The Serial Dieter (The Serial Series Book 2)

by Rachel Cavanagh

  Until the food arrives, we continue talking about our respective halves, Greta blushing at every mention of Owen’s name, which is sweet. I don’t know why I don’t blush, perhaps because Duncan and I have been together longer. Not that that should make any difference. Frank and Frankie have been together five years and they’re having a second honeymoon only a year after their first one. Charles and my mum have a wonderful connection. He makes her happy, beyond happy it seems, so I’m happy for her. Beyond happy might be a stretch but I hardly know the man.

  Greta pops to the ladies so I take the opportunity to look around. The Mogul isn’t much from the outside during the day but at night it’s much more inviting. Come inside and it’s warm and cosy. The decoration is simple, very much less is more without the ‘fuss’ of some other Indian restaurants I’ve been to.

  Our food arrives as Greta’s sitting back down. The waiter, Amir, looking more like a manager in a very smart dark grey suit, white shirt and matching grey tie, bows and puts our napkins on our laps, nice touch.

  “Can I get you another drink?” he asks with a hint of an accent, pointing to our nearly-full glasses. We decline but thank him nonetheless. He bows again and leaves.

  Our food smells amazing. I’ve had lamb two days straight yet they look, and smell, totally different. The menu had said ‘marinated lamb skewered between chunks of capsicum, onions and tomatoes, grilled in the clay oven’ and while that could have meant they were rather dry, they’re far from it. I know from the tandoori that there’s going to be a kick, but remember that capsicum is a pepper but want to investigate.

  “Do you mind if I look something up really quickly?” I ask Greta but she looks like she’s away with the fairies. Owen, I suspect. I google ‘capsicum’ and am told, by my friend that is Wikipedia that ‘Capsicum, the pepper, is a genus of flowering plants in the nightshade family Solanaceae. Its species are native to the Americas, where they have been cultivated for thousands of years.’ “Nightshade?” I whisper and get a ‘huh?’ from Greta.

  I don’t suppose there’s anything poisonous about either of our dishes so I point to the window and say a feeble, “The nights are drawing out.” It’s still early, barely six thirty, so it’s going to be light for a couple more hours at least being mid-May.

  She nods and seems to return to ‘us’ rather than ‘them’. The Pink Floyd song starts up in my head. My dad was a big fan, me almost as much, although I couldn’t say which song was from which album, or even decade. I like their slow stuff rather than the weirder experimentals. Then I remember Greta plays the guitar, very well, apparently. “What kind of music do you like? Do you play, not in class?”

  She smiles sweetly. “Anything really. We do all sorts at school.” Although she’s not that much younger than me, she seems so innocent and I hope Owen isn’t going to break her heart. “My favourite at the moment is Lana Del Rey’s ‘Video Games’.”

  “Oh I love that!”

  The smile broadens. “It does help that it’s slow.”

  Life really is worth living if somebody’s loving you. “Moody but in a good way.”

  We talk more about music, how, as Lana said, the world really is built for two, then our fathers’ passion for photography – hers a Nikon fan, mine Canon. There always seems to be a friendly rivalry between the two camps, with the others: Olympus, Pentax, Kodak, of course, Minolta, erm… the others, not getting much of a look in. Sony, Fuji, other ‘e’ brands, not that any others spring to mind.

  Our drinks – my lemonade, Greta’s slimline tonic, have gone before we’ve finished eating, Amir brings us refills, bows, and goes again, only returning when Greta signals for our bill which she pays there and then with the company credit card.

  We’ve left our cars at work so chat on the walk back. I’ve been dying to talk about Owen all evening but have waited for her to bring the topic up again which I’m delighted she does.

  “He’s said he’s always wanted to learn the guitar.”

  “Oh really? I played a bit on the piano when I was younger but never learned properly.”

  “You should do a course.”

  “I should.” Getting back to Owen… “Is he going to join you on Thursday evenings?” I’d love that because then my mum could spy on them.

  Greta sighs. “Sadly not. He has football training.”

