by Lucy Diamond
Shut up, Maddie, I told myself. What’s done is done. Besides, there were two beaming faces in the crowd, waving and making encouraging thumbs-up signs at me. The knot inside melted a little as I remembered how lovely it had been watching Emma and her friend Amber win second place in the three-legged race, a triumph of hasty hobbling, their faces radiant with smiles as they crossed the line. And as for Ben’s look of sheer joy when he’d surged past the other Year Twos to romp home in first place in the egg and spoon race … bless him, I’d had to stop myself from punching the air in pride. Goodness only knew how a tubster like me had ever managed to produce two such lithe, athletic children.
There was an undercurrent of jostling at the start line as Mrs Gable, the deputy head, looked our way and held up the starting pistol. Near me in the crowd I noticed Vanessa Gray, wearing expensive-looking running shoes, with that glint in her eye – the same determined look I’d seen at many PTA meetings in the past when she’d ensured the vote had gone her way on the summer fair stall allocations and the venue for the PTA committee night out. I clocked her surreptitiously sliding her left elbow in front of Jane Willis and inching her foot forward.
‘On your marks …’
Oh God. This was really happening. Fear sloshed around inside me like water in a washing machine.
‘Get set …’
Vanessa Gray was tensed, knees slightly bent, a jaguar poised to spring in Lycra cycling shorts and a perfect, glossy ponytail.
BANG!
We were off – forty or so mums pounding down the school playing field, high-pitched shrieks and cheers from the spectators ringing in our ears. Vanessa sprinted ahead like a woman possessed. She had probably been training for this all year.
I, on the other hand, was panting as if my chest was going to explode. Thud-thud-thud went my feet in my trainers. (Gleaming white. Bought as part of a New Year’s resolution. Worn for the first time today, six months later.) I was puffing like a steam engine, my face shiny and hot, going as fast as I could. Somehow, though, the other mums were getting away from me.
My fake smile tightened as I became stranded at the back of the pack. Ahead of me was a sea of pert bottoms, legs scissoring forward, elbows pumping. Behind me, just my own lumbering shadow. I grimaced as Vanessa Gray charged over the finishing line in first place, arms thrown up in victory as if she were Paula sodding Radcliffe. There was a smattering of reluctant applause from the teachers. None of them liked her either.
Thud-thud-thud. The audience, one hundred and seventy kids all cross-legged in rows down either side of the playing field, was a blur. Oh help. I was miles behind. Others were over the whitewashed finishing line too now, laughing and wiping their hair out of their eyes. Time seemed to have stopped. Just me left on the field. Thud-thud-thud.
Mrs Gable held up the megaphone, well-meaning but oh-so-crushing. ‘Come on, Mrs Lawson, you can do it!’
Oh, Christ. Kill me now. Children were sniggering at me. Sniggering at fat, unfit, panting Mrs Lawson as she finally – finally! – waddled over the finishing line. I tried to laugh too. ‘Phew,’ I said, forcing a smile, though I was more concerned about imminent heart failure. ‘Well, that’s my exercise for the week!’
Vanessa Gray overheard and gave me a chilly smirk. It said loser.
I sought out my children in the crowd, wanting reassurance, needing to see their thumbs still up. But there was Emma, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, catching my eye and scowling before looking pointedly away. And there was Ben, being elbowed and teased by his mates. He had his arms crossed defensively in front of him as he stared down at the grass.
I felt as if I was the worst mother in the country. Shame rose out of me with every panted breath, like steam.
‘Well, do something about it, then!’ Mum said bossily as I sat there in her living room later that evening, having fessed up to the full sports day showdown. ‘Be positive – see it as a motivator. Get off your bum and …’
I tried not to groan as she started fiddling with her slick turquoise mobile.
‘Now, where’s the gym number? I know it’s in here …’ she muttered.
‘Mum, I’m not going to your gym,’ I told her. ‘I—’
But she already had the phone to her ear and was holding her other hand up imperiously, forbidding me to say any more.
