by Lucy Diamond
Life had been on the up ever since, even if he did spend way too long lobbying to get Hollywood hunks onto his Facebook friends list and tempting me into cocktail-heavy evenings out after work that always seemed to end with us eating kebabs round at his place. Well, why not, I thought each time I ended up crashing on his sofa. It wasn’t as if there was anyone waiting for me at home. More to the point, he was great company, he made me laugh constantly, and we’d already agreed to live together in our old age if Mr Right and Mr Right hadn’t arrived by then. (His words, not mine. Obviously I already knew that, like Father Christmas, there was no such thing as Mr Right.)
I got back to work, sending sexy-bum-hunter Andrew to the database, then checking over the next profile in my folder: Emily Perks, who was twenty-two and claimed to be ‘into big bad men’. I was quite tempted to stick in a deliberate typo so that it read ‘big bald men’, but she didn’t look the sort to appreciate a joke – or the Ross Kemp lookalikes on our books, for that matter. I chuckled out loud at the thought, though, and Patrick looked up from his desk.
‘What’s so funny?’
I emailed over the profile. ‘What do you reckon for Emily Perks – big bad men, or big bald men?’
He laughed. ‘A haircut should be first on the list, I think,’ he said, pulling a face as he examined her photo. ‘Dear God, that is the worst perm I’ve ever seen. And I’m speaking of a man who’s had one himself, in the teenage years we don’t talk about.’
‘You with a perm?’ I could feel my eyes boggling. Ever since I’d known him, his dark hair had looked impeccable, cut in a short, trendy style. He really was a constant source of surprises.
‘Sadly, yes,’ he said, shuddering at the memory. ‘But moving swiftly on … lunch?’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ I replied. It suddenly seemed ages since the doughnut.
‘Will we be doing Proper Lunch or Diet Lunch today?’ he asked.
‘Hmmm …’ I tipped my head on one side while I thought. Yesterday, I had been full of worthy intentions about how I was definitely going to sort out the stone and a half I’d piled on since Brendan and Ruth did the dirty on me – and obviously I’d filled Patrick in on the New Healthy Me regime. I’d had porridge and a banana for breakfast, and a salad for lunch before a thrilling dinner of grilled fish and more salad. Then I’d dared myself to go along to a cringeworthy FatBusters class that evening, where all I could think about was how bloody famished I was.
Today, I’d had porridge and a banana for breakfast … and that delicious doughnut for elevenses. It was all Patrick’s fault: he’d brought them in and he knew how much I loved Krispy Kremes.
I was just about to be virtuous and say ‘Diet Lunch’ when he got in there first.
‘Only I’ve still got such a hangover from last night, and I could murder a bacon sandwich. I don’t know if the Greasy Spoon does much in the way of diet food, but …’
‘Oh, sod it,’ I said, already imagining a rasher of hot pink bacon and a fat-spattered fried egg. And, while I was at it, thick buttered toast, baked beans, soggy mushrooms and a ketchup mountain. ‘The Greasy Spoon it is.’
After a scarily calorific fry-up (it was going to take more than the promise of a charm bracelet to get me back into skinny jeans), a frothy cappuccino and two cigarettes, we were back at our desks, and I had a client to meet. Balls.
‘Wanna swap?’ Patrick called over. ‘I’ve got fifty-eight-year-old Susan coming in who looks like my old headmistress.’ He squinted at the photo, suddenly nervous. ‘Fuck. I’m actually starting to think it is my old headmistress. Terrifying old dragon, she was. Who’ve you got?’
‘A bloke,’ I replied. ‘Joe someone or other.’
Patrick raised an eyebrow. ‘Is he hot? Email me his photo,’ he said.
‘Bad luck,’ I told him. ‘No photo.’
‘Hmmm, sounds dodgy already,’ Patrick said. ‘Probably a complete munter. How was he on the phone? Sexy voice?’
‘I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘We didn’t arrange the booking on the phone, it was all on email.’
Patrick pulled a face. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘That means a high-pitched, shrieky one, then. God, we’ve got a right pair coming in by the sound of things. Headteacher Dragon, and Shrieky Munter. I definitely need to put those two in our Love Hearts Top Trumps set.’
