by Anne Penketh
The doctor raised her eyes from the question sheet and peered over her glasses at Susan.
“Well, I’m a European, and my husband was French.”
The doctor’s smile was frosty. They proceeded to discuss her family history. There was no cancer or diabetes that she knew of.
“What’s your primary source of protein?”
Susan thought for a moment. “Cheese, probably. But I also eat meat and fish.” Susan explained that she worked at DeKripps. “I reckon I have quite a balanced diet, actually, for someone in the food industry.”
“What about exercise?”
“I do quite a bit of walking.”
“I meant exercise. Cardio.”
Susan shrank a little in her chair. She’d been so busy at work. But she told the doctor about her new resolve.
“I did step onto the treadmill yesterday, but …”
“How many minutes?”
“Maybe ten.” The doctor wrote it down on her chart.
“Twenty minutes is the minimum if you want to see some benefit.”
A few days later, she was back at the doctor’s where she was told that her blood-sugar level was ‘dangerously high’.
“You mean I’m at risk of diabetes?”
“If you’re careful with your diet, you can avoid it,” Doctor Osborn said. “So if I were you I’d watch those carbs. Cut back on bread, potatoes, pasta. Anything starchy turns rapidly into sugar, topping up what you already consume in pastries, ice cream, soda and cookies. And wine.”
And chocolates. Wait until Mimi hears about this. I’ve poisoned the world, myself included.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The office had been buzzing for days but now Barney had called a handful of executives to a post-launch briefing on the success of Guilty Secrets.
Susan and Judy were standing in a corner, discussing a planned press release, and swapping anecdotes about the launch.
Susan had been in Partridge and Peartree in Georgetown, where she almost got into a fight with a woman over the last box of Guilty Secrets in the fridge.
“It was like she was demented,” she said. “She was one of those social X-rays. Skinny. Extremely sharp elbows.”
“Did she win?”
“I let her. I think. I knew there would be plenty more at home.”
Judy described a similar encounter at the store, where she had spotted a tall, thin woman dressed head to toe Gucci by the fridge. She’d said to Judy, “Have you tried these? My children have been pestering me for more.”
“That spells success to me,” said Susan. “Families like that are our bread and butter.”
They looked round as Barney came in, a wide smile on his face. He noticed them in the corner of his office.
“Susan, Judy,” he called out, as he gestured with his index finger to the chairs. It was the first time Susan could remember him treating her as a subordinate in front of colleagues.
“Are we all here?”
The video showed nervous-looking executives in LA and Kansas. As usual, Barney had found a way to stand in the very centre.
“Right, gang, what we have here is a major success. It’s big. Guilty Secrets are flying out of the stores. From LA to the Big Apple. The scientists can barely keep up.”
What’s it got to do with scientists, Susan wondered, but before she could ask, Barney had moved on.
“This vindicates marketing completely,” – he gave the slightest nod in Susan’s direction, which she acknowledged – “and has given DeKripps a decisive edge over Chewers who so far are still scratching their asses. It’s hard to see how they could respond quickly and effectively to Guilty Secrets. It’s the dream product. So what we’re going to do now is rub their noses in it.”
He turned to Judy and began to read sales figures from Partridge and Peartree. The bestselling Guilty Secret stores were in California and New York, which in the first month had sold more than 18,000 boxes. And the same customers were coming back for more. It wasn’t a lot compared to other DeKripps sales, Susan thought. They were selling millions of boxes of cereals and chocolate bars. But given the price of Guilty Secrets and the high end of the market, client loyalty would be an unexpected bonus.
“OK, Judy?”
“OK, Barney.”
“Get this straight. This is a story to shout from the rooftops. Particularly in the direction of Chewers’ rooftops. And the rooftop of any tree hugger with a food blog. So tweet it, too.”
The group was dismissed.
Resurfacing from her office for a break a little later, Susan bumped into Barney at the soft drinks machine. He punched the buttons furiously before a plastic bottle of recycled water rattled into the tub. She chose an apricot Angeljuice.
“Did you go to the White House reception last night?”
“Sure did,” he said.
The event had been held outside in the Rose Garden. Susan asked whether he had met the Obamas.
“They came in together, and worked the room. But they only stayed for five, ten minutes, the usual.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m still a White House virgin, I’m afraid.”
“I buttonholed one of the First Lady’s aides about anti-obesity. She denied of course that DeKripps was being targeted. Can you believe those people? It’s like they’ve all drunk the Kool Aid. And the media assholes swallow it. We decided from the outset,” he mimicked squeakily, “that Let’s Move would be a positive enlightenment program. We’re not going after anyone. We’re setting an example to young people, it’s all about education Yadda, yadda, yadda. Education, my ass!”
He turned on his heel. As he returned to the office with his coffee, she heard him mutter, “Bitch!” before slamming the door behind him.
Susan unscrewed her Angeljuice and stood for a moment, staring into the yellow mouth of the bottle.
*
Susan badly wanted Mimi to visit – without the unemployed librarian in tow – but she knew it would be weighted with the same tension as their conversations on Skype. So she was relieved when her daughter said she’d sorted out lodgings for a couple of weeks in June with a friend who worked for Code Pink, a group of feminist activists.
