The Serial Dieter (The Serial Series Book 2)

by Rachel Cavanagh

  “I know. Gives me goosebumps every time.” I’ve not seen them yet but even knowing them as well as I do, I know they still will.

  “How do they…?” Duncan repeats, going back to the ‘man’. “It’s… I’m…”

  “I know,” I say and smile. Right in front of my eyes, my thirty-two-year-old boyfriend is now seven. “There’s nothing to top that, sadly, but further on are the animals you’ll be more used to: the dogs, cats, horses, whales and so on.”

  “Oh yes, I often get whales brought in with poorly fins,” he says, back to looking at the wife so he can’t see me smiling.

  We live in almost the furthest point away from the sea so the only time we get to see any kind of fish is in batter or breadcrumbs from our local chippy. Of course I know that whales are mammals rather than fish but the only water-based life we get near Northampton are ducks. “Do you ever get ducks brought in?”

  He looks up. I repeat my question.

  “Yes, occasionally. Not wild ones though. I go out to those. You know about Animals in Need and their swans.” I nod. “They look after ducks and geese too. Anything that moves actually.” He goes back to looking at the woman. “These are simply…”

  “I know,” I say and feel like I’m stuck on repeat mode.

  We’ve realised that we should have come here earlier. They’re open for three hours on a Sunday afternoon so we could do the whole thing again tomorrow but I’m sure, fabulous as this place is, that Duncan wouldn’t want to spend his whole weekend here. For another weekend. I’m going home next weekend then Izzy’s coming down for my final weekend so another time.

  Duncan eventually tears himself away from the fleas and we move on, coming out into a corridor with a side room to our left.

  The last time I visited, there was a photography exhibition. I remember being impressed rather than astounded but having a photographer for an uncle, I’ve seen some fabulous photographs. This time there’s a craft exhibition, all still to do with the natural world, and I’m more impressed, the fabrics used in most cases incredibly ingeniously. There are patchwork frogs, mostly green but surprisingly some pink ones too, hedgehogs made of old pencils, and foxes made from what look like old hunting jackets. I love the irony. I don’t realise until I read a notice on the way out of the dedicated room that none of the creators were older than fourteen. I’m as speechless as Duncan was with the fleas and want to have another look around but see that Duncan’s already outside ‘hunting’ whales.

  The domesticated animal area holds more sentiment for him and he looks almost choked.

  We’re both emotional as we go to leave… but not before he takes one more look at the fleas.

  We get back to my mum’s and there’s a scene of carnage, with the only suspect looking very pleased with himself… and panting way too much. As soon as I see a ripped-up oblong of cellophane, I know what’s happened.

  “No!” I chase Buddy out the kitchen’s rear door and into the garden, something he finds hilarious, then rush into the lounge. Sure enough, there’s a gap on a shelf where a box of chocolates that Charles had given my mum earlier in the week had sat. She’d been saving it, she said, for the weekend but must have forgotten to take it with her as her car’s not back yet. I look down and there’s a trail of black and purple shredded cardboard from my feet to the sofa, and the only other evidence remaining of the chocolates is the plastic tray they came on. The saving grace is that it was a single layer rather than double. Not the whole hog that I would imagine Charles normally goes for.

  Speaking of hogs, I look out the lounge patio door and there’s Buddy, on the previously immaculate beige paving, trying, ultimately successfully, to regurgitate the aforementioned chocolates, although not as beautifully presented as Cadbury’s would have liked. It’s almost enough to put me off my tea.

  Thanks to Buddy’s indulgence, our planned evening of going out for a romantic dinner becomes another evening in front of the television. Neither Duncan nor I are hungry but instead snack on Pringles, Doritos, cider and toasted teacakes. Needless to say, nothing that’s been anywhere near a cocoa bean.

  Other than the cereal, I’ve not eaten anything today that can be classed as a meal, especially at less than the requisite five hundred calories. I’m three articles ahead – all safely stored on the work server for Nathan to pick up whenever suits him, the tuning and retuning taking much of the week – so even if I don’t eat anything sensible tomorrow, I’ll still have a day in hand.