In a dull moment one day, in between harassing Brad Pitt on Facebook and Twittering about his new jeans, Patrick had compiled a mock ‘Top Trumps’ game featuring all of our most memorable clients. He’d designed proper cards with their photos on and assigned them points for ‘Sex Appeal’, ‘Fear Factor’, ‘Stalker Potential’ and so on. I was terrified of it ever being discovered, but it was a brilliant way to kill a boring afternoon, pitting Slaphead Bob against False-Teeth Hettie, or what-have-you.
‘Well, we’re not swapping,’ I told him now. ‘You do Dragon-Lady, as arranged. The old dears love you. I’ll take the Munter.’
The buzzer went just then to let us know someone was in reception for us. We worked on the top floor of a dingy Victorian building just off Broad Street, and shared the receptionist (Humour-Bypass Carol) with the rest of the businesses.
‘Ooh, someone’s punctual,’ Patrick said, rolling his eyes. He picked up the phone. ‘Hi, sweet-cakes …’ (Patrick was surely the only person in the world ever to have called Carol that.) ‘Oh, right, thanks … Send her up, then.’ He got to his feet and straightened his Thomas Pink shirt. ‘Okay … Enter the Dragon,’ he said theatrically and went to meet her at the lift.
He brought back a rather jolly-looking silver-haired lady and led her into one of our interview rooms. I could tell by the way she giggled and gazed at him through her lashes that she was already melting in his presence.
While I waited for the Munter, I answered a few emails and began uploading a new profile for the website.
Matthew Baines, finance director for large law firm, aged 35. Blimey, Matthew had done well for himself. That was, of course, if ‘finance director’ didn’t translate as ‘the lackey who got sent to deposit cheques at the nearest Barclays’. I’d become an expert at reading between the lines.
Searching for The One – a soulmate and partner who makes me smile.
Ah, bless. I had a squiz at his photo out of interest. Not bad. Looked a rugby type, with big shoulders and a slightly crooked nose, but he had nice eyes, at least, and a good strong jaw. Hmmmm. Who could I pair him up with? He was a bit old for Bad Emily, but maybe …
The buzzer interrupted my thoughts. ‘I’ve got a Mister Joe Smith in reception for you,’ droned Carol-on-reception.
Joe Smith? That had to be a fake name. We got a few of those. Always married. Always cheaters. Brendan was no doubt signed up to one of the rival agencies as Dave Jones or something anonymous-sounding.
‘Cheers, send him up,’ I said to Carol.
I got up and stretched my arms above my head, trying to shake off the sleepy feeling I’d had since my enormous lunch. I’d go back on the diet tomorrow, I told myself as I sauntered out to wait for the lift. Today was a blip. Tomorrow I would be saintly again. Absolutely.
Ping! The lift doors opened and …
And …
I was staring, my gob hanging open in a really unattractive way at the sexy chunk of a man who’d emerged from the lift.
Oh. My. God. Had I seriously thought I didn’t believe in love at first sight any more?
Actually, I did.
‘Hi,’ the sexy chunk was saying, holding out a big meaty paw for me to shake. ‘I’m Joe. And you must be Lauren.’
We didn’t usually get proper good-looking clients. We got a few almost-pretties, but mostly they were average-lookers, the type you wouldn’t notice in a crowded pub. But Joe Smith … My God. Forget a crowded pub, you’d notice him in Symphony Hall. In fact, no, you’d notice him in the Millennium Stadium. He was that tasty.
I shook his hand. Phwooaarr. Solid, heavy fingers. Big lovely manly fingers. I couldn’t actuall
y look him in the eye for a few seconds before I absolutely forced myself. And then … Oh God. He was even more handsome close up, so much so that I could hardly breathe. Thick brown hair. Eyes the colour of pewter. Genuine warm-as-toast smile. Slightly craggy face with a big nose. And we all know the truth about men with big noses, Patrick’s voice lilted in my mind. Something twanged inside me at the thought.
‘Hello,’ I managed to say. It took me a huge effort to speak. I kept having distracting thoughts about those big, lovely fingers manhandling me in the best possible way. I was also worried I smelled of the Greasy Spoon.
Unfortunately, he was looking straight through me in a depressingly familiar way. Seen one fat bird, seen ’em all. It always struck me as strange that overweight people could be so invisible to so-called normal people. It was as if the Normals couldn’t see past the spare tyre and double chin through to the lovely, gorgeous person within the Fatty. I double-checked, but nope. There was no sign of Joe Smith having the remotest interest in me.