They were famous locally for disrupting Congressional hearings by holding up placards calling for an end to the war in Afghanistan, dressed head to toe in pink. Susan had seen them on the news, Capitol police escorting them quietly from the chamber.
She picked Mimi up from Dulles airport and found herself clinging to her daughter as she came into the Arrivals hall. Mimi, her hair piled around her face, was as pallid as ever in her boots and black tights.
“I’ve missed you.” Mimi wriggled out of her embrace and she kissed a mouthful of lacquer. She led her to her rental car outside, wondering why she had so much luggage for such a short stay.
“Have you brought Josh in there?” she asked. She suspected it might even be fancy dress for some kind of activism. “Or are you loaded with presents for me?”
“Very funny.”
Mimi gave her the address of her friend who lived just off H St, a neighbourhood close to Capitol Hill where Susan had seen reports of shootings and car-jackings.
“It’s full of media people now,” Mimi said. “Creatives. Keep up.”
They crossed the tramline under construction and pulled up outside a shabby house with two wooden chairs on the veranda.
“This is it,” said Mimi. “Thanks for the lift.”
“So when shall I see you?”
“I’ll call you.”
After three anxious days, she finally received a phone call. Mimi agreed to join her for supper at her apartment, posing again the delicate problem of what she could possibly cook. Once, forgetting that eggs were prohibited, she’d offered an omelette. “Do you expect me to eat the menstruation of hens?” Mimi had said. It was almost enough to put Susan off eggs for life.
Mimi roamed round the apartment, plopping herself down on the sofa where she plumped the cushions. “It looked b
igger online,” she said as she took in the living room, pulled a face at the Modigliani and stretched out her long skinny legs.
Before Susan could speak, she made for the bedroom, where she picked up a photo of Susan and Serge, taken on their favourite beach in Brittany, and examined it carefully. Susan followed her.
“Well, I don’t need a big place just for me. And I’m not having many dinner parties these days. In fact, most of the time, I order in.”
“That’s why you put on weight,” Mimi said. “All that fast food. Did you tell the doctor?”
“That’s irrelevant now. What counts is what I’ve been eating since seeing the doctor.” She didn’t mention the new delivery of Guilty Secrets in the fridge. She went into the kitchen and put out a salad of tossed lettuce leaves and beans, and pulled out a chair for Mimi.
“So when will I get to meet Josh? How is he?”
Mimi shrugged. “He’s OK. He’s finding it tough to find a job, so he spends most of his time online, doing research and stuff like that. He’s had a few interviews but so far nothing. Loads of his friends are out of work too.”
She knew she should ask Mimi about her work, although she didn’t want to pry. Besides, she might be scared by the answer. Sometimes it was best not to know.
“What are you working on at the moment, Mimi?”
“We’re mostly crowdsourcing stuff.”
“Really? Cutting edge,” she said, realizing too late that her tone might have betrayed her. There was a long silence.
“How do you feel really, anyway?” Mimi asked eventually.
“To tell you the truth, I just feel empty inside. It’s as though something has switched off. I miss him so much. So many times I’ve been on the point of speaking to him when I wake up.”
It was probably more than she had wanted to admit to her daughter, but Mimi seemed to know what she meant.
“I miss him too. I dreamed about him the other night. It was as though he was there, completely real, it was weird, we were walking along the Embankment together. Then he began moving backwards and when I turned round he’d gone. I felt bereft. But it must be worse for you.”
She reached across the table for Mimi’s hand, which her daughter didn’t snatch away. Such moments were rare. She wanted to fold her in her arms, but carried on holding her hand whose index finger was dwarfed by a pewter skull and crossbones ring.
“Sometimes I dream about him too,” she said. “It’s so real. But they’re mainly anxiety dreams. I don’t know if it’s worse when I dream about him, or when I don’t.”
“Me neither.” The moment passed. Mimi gently withdrew her hand and took their plates to the sink.
“That’s okay, I’ll put them in the dishwasher,” Susan said.
She asked Mimi what her plans were during her stay. Her daughter was vague, as usual. “We could have brunch at the weekend, if you like,” Susan said, adding: “We could have Mimosas.”
“You know I don’t drink.”
“I know, that was a joke. Hey, miss sourpuss, lighten up, will you?” She spoke more sharply than she’d intended.
“Chocolate?” she asked. Mimi shook her head.
“Anyway, it’s time I got back.” And with that, Mimi picked up her things, accepted the money for a cab without saying thank you, and left for her lodgings.
*
The sound of ‘Dancing Queen’ rang out while Susan and Mimi were walking through the Naval Academy grounds in Annapolis.
It was coming from Susan’s handbag.
“Why do you have that stupid ringtone?”
“I have to get this. Just a sec. And it’s ironic, actually, if you hadn’t noticed.” She silenced her phone and moved out of her daughter’s earshot, standing with her back to her.
Mimi had shown zero enthusiasm for their excursion to the former colonial capital. She was more interested in the capri pants at recession-knockdown prices in a Chicos store than in admiring the deep blue stained glass windows of the academy chapel.