  Our initial worry about the chocolate being so poisonous to Buddy proved to be unfounded. His artwork on the paving slabs – which Duncan cleared up, Buddy being his dog; I did offer, and think Duncan believed that I was sincere, I can be a great actress when I need to be – thankfully purging Buddy’s system enough for him not to suffer any obvious lasting consequences. Duncan, at least, best placed to look after him.

  We ensured Buddy had plenty of water and kept an eye on him. The panting soon dissipated, although he too had lost his appetite. Until the waft of the laden toaster persuades him otherwise but we didn’t risk a repetition of earlier by giving him any human food.

  When we’re ready to go to bed, we bring Buddy’s bed upstairs, together with his water bowl, a smaller bowl with a couple of dried biscuits and some newspaper laid underneath it, just in case.

  When I’ve brushed my teeth, I pop downstairs for a final check of the doors and windows. I feel safer with Duncan staying but I’m still a little OCD like that. Having a dog, even though he’s not technically mine, is another reassurance when I’m at Duncan’s and it’s good having them both here.

  There’s still no sign of Mum so I send her a quick message on WhatsApp and she replies almost immediately.

  Yes fine thank you darling Charles is looking after me dont worry hes not an ex murderer

  My mum text speaks as quickly as she sometimes in-person speaks, no pausing for punctuation. I’m hoping she means axe instead of ex because if he’s not a former murderer it means he either wasn’t or he still is. The fact that it’s gone eleven and she’s still alive is a good sign. The moon’s a few days away so he’s not a werewolf either… yet.

  Chapter 65 – Somewhere In The Middle

  Sunday 13th May

  We’re woken by a scratching at my bedroom door. “That’ll be Buddy,” Duncan mumbles, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He does know that you shouldn’t do that – rub your eyes, not yawn; yawning is actively encouraged as it circulates blood around your body. Most people think it’s air, and of course it is, but when we yawn, ‘powerful stretching of the jaw increases blood flow in the neck, face, and head. The deep intake of breath during a yawn forces downward flow of spinal fluid and blood from the brain. Cool air breathed into the mouth cools these fluids.’ I have webmd.com to thank for that little nugget.

  If the scratching isn’t Buddy I’d be worried but I don’t say this either.

  “I’ll go,” I say and feel like I’m a parent of a newborn baby whose crying has woken up both parents in the middle of the night. Not that it’s the middle of the night as it’s daylight outside so any time after five. I snatch a glance at my watch as I head for the door. 9:52. No wonder Buddy’s scratching.

  Buddy rushes in as I open the door and leaps on the bed. I’m not a huge fan of dogs on beds, especially ones who’ve been sick in the past few hours, but it’s so cute seeing my two boys together. Buddy can’t be that desperate as he’s snuggled up next to Duncan and looks as if he’s falling asleep. Duncan, on the other hand, was never really awake. Feeling a little like a green prickly fruit, I leave the pair alone and head downstairs to make some breakfast.

  Although we vegged out on stodge last night, I’m surprisingly hungry. All the teacakes have gone, sorry Mother, but there are a couple of cinnamon and raisin bagels. Yum. I’ve not asked Duncan if he’s hungry but we did work up a bit of an appetite. It would have been foolish not to, knowing my mother wasn’t coming home.

  I still have a silly grin on my face whe
n Buddy comes padding through into the kitchen and whimpers by the back door. I’m torn between buttering bagels while they’re still warm or risking a puddle, or worse, on the coir ‘Hi. I’m Mat’ mat. Although neither my mum nor I knows anyone called Mat, we thought it hilarious when we’d spotted it online when searching for some very elusive gin… as you do. Mat one, bagels zero.

  I keep the door open and it’s surprisingly warm for… I look at the microwave. 11:01. “Huh?” I look at my watch. 10:01. “Huh?” Then it dawns on me. My mum’s lack of technology. The hour changed weeks ago so she must just leave it to be the same all year round, although when the hour goes back in October, it’ll be two hours out, which doesn’t make sense.

  Buddy bounds in, looking the picture of health. He sniffs the air.

