with his right (I note) thumb and forefinger, which he puts to his lips and smacks them away. “Bellissimo. Or is that bellissima. I think food is feminine.”

  “Oh. I should know.”

  “Oh? Do tell…”

  “Oh yes.” The everything and something we talked about earlier was not only lacking my project but also my job, so I fill him in.

  “Int’resting,” he says, with the first ‘e’ missing in very much a Nathan manner, before going to the till and processing my order, having accepted my ten pound note. Other than the fact that Finn is English rather than American, isn’t called Brad, and is a barman rather than… I’m not sure I ever found out what Brad did other than work for Kodak, formerly The Eastman Kodak Company, and nothing to do with the ‘often-repeated urban legend (that) recounts that photographer and musician Linda McCartney (née Eastman, first wife of Beatle Sir Paul McCartney) was related to the George Eastman family. Her father was of Russian Jewish ancestry and changed his surname to Eastman before becoming known as an attorney.’ Thank you, Wikipedia. Other than all that, I think the two of them would get on well. Finn and Nathan. Except that… looking at Finn interacting with a barmaid who’s been out collecting glasses, they wouldn’t get on that well.