After a few minutes of strained silence sitting in a pew, Susan said: “Right, let’s have a bite of lunch. I’ll have to go back to the office afterwards.”
They found a café on West Street which met with Mimi’s approval once she’d scrutinised the vegetarian menu on the door, and she ordered a tomato salad. But after only two bites, she pushed it aside, wrinkling her nose.
“Why do tomatoes in this country have no taste? I don’t know how you stand it.”
“I suppose it depends where you buy them. I’ve never had any complaints, but I think you have to buy fruit and veg in season. I’m sure that a tomato in December wouldn’t be as tasty as one now. Do you want me to order you something else?”
Mimi shook her head. “I’ll make myself a smoothie when I get back to H St,” she said. Susan stopped herself from pointing out that smoothies were like drinking a gallon of sugar.
“Mimi, are you sure you’re eating properly?”
Another glare.
“What else are you going to do while you’re here?”
“Oh, this and that. Some stuff with Code Pink.” Susan raised her head from her lentil soup to pick up more information, but none came.
“Why do you love it so much here, anyway?”
“I wouldn’t say that I love it. I mean I miss London obviously, but you can’t compare the two. As cities go, life’s easier here, it’s modern, everything works, the Metro’s clean and you can get anything delivered to your door at any time of the day or night.”
“Big deal,” said Mimi. “Everyone you meet seems to work for the government.”
Susan smiled. She’d noticed that too.
“They’re parasites.”
“I wouldn’t go that far—”
“How would you describe it then?” Mimi said. “All those lobbyists. I don’t know how you can live with yourself out here. But then I wouldn’t expect an objective view from you.”
Susan bit her lip. Then looked at her watch and suggested they returned to DC. She did have to go back to work, but she also had a romantic rendezvous that evening – with someone who worked for the government. He was a member of Partners 4 U, and his was the mysterious phone call earlier.
As they drove back to Washington in the hired car, Mimi asked her about Obama.
“He’s cerebral,” she said. “I like him. He makes me feel safe, you know that before he takes a decision he’s weighed up everything. Of course that’s where his reputation for indecisiveness comes from. And he’s already in trouble with Democrats because he’s not moved fast enough on their agenda. Did you see the healthcare bill only got passed last month? It took eighteen months.”
“Really? I didn’t see that, we had the election stuff on and I was up to my eyeballs. I like him too. And Michelle. It’s good she’s doing this anti-obesity stuff. Making people feel responsible for what they eat. They need that here.”
“Yes, but you’ll notice that what she’s doing isn’t just about food. It’s also about getting people off their bottoms. It’s not just the additives that you’re always attacking, but a lifestyle. There’s certainly a generation of couch potatoes growing up here, and they’re fat. But they’re catching up at home too, believe you me.”
Mimi let that pass. “He’s still incredibly popular in Europe. He could have given Gordon Brown a lesson or two. And now we’ve got a coalition of toffs!”
“Did you vote Green again?”
“I campaigned for them actually. The candidate was a mate of mine. There was quite a high turnout in Wandsworth. I’m glad I’m here now to avoid the sickening love-fest between Cameron and Clegg.”
Mimi looked out of the window at the trees lining the Parkway. “Mind, they’ve made my work a lot easier,” she added.
Susan changed into a loose shift dress and left home with a familiar mix of curiosity and apprehension. Might it work out this time, she wondered as she walked to the cocktail bar off K St, where her date was already waiting at a tall table, legs wrap
ped round a stool.
He was called Matt and worked for the State Department, at least he said he did. Susan had become used to daters’ flair for exaggeration and wasn’t going to be taken in. Did State allow its employees to go on dating sites? They were human beings after all.
She and Matt had emailed before she gave him her phone number. She’d given him a specially-created email address, to be on the safe side. Jessica had warned her that if things went sour, she wouldn’t want rejected suitors sending nasty messages to her personal email.
Susan liked him immediately. He was tall and gangly with a mine of funny stories from his postings abroad. He’d done Kosovo and Lagos, and was now killing time before his next job, which could be at the UN mission in New York. He was being considered for first secretary.
‘Up or out’ was how the State Department worked. Either you were promoted or you left.
“Is that true? Goodness, and I thought my industry was cut-throat.”
“I guess you could say I’m doing okay. Like the guy said as he jumped out of the skyscraper and passed the 37th floor, ‘so far, so good’.”
Matt, who had a dark mole on his cheek, said he used the dating site because he had very few friends in Washington as a result of his foreign service career.
“So, like I said on my profile, I’m looking for good company rather than kinky sex,” he said.
“That’s good, me too,” she laughed, raising her glass to his. “But that means you won’t be sticking around for long.”
“It sounds like you won’t be either, as you’re a Brit. By the way, you look slightly different to what I’d expected.”
“I don’t look like my profile picture?”
“You do, but I can’t quite figure out …”
“Slightly fuller in the face, perhaps?”
“That’s it, yeah. Well, maybe. I dunno.”
He’d said it too quickly. Her appearance was obviously the first thing he’d noticed. She was crushed. He thought she was fat, so why didn’t he just come out and say so?
