by Lynda Renham
Coconuts
and
Wonderbras
A romantic comedy adventure by
Lynda Renham
The right of Lynda Renham to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988.
eISBN 978-0-9571372-3-3
first edition
Cover Illustration by Gracie Klumpp
www.gracieklumpp.com
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Raucous Publishing 2012
www.raucouspublishing.co.uk
Chapter One
Don’t you just hate diets? Well maybe you don’t. You’re probably one of those people who never need to go on a diet. Generally I couldn’t care less about dieting, but now that I am on a diet it is a completely different matter. After struggling to zip up my best pair of jeans this morning, and painfully pinching my naval in the process, I’ve decided it’s time for drastic action. The problem is I keep changing my mind about which diet to be on. I never realised there was so much dieting paraphernalia. You know the kind of thing, watching everything you eat, counting calories or counting points, measuring food in those colourful measuring pots and trying to get as much out of them as you can. Not to mention those embarrassing weekly weigh-ins. Then there is the awful food. Eating salads instead of proper food and making your own vegetable soup. Talking of soup, I did try the Cabbage Soup diet. It seemed so easy, but the stink in my kitchen and the amount of time I spent in the loo put me off that one. Then, of course, there are the wonderful diets. Chef-made meals diet, homemade meals diet, and tiny portion diet, eat all you like diet, not to mention the low carb or high carb diet. I rather liked the sound of the ‘Ducan’ diet, but I seemed to end up with the ‘Ducant’ diet.
Then there are the marvellous magazine articles with headings like ‘Eat Yourself Slim’. Oh yes, I like the sound of that. You can choose whether to diet online or offline, or you could just have a milkshake and forget about food altogether. It’s all so confusing. And why do we do it? I don’t know why you do it, but I’m doing it to keep the man in my life because I am sure my boyfriend is seeing someone else, and the someone else is far skinnier than me. I know, of course, I should be doing it for myself. But, starting a diet three weeks before Christmas is not only very bad timing but sheer stupidity. I’m Libby by the way, and I like to think of myself as slightly curvy rather than fat, although some days I must admit to feeling huge. My best friend Issy is blessed with a metabolism that allows her to eat anything, and I could gladly kill her. I only have to think marshmallow and I look like one. She, on the other hand, is one of those women who can polish off a plate of fish and chips with a bread roll on the side and still manage to lose a pound. However, it doesn’t seem to improve her temperament.
‘Sod off.’
It’s Saturday night and three weeks before Christmas and Issy, somewhat inebriated, shares some Christmas spirit with the carol singers outside my cottage. I am mortified and tell her so. After all, you just don’t tell the Salvation Army to sling their hook do you, especially when they are singing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’.
‘That’s my bloody point. If they are the Salvation Army then I’ll eat my Christmas hat. And if they are going to sing outside your front door they should at least sing carols. Since when has Onward Christian Soldiers been a carol? Hark, I do believe they have now turned into Mariah Carey,’ she says scathingly.
Embarrassed beyond belief, I attempt to inject some Christmas cheer by offering mulled wine and homemade mince pies. After all, one of us should show some Christmas spirit, especially to the Salvation Army. I open the door to be met by three youths and a ghetto blaster. They hungrily devour my offerings while I stand shivering. Honestly, it’s Christmas, what happened to goodwill to all men? I love Christmas, and the lovely warm cosy feeling you get at this time of the year. I also adore Christmas shopping and the crowds, and I happen to love those garish houses that seem to be hopelessly devoured by Christmas lights and huge reindeers. Oh yes, Christmas isn’t really Christmas without all that tacky stuff. And I like carol singers, real carol singers, that is. I am more than happy to give them my mince pies but fake carol singers are something else.
‘Now you can sod off. I don’t want to hear this rubbish. If you have to play rubbish at least play sodding traditional rubbish, then go and find your mince pies somewhere else,’ Issy, queen of tact, shouts from the living room.
The three youths and ghetto blaster trudge off into the snow. I return gratefully to the warm living room, where Issy is breathing fire down the phone to some poor assistant at Domino Pizza.
‘I know it is Christmas. What has that got to do with the price of cod? We ordered it over an hour ago, or are you telling me that you have to deliver to Santa and his reindeers first?’