  “Oh no.” I turn to the toaster and there are two perfectly toasted but nearly cold bagels. The last two bagels. I’ve tried to reheat bagels before but they only go hard. I could try in the microwave but they go soft. “Someone invent a machine for somewhere in the middle,” I say in Buddy’s direction and he tilts his head.

  I take coffee and the bagels upstairs. Hopefully if Duncan’s still sleepy and eats while drinking his coffee, he won’t notice the difference in temperature. The butter hasn’t melted but hopefully he won’t mind that either. I was tempted to add jam but that would just be weird, given that they’ve already been flavoured with the cinnamon and raisins. And no, of course, nothing about me is weird.

  We have a relaxing what’s left of the morning and decide, when he appears to be fully recovered, to take Buddy for a long walk.

  “Tring reservoir or…” Somewhere else of that magnitude escapes me. It shouldn’t as I know the area well enough to string off a load of different places but it’s my favourite, especially as the Bluebells Tearooms (I remembered it’s not just a café) welcomes dogs. Considering we’re a dog-loving nation, supposedly, so many places don’t. If this café, sorry… tearooms, can welcome dogs, why can’t everywhere? Because people are irresponsible. My brain whirrs, wondering how I could get an article on this matter into my column. Because dog walking is healthy. Ding.

  “Hello?”

  I’ve been staring at the dining table, at the ladybird not going anywhere. “Sorry.”

  “You’re away with Tinkerbell again.”

  I do that a lot. Walter Donna Mitty. “Yes?”

  “Tring reservoir or… you said. That sounds fine by me. There’s a café there, isn’t there?”

  I’m tempted to say tearooms but just nod.

  “Excellent.” Duncan pushes back his chair and stands. I look up as my favourite man in the world looks down at me and blows me a kiss. “I do love you, Donna Dawn Diana Evans DDDE.”

  I’d forgotten that in a moment of cider-fuelled craziness, I’d blurted out my whole name, complete with the royally bestowed acronym. My paternal grandmother was Dawn, and very much a morning person.

  I can’t help laughing. I stand and give him a really tight, really warm hug.

  The weather’s kind to us as we walk round, or half round, the reservoir. Being a Sunday, it’s quite busy and Buddy’s in his element as he meets other dogs. There’s one in particular, a black long-haired something or other – Duncan suggested a schnauzer of some kind – that does a western-type standoff. Buddy, the supposedly white (and tan) good guy – we know otherwise – at one end with the black baddie at the other, neither budging until the baddie’s owner claps her hands and her dog’s brought out of its trance.

  They make a run for each other, almost skidding to a halt as their noses nearly meet, then do their rotational dance, sniffing wherever they feel the need to sniff. We do the equivalent; a polite nod, smile, and ‘Hello’ before going on our way, leaving Buddy to follow when he’s done.

  The next dog we meet needs no introduction. He sees me before I see him and I prepare myself for attack.

  “Elliott!” I squeak as I’m pushed slightly backwards by his over-eager welcome. My aunt and uncle are still dots in the distance. After I’ve made a fuss, Elliott finally realises I have company and goes to greet Duncan who he’s met several times but his welcome is naturally less enthusiastic though still double figures on the Elliott scale.

  “Hello, boy. How are you?” Elliott’s tail wags furiously but more for spotting Buddy, who I see is finally catching up with us as I turn round. I’m hoping he hasn’t ‘done’ anything as we’ve not been paying attention but as he’s a few feet away, he does the honours, seemingly undistracted by Elliott sniffing around. Duncan trudges forwards, green biodegradable bag at the ready.

  My aunt and uncle have almost caught up by the time we’re back on our way and we’re all reunited as we meet. I’ve resisted the urge to do the usual ‘Cathy and Heathcliff’ with my uncle and he doesn’t seem to have missed it, engrossed in a ‘lively’ conversation with my aunt all the way along.

  After exchanged ‘Hello’s, I continue. “I should have called, or called in, to see if you wanted to join us, or to offer to take Elliott at least.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” my aunt says. “We wouldn’t have been there. We left early this morning to go and photograph a chicken.”