‘Hello, it’s Anna Noble here,’ she purred into the receiver. My mum’s voice was so husky, it almost needed its own ashtray. ‘Yes, very well, thank you, darling. Just wondering if I could book my daughter in for an induction … Yes, she’s thinking of joining, that’s right …’
‘I am not! ’ I hissed furiously, glaring at her. Oh no. Definitely not. Gyms and me did not go well together. I’d tried exercise, but we weren’t a good match – like chips and custard: a really bad combination.
Up went the hand again, like a policeman directing traffic. Stop. Do not speak.
I narrowed my eyes at her, but she was writing something down and didn’t notice. ‘This Saturday – oh, that’s wonderful, darling, thank you. And perhaps a day pass for the rest of the family? Yes, one adult and two children. That’s marvellous. Appreciate it. Bye now.’
My mum was a bit of a legend. You’d probably remember her as one of the Martini girls in the early Eighties, back when advertising regulations were slightly more relaxed about sexing up alcoholic products. She was the particularly beautiful one in the white swimsuit diving into a bottle of Bianco; she was on all the billboards around Brum for years while that campaign ran. I used to get teased about it at school – ‘Saw your mum’s boobs this morning’ and so on – but I didn’t mind. I was dead proud of her. Besides, the ads had paid for the big house in Edgbaston where she’d lived ever since, and had spring-boarded her later career as an actress. These days, the long hair had become a sleek chestnut bob, and there were a few wrinkles on her neck, but she still had those smouldering almond-shaped eyes and fabulous legs. And clearly she still thought she could order me about like a child.
She clicked off the phone now, a look of triumph on her face.
‘There. You’re booked in to see someone called Jacob on Saturday morning at ten o’clock,’ she told me, getting up and raising the crystal decanter in my direction. ‘Sherry?’
‘But I don’t want to go to the gym!’ I told her. I was a thirty-four-year-old woman but I felt like a petulant teenager again. ‘I don’t want to see this Jacob, I …’ She was still holding the decanter, eyebrows raised, as if she hadn’t heard my outburst. ‘No, thanks,’ I mumbled, gritting my teeth.
She sploshed some sherry into a glass for herself and sipped it. Then she came over to sit next to me on the huge red sofa, folding her legs underneath her gracefully.
‘Darling,’ she said in a matter-of-fact way. ‘You came here for help. I’m not going to pat you on the back like Paul and say, “Never mind, you’re still beautiful to me.” ’
I lowered my gaze, feeling irritated. Paul had indeed done just that when I’d poured out the story to him. Never mind, I still think you’re gorgeous. Now, what’s for tea? He’d barely seemed to listen or care, just trotted out the words he thought I’d want to hear.
‘I’m your mother,’ she went on, like I needed reminding. ‘I can get away with a few home truths. Yes, you’re my lovely Maddie, the most wonderful daughter and human being I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.’ My eyes prickled at the unexpected compliment. ‘But yes, you’re also overweight and very unfit. And I’m going to help you sort yourself out.’
I fell silent, wishing I’d said yes to the sherry now. A pint of the stuff.
‘So Saturday it is, then,’ she told me, and that was that.
Chapter Two
Sweets for my Sweet
Jess
‘Oh yes,’ he groaned beneath me. ‘Ohhh … Yes … This is bloody brilliant …’
I leaned over him, smiling. Always nice to get a compliment, wasn’t it?
‘You are amazing,’ he murmured thickly. ‘You’re j
ust the best …’
‘I bet you say that to all the girls, Matt,’ I teased, running my hands up his oiled, glistening body. He had one of the hairiest backs I’d ever come across, but it didn’t faze me. I’d seen all sorts in my time.
‘No,’ he said, twisting his head to look at me. ‘I don’t. I was gutted when they said you were on holiday last time. That other girl who did me wasn’t a patch on you, Jess.’
I stiffened. On holiday? I hadn’t been away for months. Chance would be a fine thing. I kneaded hard at his shoulder blades. ‘When was this?’ I asked, trying to sound casual.
He was silent for a moment while I massaged out a knot. The financial types always had the worst shoulders, packed with as many lumps and bumps as a page of Braille.
‘Must have been June,’ he said, his voice thick with pleasure as my fingers worked away at him. ‘I phoned in and … Oooh YES … They said you were away and I’d have to go with Juliet instead. Pathetic, she was. Hands like wet lettuce. No muscle whatsoever.’