  I stop walking so Greta stops. “Really?” Owen has a slim build but I’d not thought of him as a ‘player’ but then I didn’t really think of him doing any kind of sport. Watching, of course, all men his age do. God, I sound sooo old.

  “Been doing it for years. I think his dad was a professional. He still lives down in London but I think the guy who runs the squad, team, they’re amateurs not… is a friend.”

  “I suppose it’s like most industries; everyone knows someone everywhere.” As I say it, I’m not sure that makes total sense but it seems to to Greta.

  “Owen loves it. And keeps him fit, of course.” Greta blushes and I giggle. We carry on walking. “So,” she continues, “we have… er, private lessons at his house. I’m in a flat so don’t play often.”

  That surprises me, not that she lives in a flat; I remember what my mum said about Greta’s finances, but how good Mum said Greta was at the guitar. But then had she been that good, she’d not need to go for lessons.

  We’re at our cars, both on the second floor with a space between us so we get to chat leaning against our vehicles, me on my driver’s door, hers on her passenger’s… It’s then I notice the steering wheel on that side. “Is your car foreign?”

  “It is. I brought it over from Austria.”

  That answers the question I’d never asked. Not that far from Switzerland.

  Even though we’d parked almost side by side, and her car, a generic white VW Polo, had been there first, I’d not noticed it being a left-hand drive, or the foreign plate. I walk a few steps and take a peek. There’s a solo letter W followed by a red shield with a white cross, a tiny Wien (which I know is Vienna so the W totally makes sense) then 26285 and a solo T. Izzy drives a Polo so I’d noticed that much, and that it was white; the colour of a car being one of the first things we girls ask when someone buys a new one.

  “I’m waiting for the paperwork to transfer it to a UK plate. Held out for as long as I could. Not that I don’t like living here…”

  “You could put it,” I point to her existing number, “on your wall. At home.”

  She smiles. “I could.”

  We have a brief hug and say goodnight then drive to our respective homes, a temporary one in my case.

  My mum’s car is there so I slot mine in beside it. I don’t expect her to be there as the hall light’s on but, for a change, she is.

  “Hi, darling!” she calls from the bowels of the kitchen as I open the front door.

  “Hi, Mum!” I call back, hanging my coat on a hook and popping my bag beside the bottom of the stairs to take up. It’s still quite early but I want to chat with Duncan, tell him how much I’m missing him and how I can’t wait to get home the day after tomorrow. Mum adores him so she won’t mind me cutting my evening short with her for his sake.

  She’s all ready for me, holding out a mug of tea. It’s my normal; a bigger than usual china, rather than porcelain or ceramic, with dogs running all over it. One’s the spit of Elliott, probably why my aunt bought it for me for no reason. She wanted to, of course, but not for a birthday or Christmas. The best kind of present; someone’s been thinking about you, and not because they have to.

  Before I have any of my tea, I ask, “How are things with Charles?”

  Her face flushes like a pyrotechnic firework. “He’s lovely,” she coos. We squeal, put down our mugs – hers has yellow and black cartoony smiley faces all over it, and I give her a hug.

  “Lovely to see you though it is,” I say, “do you mind if I take my tea upstairs?”

  “Not at all. If you have work you need to do, I can clear the table.”

  It is rather a
mess. It looks like she’s doing accounts. There are small receipts in neat(ish) piles, I’m guessing by month; invoices, printed and handwritten; but what look like brochures in the far corner. She sees me looking puzzled. “I’m helping Charles. He still does a bit of… oh, no, I can’t really say.” I can see she’s itching to tell me as she’s fidgeting in her seat so she reclaims her mug, as if that’s going to help any. It doesn’t and some of the tea plops over the side so she puts the mug down again.

  “You can’t tell anyone,” she says.

  I burst out laughing. She, of all people, knows how hopeless I am at keeping secrets.

  “But you’ll find out eventually,” she says before taking a steadier sip of tea.

  “Not if it’s a state secret. If he’s signed the Official Act 19-something-or-other. It’s probably 20-something-or-other by now.”