‘Price of fish,’ I correct under my breath.
‘What the bollocks.’
Issy, my best friend and women’s journalist agony aunt, likes to say bollocks a lot. Frankly, she is a crap agony aunt and the last person I would ask advice from. If you feel depressed she is likely to agree that jumping off a cliff is the best option. Issy spends bucket loads on clothes and cosmetics, and always emerges from a dress shop looking like a million dollars, whereas I come out feeling like I have spent a million dollars but never looking it. I can never grow fingernails like Issy, and when I do, her bright purple nail polish makes me look more like a witch than tantalising seductress. Issy is confident where I am not and oh yes, she is slim. Like I have said, I am just a little bit fat. Did I say a little bit? Okay, a slight correction needed. A fair bit fat I suppose would be nearer the truth. Although, Issy assures me I am nowhere near as fat as I think. Okay, I am one stone ten pounds over my normal weight, or 10.88 kilograms overweight to be precise. Whichever way you convert it I still come out fat. So, what the arsing head and hole has possessed me to eat a Domino’s pizza you’re thinking. Well, it is almost Christmas, and I am convinced my boyfriend, Toby, is seeing someone else. Of course, I have no real evidence for this belief except he seems to smell very sweetly of Lancôme Trésor perfume these days. I can’t exactly confront him with that can I? After all, he is a highly respected journalist who writes not only for our local rag here in Fross but also for The Political Times, which means he works with lots of women, many of whom I am sure wear Trésor. I can’t very well accuse him of sleeping with all of them can I? The thing is, they are all slim and trendy whereas I am neither. Don’t you just hate the word ‘trendy’? In fact, according to him these women are bloody perfect, whereas I am just bloody useless. Not that Toby has ever told me that I am useless. I just feel I am. So, a few weeks before Christmas I have decided it is time to do something drastic about the weight problem. I need to turn myself into a slim, trendy and somewhat perfect woman by Christmas Eve. I decide to call in Issy for diet advice. She suggests we discuss it over a Domino pizza and a bottle of wine. Good start. Like I said, I should never take advice from Issy.
‘Obviously you should diet darling, after all, no one likes a fat person, not that you are terribly fat, but don’t do it for that little fart Toby, and stop baking sodding cakes. Nigella Lawson you’re not!’
As you can see, Issy is as tactful as a sledgehammer. Although I have to agree, I am probably more De
lia Smith than Nigella Lawson. I love baking cakes you see. Cupcakes, fairy cakes, fruit cakes, Christmas cakes, sponge cakes, you name it and I bake it. Toby loves my cakes. His favourite is my Victoria sandwich and I have made one for him today along with the mince pies and sausage rolls for the office. The problem is my hobby does tend to end up touching my lips and of course lands on my hips resulting in an insult from Toby’s lips… Have you gained more weight Libby? Your hips look bigger, and that dress used to look nicer on you.
So, after exhausting every slimming pill on the market and still managing to eat like a horse I have decided drastic measures are needed.
‘A gastric band, have you gone insane? Do you really think that little sod is worth it?’ Issy gasps when I voice my plan.
I actually think the little sod is worth it.
‘I’m thinking it would be beneficial to my health and besides…’
‘Bloody hell Libs, you could die under the knife, or even worse, have your spine severed.’
Yes, that is my kind of luck.
‘Isn’t that one and the same thing?’
‘What?’
‘If they sever my spine, I will die won’t I?’
‘Whatever, anyway they’re bound to perforate something. It’s par for the course.’
‘It’s unlikely.’
‘God, you do think the little shit is worth it don’t you?’
I’m wondering how many more derogatory words Issy will find to describe Toby before the evening is over. I am actually thinking the little shit/sod/fart is actually worth it, although I don’t imagine anyone else would think so. I sometimes even wonder why I think so.
‘Right now, the little fart/sod/shit is the only boyfriend I have,’ I moan.
‘And that’s the way it will stay if your spine is severed.’
The truth is I’m not very confident, and even less so when it comes to men. I was so flattered when Toby asked me out a year ago. He is good looking, successful and confident. I can’t imagine what he saw in me.