  “As you do,” Duncan says and smiles.

  “And how are you?” my uncle asks Duncan.

  “Really good, thank you. I’m enjoying being somewhere else at the weekend.” He looks at me with the kind of expression that he’s said something wrong but relaxes when I blow him a kiss. I feel reassured that I’m not the only one to be insecure at times.

  “We’re just off to the Bluebells if you fancy joining us,” I suggest, looking at my uncle then Duncan who winks, then back to my uncle.

  “Great idea,” he says, “but we’ve only just got here and we don’t want to gatecrash your party.”

  Duncan and I laugh. “No problem,” Duncan says. “The more the merrier.”

  The dogs in the meantime seem to have had enough of each other and are looking up at their respective owners as if to ask ‘Can we go now?’

  “We’ll be there a while, I think,” I say, looking at Duncan again who nods. “Join us when you’re done, if you have time.”

  My uncle smiles, my aunt nods, and we go our separate ways.

  “Did they seem okay to you?” I ask Duncan as we venture on.

  “Erm… yes.”

  “Oh okay.”

  He stops and turns to face me. “Did they not to you?”

  I shrug. “I suppose. A little distracted.”

  “Maybe they were deep in a really interesting conversation.”

  “Mmm…” It looked more than that but I remain silent, not something I’m used to.

  We’ve almost finished our open sandwiches, two different variants so we have half each, when my aunt and uncle, and mad thing, join us. While my uncle orders, my aunt comes over with Elliott and sits at the neighbouring table, allowing Elliott enough room on his expandable lead to make a fuss of me, or more accurately vice versa. It’s as if we’ve not seen each other for years. “Hello, long lost dog,” I say as he rolls onto his back and kicks one of his hind legs as if I haven’t got the hint quickly enough for a tummy rub. His, not mine, sadly.

  I can’t resist asking the question that’s been bugging me. “Is everything all right?”

  My aunt brightens a little. “Oh, fine, you know.”

  I don’t really until she tells me but don’t say so. I do a lot of not saying sos.

  “Pat, your uncle…” As if I need that explaining. “…wants to get another dog. One of his clients is emigrating and needs a new home but I’ve pointed out that Elliott’s enough of a handful.”

  My aunt and uncle have had two dogs at the same time before and while they’ve worked from home for almost as long as I can remember, and there are two of them so one dog each when they’re out, they’ve decided since hitting sixty that one is enough. Although Elliott is smashing, I’m inclined to agree.

  “They do get on really well though,” my aunt contin
ues as if persuading herself. “And we can afford to have two.” Yep, she’s going to say ‘yes’. “But getting on well for an hour or two doesn’t necessarily mean getting on well living together.”

  I look at Duncan who smiles but I wonder if the same can be said about us.

  “How long have you got to decide?”

  “They’re not moving for a couple of months but they obviously want to know the dog’s going to be happy before they go.”

  I frown but don’t know why. “What kind of dog is it?”

  “A very small, very scruffy Yorkie.”

  My frown lifts. “Oh, that’s okay. Not a proper dog.” I clamp my hand to my mouth. I really should engage brain before opening mouth.

  My aunt laughs so heartily that Buddy and Elliott look at her and tilt their heads. “That’s what Pat said.”

  As if on cue, he joins us. “Is she telling you about our dilemma?”

  “She is. I wasn’t sure but it doesn’t sound as if it wouldn’t be too bad. And if they know each other already and get on well…”

  “I know, right.”

  Duncan goes to order some more coffees for us and the conversation’s changed to holidays by the time he returns.

  “We’ve not planned anything yet,” I explain as Duncan sits.

  “No. We should though. Once you’re back in situ.”

  “We should. I’ve got a fair chunk of days to use before the end of the year, most of the five weeks actually.”

  “Ooh…” Duncan looks at his watch, points it at me and taps it.

  “It’s a watch.”

  He sticks out his tongue. “Tesco shuts at four.”

  “Ooh, yes. I forgot.” I turn to my aunt and uncle. “Sorry but we need to buy food. We’re eating my mum out of hers, and Duncan’s cooking.”