  “1989,” she says with an unusual air of authority.

  I grin and she caves, eyes rolling towards the ceiling then back at me.

  “He’s a…” She leans towards me as if there are bugs hidden around the room. “He’s a…” She looks left, right then at me again. “He’s a…” She whispers even quieter. “Private investigator.”

  I laugh, a hearty belly laugh, and it feels good. Really good. My mum though looks a little put out. “I’m sorry, Mum. I don’t mean that as a joke.” Although I respected Charles, something about him had felt a little distant on the few (two) occasions we’ve met. I can see why my mum’s still acted naturally around me, until tonight, when I’d sort of caught her out, albeit doing something totally innocent, and nice. She’d help my dad with his taxes so she probably offered here.

  While I do want to find out more, I make my excuses and take my lukewarm-won’t-drink-it-like-that-but-can’t-throw-it-away-in-front-of-my-mum tea, and bag, upstairs, and shut myself in my room.

  “Hi, honey!” Duncan says as he fiddles with his phone because we’re facetiming. Having realised it was upside down but had corrected itself, he turned it sideways, not realising that would make him on his side so he turned it again, only for him to be upside down because the phone hadn’t corrected itself in time for him to twist it again.

  It made me laugh so I said a ‘hi’ until he was how he should have been and we could talk without distractions… other than something smashing and swearing downstairs before Mum shouts up an ‘It’s okay! No harm done!’.

  “Your mum?” Duncan asks snuggling down a little in his, our, bed.

  “Uh huh. Full of surprises.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Can’t tell. State secret.”

  Duncan frowns. “What’s going on.”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Uh oh. Puppy-dog Duncan; lower lip protruding, head tilted, wide eyes.

  “I…” Sigh. I lean in and whisper. “Charles is a P.I.”

  Duncan squeals, making me tap the ‘down’ volume a few times but then have to tap the ‘up’ volume as I realise I won’t be able to hear him.

  “Does Lesley know?”

  “She’s just told me.”

  “And…”

  “And?”

  “What else did she say?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Donna…”

  “I don’t know. I came here after that. There was paperwork all over the dining, kitchen, table so she had to explain.”

  “I bet she did. I know what you two are like.”

  I smirk. “So everything okay with you?”

  Duncan knows to only tell me the good stuff. He learned after telling me about a hit and run dog he couldn’t save that I can’t hear anything sad. It’s bad enough in a movie but to know it’s real is unbearable. “We had a baby hedgehog in today.”

  “Oooh…” I purr.

  “A six-year-old girl found it yesterday morning in her garden. They put some dog food out for it last night, and a bowl of water but it didn’t have either. So nothing major, just lost its appetite.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I’m glad you asked me that, Donna.” Duncan smirks and wiggles his glasses in Eric Morecambe fashion as if he’s the mad professor. “We put him on a drip.”

  “Oh that’s sooo cute.” I’m going to melt into a puddle.

  “And how’s it all going down there?” We spoke last night but not much about my week so far so I recount as best I can. Duncan laughs at my description of Stretch aka Finn. “He sounds nice,” Duncan says without a hint of jealousy that Mike would have displayed. He seems happy with Marion but they are an odd pairing. Not that Duncan and I aren’t, to look at, but we gel. Everything about Duncan feels so natural, so right.

  “I love you, Double Dee,” he says with a yawn.

  “Love you more, my supervet.”

  “Not possible,” he says and blows me a kiss.

  I put my right index finger up to my lips then put it on my screen. Part of me would think of the smudge it would leave but I dismiss it as soon as I think of it. I don’t care. Duncan, my mum and Izzy are my world, my little bubble, and nothing, no one (James) is going to burst that.

  Chapter 71 – Unfinished Business

  Thursday 17th May

  “James!” I blurt as I wake. No. No, no, no, no, no. I cannot wake thinking about him let alone saying, blurting his name. What if… oh my god, what if I’d been home, lying next to Duncan and I shout out another man’s name. And not just any man. A man I’ve been spending time with over the past almost three weeks.