I did some deep breathing and tried to pull myself together. The last thing I wanted was for sex-on-a-stick Joe Smith to walk out of the building before I’d charmed him, made him realize what a warm, witty, fanciable person I actually was, despite the excess poundage. I couldn’t let him out of there without getting his phone number at the very least.
‘Um … hi. Yes. I’m Lauren.’ God, I was wittering like a loon. ‘Why don’t you come this way and we can have a chat.’
I led him into our second interview room, conscious of my saddlebag hips swinging as I walked. Damn it. Why had I let myself go? Why had I given up on myself so Why had I got so fat on takeaway after takeaway, easily? Pinot Grigio after Pinot Grigio, all those evenings? This was a wake-up call if ever there was one. A wake-up-and-smell-the-Ryvita call.
‘Okay, have a seat, and I’ll go through a few calories,’ I said. ‘I mean, questions.’ My cheeks stung with embarrassment. A few calories, indeed. What was wrong with me? Now he’d know I was on a diet. Now he’d be thinking about me being overweight. Shit. I’d blown it already.
I opened up the application file on the computer and gave him my best smile. Professional, Lauren. Friendly and professional. Not slavering dog.
‘Right, then. So your name is … Joe Smith …’ I said, typing it in. ‘And you’re male …’ Yep, you’re that, all right, I thought, forcing myself not to look at him. ‘Age?’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘Oh, same as me, perfect,’ I said. ‘I mean … the perfect age. Ha-ha.’
I was glad Patrick couldn’t hear the tosh I was coming out with. Shut up! I ordered myself. ‘Thirty-two,’ I said quickly, typing it in. ‘And can you tell me a bit about why you’re here and what you’re hoping to get from Love Hearts? The agency, that is. Stupid name, I know.’ Shut UP, Lauren!
He looked a bit taken aback. Fair enough. There was a complete airhead sitting opposite him, gurning and looking like she wanted to punch her own lights out.
‘Um … well, I’ve had a few girlfriends in the past, but for one reason or another, things haven’t worked out,’ he began. He had a lovely voice, Joe, low and deep. I had a sudden vision of him murmuring disgusting things to me in that low, deep voice, and felt another twanging sensation, this time right in my knickers.
‘I see,’ I said, although I hadn’t been listening properly. Too busy enjoying the twanging.
‘And in my line of work, it’s hard to meet women,’ he went on. ‘So …’
Oh God. Was he in the SAS or something? Working on an oil rig? ‘What is it that you do for a living?’ I asked him, suddenly anxious.
‘I’m a chef,’ he said. ‘I work at the Zetland in Brindley-place – I don’t know if you’ve been there?’
I nodded. Wow. The Zetland was nice. Cheating Brendan had taken me there on our first wedding anniversary and it was small and intimate, classy and expensive. So sexy Joe could cook. The man got better and better. ‘I know the place,’ I managed to say.
‘Well, I work most evenings and …’ He shrugged. ‘That doesn’t go down too well with girlfriends, in my experience.’
‘Ah,’ I said. Personally, I couldn’t see the problem. I rather liked the idea of Joe Smith slipping into my bed late after his shift and …
I blushed. Shit. I hadn’t just said that out loud, had I?
‘Okay,’ I went on briskly. ‘So tell me what you’re looking for in a partner.’
I found myself tensing while I waited for a reply. Come on, Joe. Don’t go and spoil things by telling me your ideal woman has to have a sexy bum or matchstick legs.
‘Well … Somebody trustworthy,’ he began, his eyes faraway.
I made a note. Trustworthy. Yes, good. I was trustworthy.
‘Independent and intelligent,’ he added. ‘I don’t really go for the Stepford type.’
‘No,’ I said, typing quickly. ‘Of course not.’ Excellent answer, Joe. Keep it up!
‘Good sense of humour, generous, adventurous …’
Yes, yes, yes …
‘And … that’s about it, I guess.’
Perfect.
‘Oh, apart from the obvious, of course: that she has to be gorgeous.’ He grinned and I felt giddy.
But as the words sank in, I felt tense all over again.
‘Right. So when you say “gorgeous”,’ I began carefully, ‘what exactly do you mean?’ Please don’t say slim. Please don’t say slim. Some men liked statuesque women, didn’t they? Please let Joe Smith like statuesque women.
He smiled. ‘Well, preferably slim …’ he began, and reeled off a series of other attributes, none of which I could take in.