With raised eyebrows, Issy says I should dump the little bugger.
‘Stop thinking you can’t find anyone better,’ she sighs.
With perfect timing the Domino Pizza man rings the doorbell, and I am saved from admitting that I really don’t want to dump the little bugger and that I actually do love him. I have to wonder how much I love him, however, when five minutes later I am stuffing myself full of ‘Chilli Surprise’ deep pan pizza and potato wedges, not to mention the garlic bread. I am proud to say that when Issy opens a tub of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream for dessert I actually do reign myself in. After all, there is the Christmas party tomorrow night, and I will doubtless eat heaps. Maybe I should start the diet after the party. Yes, that’s the best thing. I’ll start my diet on Monday. I’ll make the party my final indulgence. After all, publishers lay on fab parties, and Hobsons are no exception. Did I mention that I work for a publishing house? I probably didn’t. I work as an agent at Randal and Hobson’s publishing house aka Hobnobs. Not that I have anyone famous on my account but I live in hope. My real ambition is to be a journalist like Toby, and although I have written tons of stuff, I just can’t get anyone to actually read it. Toby says it is pretty amateurish, but I’m sure with practice I could get better. I actually have this crazy idea that maybe tomorrow night, at the party, I could propose to Toby. Yes, you heard me, propose. I am twenty-nine after all and I really should get married. I know one shouldn’t rush into marriage just because one is almost thirty, but can you imagine still being on the shelf in your thirties? Oh God, it is enough to make me reach for the Ben and Jerry’s. Well, I have already eaten the pizza so let’s face it the damage has been done.
‘Oh, I really can’t face the thought of being single for another year and Toby is so lovely, he makes me feel…’ I say with my mouth full of ice cream.
Issy leans towards me and grabs the spoon.
‘Makes you feel sick I shouldn’t wonder,’ she hiccups. ‘He certainly has that effect on me.’
‘Special. He makes me feel special,’ I say lamely, knowing full well that he doesn’t.
‘Oh please. By the way, did you hear that radio interview with the luscious Alex Bryant? Oh, that voice. He trashed Toby’s article on the Cambodian uprising unmercifully,’ she says gleefully. ‘But what a dreamboat. Talk about fabalicious. Did you see him on the Morning Show? He’s just back from America and has signed with a publisher here. Wouldn’t it be fab if you had him as a client? He is as close to an Adonis as any man can be. Imagine working twenty-four-seven with him. I bet he has a penis so large that…’
‘Issy, please, I have just eaten,’ I snap and try to get the image of a huge penis out of my head.
‘Anyway, I’m not in the least interested in the Oh look at me, I’m an ex-SAS super hero, call me when the world needs saving arsehole. I thought that radio interview was pathetic as it happens,’ I say scathingly. ‘He is so arrogant, I’m so glad we didn’t sign him last year. That is the second time he has trashed Toby’s work.’
‘He is ultra-gorgeous though, you have to admit that.’
‘I wouldn’t even know what he looks like.’
‘You’re the only woman who doesn’t then,’ she scoffs, flouncing off to the bathroom.
I take the opportunity to see if Toby has sent me a text. Disappointedly I throw my Blackberry back into my bag and clear the dishes.
‘Bastard,’ slurs Issy sneaking up behind me. ‘He hasn’t texted you has he?’
‘He’s probably busy at work,’ I mumble, splashing soapy water over the plates and crashing them onto the drainer.
‘Where is Toby taking you for New Year’s Eve?’ she asks, taking a tea towel from a drawer.
‘Not sure. I have mentioned the party at the Glass Dome. It seems everyone is going there this year.’
‘I’ve promised myself I will only go if I have someone special to go with,’ she sighs.
She throws down the tea towel and gleefully hands me an envelope tied with a red ribbon.
‘This will cheer you up. Happy Christmas,’ she says nodding excitedly.
‘But it isn’t Christmas for three weeks. Blimey, you’re organised.’
I turn the envelope around in my hands and then place it beside my row of cookery books.
‘I’ll stick it on the tree as soon as it goes up.’
‘No,’ blurts Issy retrieving the envelope and sending a Gordon Ramsay cook book flying. ‘You have to open it now.’