  It’s clear there’s unfinished business, in my head at least, and until I leave for good, two weeks tomorrow… can’t wait… I have to be in the same office as him, breathing the same air. Help.

  I decide the only thing to do is face the bull head on, take it by the horns… or whatever the expressions are. My head’s such a mess. As is my hair, I see, as I’m brushing my teeth in the bathroom. I take a quick shower and the world feels a little better. Showers have the same effect as taking Elliott out for a walk; invigorating. He’s such a live wire, unlike the very sweet but ploddy Buddy. I think if I didn’t have Elliott as a comparison, I’d feel more empathy with Duncan’s ‘beagle child’. To be fair, I’ve only known Buddy the past year and I’ve tried. Not that I’ll stop trying. I really will but dogs are supposed to love everyone. I wonder if he was a cat in a past life. No, because Duncan can do no wrong in Buddy’s eyes, or mine.

  My mum’s still asleep, or out; her car’s there but who can tell these days? So I head to work after a quick bowl of cereal and the remains of a dodgy-tasting probably-been-open-in-the-fridge-for-too-many-days orange juice.

  Seeing as I have to work with, for the same company at least, James for two and a bit more weeks, I decide in the car on the way over to do the noble, but possibly stupid, thing and invite him out for lunch. I toy with the idea of asking Leah to join us, as a chaperone, but realise I wouldn’t be able to say the things I feel need to be said to finally draw a line under the James:Donna debacle.

  “Good morning.” I smile as I hover outside Owen’s booth. “Everything good with you?” I’m almost Joker-like in my false happiness, trying to psych myself up for the main office.

  Owen hesitates so I tone down my smile. “I’m good, thanks. We’re good, thanks.” So he knows what I’m really asking.

  “Good. Great! See you later.” I don’t wait for Owen’s reply but make my way, before I bottle out, down the corridor. The orange juice, I feel, has already made its way through my system, along with the milk from my cereal, meaning I need to go to the loo. I debate whether to pop there or do the James thing but that would mean I’d only have to go back to the ladies and past his desk again which wouldn’t do my street cred any good at all, not that I really have any.

  At least the ladies gives me a few seconds to compose myself, and spot a speck of some kind of grain on my cheek. Why I didn’t feel it, I don’t know, but I can see why Owen hesitated. He was far too polite to point it out.

  Passable, I leave the cocoon and adopt a
semi-Joker-like smile. It’s all been pointless as James isn’t there anyway. Frank is so I tone down the smile further and say ‘good morning’. He seems engrossed in something on his screen but looks up, smiles, and returns my greeting. He’s a really nice guy. I’ve not met Frankie but I can see why she’d want to marry him, not that I would because he’s old enough to be my–

  “You looking for me?” a familiar oh-so-masculine voice pretending to be Robert De Niro voice says behind me.

  I turn and want to say ‘no’ but I was. “Hi, James.” It’s not ideal that Frank’s so nearby but relying on whatever’s been captivating him to continue doing so, I continue. “Just wondered if you wanted lunch today. To go out for lunch today.” Cool, Donna, ice cool.

  He looks a little wary, and I don’t blame him. I wasn’t exactly nice the last time but still feel I had good reason not to be. Besides, he’s not been fair but bygones should be bygones so…

  “That would be nice.” Good, the old insipid ‘nice’. I can handle ‘nice’.

  “Nice. I’ll collect you later.”

  “Right.”

  “Right,” I repeat and strut to my desk, only realising, not for the first time, that I didn’t get something to drink on the way because I was too intent on disposing of the previous one. Which still means I have to go back past James’s desk. When I’m, we’re, out at lunchtime, I’ll get some supplies, a six pack of Diet Coke or anything, water, whatever. It’ll spare me from myself. Nope, Donna, that’s never going to happen. Thanks, voice.

  After two coffees, an hour and a half apart with no looking at James or his desk on the way through or back, I return to him at twelve thirty-five. I know I’m a few minutes late, not that we’re timing, but I do it to prove a point; that I’m in charge. Yeah, right.