Forget it, Lauren. You’ve got no chance.
I smiled through gritted teeth. ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to find you your perfect partner, Mr Smith,’ I managed to say.
It was just a shame that it obviously wasn’t going to be me.
Chapter Five
Cold Turkey
Maddie
Despite all my best intentions, the rest of the week seemed like hard work. I got back from my shift on Thursday to two missed calls – one from the gym, asking me to book in for my next ‘Couch Potato’ session (‘Don’t hold your breath,’ I told the answerphone sarcastically. My next couch potato session would be on my own sofa, thank you very much, not in their poxy gym) and one from Mum. ‘Darling, come on, don’t be a grouch,’ she purred into the machine. ‘I’m sorry if I was too interfering – you know what a nosy old bat I am, but I didn’t mean any harm, I just want you to be happy …’
I rolled my eyes, still reluctant to forgive her. She was so bloody-minded, my mother – always had been and no doubt always would be. I deleted the message without listening to the rest of it and headed for the kitchen.
Out of habit, I was zooming straight in on the biscuit tin like a wheat-seeking missile when I saw the picture I’d cut out of a magazine and stuck there as a reminder: Tess Daly beaming out at me. I’d gone for Tess as an ideal figure to aspire to – she wasn’t scrawny-thin, she still looked womanly, but in a healthy, perfect, glowing sort of way, with no love handles or muffin-top in sight.
My hand hovered above the tin without actually touching it. Tess wouldn’t be tucking in to biscuits right now, would she, I reminded myself. She was probably twirling around a television studio in a sparkly blue dress and high heels, exchanging quips with the camera crew and flicking her hair. Not stuffing her face with carbs and sugar because she was having a tricky week.
Step away from the biscuit tin, Maddie. Step away.
I stepped away. Yes. One small step for Madeleine Lawson’s foot, one giant step for Madeleine Lawson’s mind.
Two days into the diet, and – to my astonishment – I wasn’t finding it too terrible so far. Okay, so it was early days, and no doubt the novelty would wear off before long, but I’d been surprised how much I enjoyed basking in a smug, self-righteous glow as I only gave myself one potato at dinner instead of the usual five, and ate it with
a drizzle of olive oil and black pepper rather than smothered in butter. The chicken last night had tasted fine grilled, none the worse for not seeing the inside of the roasting pan and lashings of oil as it usually did, and as for the salad I’d piled on my plate … well, I could barely see over the top of it, put it like that.
Not everyone was happy, though. ‘Is this how it’s going to be from now on?’ Paul had remarked glumly, pushing his rocket leaves around with a fork. ‘Rabbit food every night?’
That had annoyed me. It wasn’t exactly supportive. I had told him about my FatBusters mission when I’d got back that Monday night, and he’d been a bit surprised at first – ‘I think you’re gorgeous as you are, babe,’ he’d said again – but when I showed him my diet book and the calorie chart and told him about the charm bracelet scheme, he’d blinked a few times (his standard response to processing information) and stared at me.
‘You’re serious about this, then,’ he’d said.
‘Yes,’ I’d replied.
‘Right,’ he’d said, clearly weighing up what this meant for him, then gave me a look. ‘You know, if you want a bracelet that badly, you should just go and get yourself one,’ he told me. ‘You don’t need to go starving yourself to prove anything.’
I had smiled, but it was an effort. ‘Yes, I do,’ I’d said. ‘Oh yes I do.’
Now I watched him whingeing about eating a bit of salad and my heart hardened.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ I told him, swigging down a glass of water in the hope that it would fill me up. My jaws were starting to ache from all the lettuce-munching, but I wasn’t about to fess up as much.
‘What’s for pudding, Mum?’ Ben asked, once he’d carefully hidden his salad under his knife and fork.
‘Fruit,’ I said firmly, braced for moans and groans. The greengrocer’s had been laden with summer goodies – strawberries, raspberries, peaches, cherries – and I’d brought half their stock home with me, arranging my purchases in tempting clusters in the fruit bowl and stocking the fridge with bulging brown paper bags. The idea was that I’d grab a piece of fruit whenever I had a sugar craving, instead of breaking open the Wagon Wheels. Actually, the idea was that I’d chuck out all the Wagon Wheels and Crunch Creams and Chocolate HobNobs full stop so that I didn’t have to resist temptation every time, but I wasn’t quite ready to go cold turkey (or cold biscuit) just yet.