‘Can you please mind Gordon. He is the closest thing I have to male company most days.’
She rolls her eyes and thrusts the envelope at me. I raise my eyebrows. Aren’t you just highly distrustful of presents that have to be opened weeks before Christmas?
‘Why?’ I ask suspiciously.
‘Because you have to use it by the end of next week,’ she sighs.
Ah, one of Issy’s second-hand presents. I open the envelope with trepidation. Please don’t let it be anything life affirming or God forbid, dangerous. I am still quivering from the hand-me-down bungee jump that she gave me for my birthday. Please let it be a cookery lesson or something equally as safe.
‘A makeover and photo shoot!’
‘It expires next Friday,’ she cries delightedly. ‘I’ve had the thing hanging around for a year, and then I thought of you. I really don’t need it, but you do, and I thought it would be a great present.’
Bloody cheek, what does she mean I need it? I try not to look crestfallen.
‘Come on; we are going to Madam Zigana’s after all.’ She throws my coat and gloves at me.
Oh no, not the psychic. I had hoped that the pizza and the Ben and Jerry’s would have made her forget all about that.
‘I can’t hobnob with the dead. I have nothing suitable to wear, and anyway Toby might phone and I would hate to miss his call,’ I protest.
‘God, you’re starting to obsess. Come on, grab a shroud and let’s go.’
‘But it’s snow
ing,’ I complain.
‘Grab a fur shroud then. Come on. She is doing a Christmas special and you are getting so maudlin these days, verging on depressing in fact.’
A Christmas special… God, it sounds more harrowing by the minute. I think a hand-me-down bungee jump would be less vexing. I would much rather snuggle up with a mug of hot chocolate and dream about Mr Right.
Chapter Two
‘This can’t be right,’ I whisper, although there is nobody around to hear us.
Madam Zigana’s is situated in a sex shop in the sleazy part of town.
‘Shit, it’s a bit seedy I agree?’ Issy squints at the steamed up window.
I dread to think what is going on in there. I find myself visualising streams of mysterious smoke spiralling up from Tarot cards and encircling vibrators and sleazy books while videos of feverish coupling can be heard in the background.
‘A bit seedy, that’s an understatement,’ I mutter, keeping my head down.
God, what if someone sees us here, like my mother, or Toby or even worse, the vicar. Not that I know the vicar, of course. I swear my nose is turning blue, and I can barely feel my feet. I’m relieved to see that Madam Zigana’s fortune-telling parlour is actually in the basement of the sex shop.
Okay, so it wasn’t so bad. It was actually a relief to get away from my own thoughts. Shame the whole thing cost us sixty quid. Thirty quid each that is. Correction, it cost me sixty quid. Did I mention that Issy doesn’t carry money?
‘I never carry cash darling, so common.’
Good job I’m common then. Madam Zigana offered to get her crystal ball if we stayed another ten minutes and paid another fifteen quid. What a rip-off. I almost asked Madam Zigana if, along with her Christmas special, which by the way we never heard any more of, did she by any chance have a two for one offer. You can’t blame a girl for trying, can you? The trouble is I am already broke, what with it being Christmas and everything. I had spent a small fortune on dieting food and other bits that Weight Watchers and Rosemary Conley swear are important if weight loss is to be achieved. You know the kind of thing, weighing scales, tape measure, pedometer, skin-firming cream, not to mention the exercise DVDs and packs of special diet food, which are half the size but twice the price of normal stuff. My bathroom looks like a miniature gym. Anyway, back to Madam Zigana who failed to conjure up any dead people, or if she did I failed to notice. In fact, it was so dark and cold in there I failed to notice very much at all. I could barely see the Tarot cards. My future as told by a Manchurian fortune teller and based on some accidentally dropped Tarot cards and for the amazing price of sixty quid is, hold your breath… By the end of the week I will make plans to travel. I will meet a dashing man whose name begins with B or T, ‘you will fall at his feet, my lovely’ and have an opportunity to change my whole appearance. I also need to gain more confidence. My mother could have told me that for the cost of a lemon drizzle cake and a ten minute ‘how to use your mobile phone’ tutorial.