I dug into the base of his shoulder blade, pressing hard on his pale, doughy skin. This had happened before. Clients asking for me and being told I wasn’t there. What was that all about?
‘Mmmm …’ he said, almost purring with pleasure. ‘Well, it’s good to be back in your capable hands, that’s all I’m saying, Jess …’
‘Glad to hear it,’ I replied. ‘Make sure you insist on having me next time you book, won’t you? I haven’t got any holidays lined up, so don’t let them tell you otherwise. But anyway … how’s life?’
Matt talked about work, the flat he’d bought near Cannon Hill Park, and his hopes for the next football season (he was a mad Villa fan, like my dad), and before we knew it, the hour was up and his skin was pink from my pummelling. I covered him with a couple of our velvety green towels and dimmed the lights even lower. ‘Okay?’ I said softly. ‘I’ll leave you to get dressed in your own time. Nice to see you again.’
He made a little grunting sound and lifted a hand in farewell. ‘Cheers,’ he murmured, sounding as if he was dozing off.
I left the room, feeling tired myself. It was a Saturday, our busiest day of the week, and I’d already done two all-over body massages (knackering on the biceps), a bikini wax that was more like deforestation of the Amazon jungle, plus a pedicure on the pongiest feet I’d encountered in a long while. We had a hen party coming in later that afternoon too, so we were all going to be flat out with French manicures and facials.
Still, it was my break now, so I grabbed my purse and went through to the coffee bar at the top of the building. Our salon was part of a big posh fitness centre on the edge of town with a massive gym area, a swimming pool, squash courts, a sauna and three studios for exercise classes. Not that I used any of them, of course. We got a staff discount on the membership, but even so, it was well out of my price range. Besides which, I was saving, wasn’t I? I was getting married just before Christmas and putting aside every penny I could get my mitts on.
The coffee bar was the only part of the complex I went into. It was up on the second floor and overlooked the pool, so you got to watch all the swimmers thrashing up and down the lanes while you sat there serenely stuffing yourself with cake. Although there wouldn’t be any of that today, of course. I’ll be good, I’ll be good, I vowed as I queued up at the counter. I’d just have an apple (a mere 47 calories). And a cup of tea – skimmed milk, naturally! I had to keep thinking Wedding Dress, I reminded myself. I had to channel Slinky Bride, not White Elephant.
Gianni, the manager, spotted me and gave me a wink.
‘Oh, Jessica, my darrrrling!’ he cried. He was born in Walsall but came over all Italian whenever he felt a bit theatrical. The girls loved it, he reckoned. ‘Let me guess … you have your eye on my lemon drizzle cake today, yes?’
Damn Gianni and his mind-reading tricks! ‘Um … just an apple for me, thanks,’ I said, trying not to let my eyes drift over to the cakes. I caught a glimpse of thick fudge icing on a chocolate gateau and had to tear my gaze away before I was lost. ‘And a cup of tea.’
‘But I bake it especially for you!’ he retorted, his head on one side, big puppy-dog eyes looking sorrowful and hurt. ‘It’s so moist and delicious, crunchy sugar crystals on the top … Let me cut you a big slice, yes? For a treat?’
I wavered. Then I made a fatal mistake. I looked. There it was on the plate, its sugared top glittering, yellow and dense with a slightly sunken middle that I knew would be wonderfully soggy.
The world seemed to stop for a moment while an argument raged inside my head.
No, don’t do it, too many calories, too much sugar, think of the wedding dress!
But I am so tired, so hungry, I need sustenance, only one teeny slice, I promise I won’t have any dinner later to make up for it …
‘Oh, go on, then,’ I heard myself saying with a little sigh in my voice.
The old calorie counter immediately started ching-chinging in my head as I watched Gianni pick up the cake knife with a flourish; 330 calories, I reckoned guiltily as the blade sank in. Actually, make that 400, looking at the whopping door-stop Gianni had just cut. All the good work with my lunchtime salad out of the window in an instant. What was I like? Crap and weak-willed. Pathetic. A failure.
‘Thanks,’ I said, paying and picking up my tray. Oh well. Never mind. I had just burned a few hundred calories with Matt’s Full Swedish, surely. Anyway, I needed my strength for the hen party.
It was heaving up there in the cafe – no spare tables at all. In fact, there were hardly any free seats in the whole place. I stood there with my tray, feeling self-conscious and disappointed for a moment. I didn’t want to take my cake all the way through the leisure centre to our salon staff room – it wasn’t the done thing for a beautician to be parading calorific treats around the place when all the sporty types were trying to resist temptation and keep fit. Besides, if Louisa saw me she’d raise her eyebrows at me and the cake in disapproval. ‘A moment on the lips … a lifetime on the hips,’ she’d say patronizingly.
‘Mind if I sit here?’ I asked a fair-haired woman who was nursing a black coffee at a table for two by the window. She was quite large, it had to be said, and looked uncomfortable on the cafe’s moulded plastic seat. I knew how she felt. Those seats were clearly made for athletic bottoms, not Chubby Checker ones.
She nodded distractedly – she was on the phone – but it was only when I sat down that I realized she was crying, tears rolling down her cheeks. Oh no. I felt awful. Poor woman – the last thing she wanted was me barging in on her privacy.
I nibbled a piece of cake, lemon and sugar exploding on my tongue, and pretended to stare out at the swimmers, trying my hardest not to earwig on what she was saying.
‘I just felt so embarrassed,’ the fair-haired woman sobbed quietly, one arm around her middle as if trying to comfort herself. ‘He was so rude, the way he looked at me, like …’ I felt her glance my way, then she lowered her voice. ‘Like a piece of shit, Nic. Like I was worthless.’
I winced on her behalf and sipped my tea, watching as a balding bloke with a paunch smiled and flirted with a svelte woman in a black bikini, one of those types who go swimming with full make-up on and manage to keep their hair dry. Awww, that’s nice, I thought. Middle-aged and still in love … I hope Charlie and I turn out like that.
‘And I’m sitting up here watching Paul make eyes at Vanessa bloody Gray down in the pool,’ the fair woman said miserably into her phone, ‘and he’s not even paying attention to the kids. They could be drowning, for all he cares!’
There were two children mucking about behind the balding bloke. Ahhh. Was baldy-man Paul? I wondered, taking another bite of cake. (Delicious.)
‘Well, that would be nice,’ the woman went on, blowing her nose and sitting up a little straighter. ‘After the week I’ve had, it’s either drowning my sorrows, or drowning myself. I’m not sure which would be best, to be honest.’ She scribbled something on a piece of paper. ‘O
kay. Cheers. See you later.’
She put down her phone and took a long swig of coffee, her eyes still wet with tears. She was in her thirties, I reckoned, a bit older than I was. Her face was quite pretty in a Goldie Hawn sort of way, but her skin was blotchy and swollen, and her hair hung any old how around her shoulders as if it hadn’t had any TLC for a few months. She was a big girl like me, with a double chin and a few extra pounds on show, although she’d tried to disguise them with an enormous T-shirt.
I cleared my throat. I was a terrible one for getting involved, but I just couldn’t help myself. I hated seeing people upset. ‘Tell me to bugger off if you want, but … are you okay?’ I asked tentatively.
There was a pause, and I was just about to back off and apologize for sticking my beak in when she finally spoke.
‘I’ve just had a bit of a mauling in the gym,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘I’ve been told by a spotty adolescent thug called Jacob that I’m morbidly obese and should do some exercise before I lurch to my imminent death.’
‘Oh no,’ I said indignantly. ‘That sounds horrible.’
‘Yes,’ she said, scrubbing at her eyes with the paper napkin. ‘I know I’m fat, I know I’m not Kate Moss, but … honestly. All he’s done is put me off ever coming back to a place like this again.’
‘That’s terrible,’ I said. ‘Jacob, did you say? And he works here? You should report him to the manager. That’s so out of order.’ I rummaged in my bag and passed her a tissue. ‘Here.’
‘Thanks.’ She blew her nose and slugged back the rest of her coffee, then got to her feet, looking weary. ‘Anyway, I’d better go. Thanks.’
