by Lynsey James
Suddenly, I’m not sure going to the reunion is such a good idea after all. Maybe I’ll have to find another way to cross number three off my bucket list.
Chapter Six
By the time I finish work that night, I still haven’t got the reunion out of my head. On the one hand, it’d be good to prove to everyone – and myself – that I’ve really changed. I could show everyone I’m not the girl with the unhealthy relationship with food any more, that I’m a million miles away from who I used to be. On the other, I can’t imagine being in the same room with Adam Hartwell again. Not after what happened at the Leavers’ Dance.
I decide to put it firmly out of my mind as I head over to my parents’ cottage. It’s my weekly trip to theirs for dinner, so at least I have some good food to look forward to. My parents are massive foodies; they and their friends have a Come Dine With Me league, where they each try to host the perfect dinner party. The only problem is they refuse to cook anything remotely healthy.
As soon as I open the door to their cottage, which sits just across the village green from mine, I’m greeted by a beautiful smell. Judging by what my parents like to cook, it won’t be something Marjorie would approve of.
‘Hi, guys!’ I call, ‘something smells good!’
‘In here, darling,’ my mum yells from the kitchen. ‘Come and taste this spaghetti carbonara!’
Yup, just as I thought. Although my mum’s all too aware of my weight-loss journey, she believes food is something to be enjoyed and that salads are strictly for rabbits. I head into the kitchen, where the aromas are even more intense. I can smell the smoky pancetta, the onions and the garlic. Definitely not Carb Counters approved.
Mum beckons me over and holds a wooden spoon in front of me. ‘I’m glad you’re here; your dad’s still over at the pub and I need someone to taste this sauce. What do you think?’
‘I think it’s definitely not on the Carb Counters meal plan!’ I reply with a giggle.
Mum’s face darkens and she sighs. ‘Can’t you just have one night off the diet? One plate of spaghetti won’t make you pile three stone back on, will it?’
Although I know she’s right and that it’s silly to be worried, I still feel a little apprehensive as I take the spoon from her. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am, and anything that threatens to ruin my progress scares me. I can almost hear Marjorie saying eat right and the jeans won’t be tight; part of me wants to run home and dig out one of my healthy ready meals from the freezer.
‘What’s up?’ Mum asks with a frown. ‘I thought this was your favourite!’
For a brief moment, I consider reminding her for the millionth time that I’m on a diet and that pasta with rich creamy sauce is a big no-no. But she’s worked so hard on preparing the spaghetti carbonara that I can’t bear to even picture the look of hurt on her face.
‘Nothing, everything’s fine.’
I lick the spoon and my taste buds are hit with the sensation of cream, Parmesan and eggs. I can’t pretend I don’t enjoy it.
‘Wow,’ I say, ‘that tastes incredible!’
Mum’s face lights up and she goes back to stirring the sauce. ‘I knew you’d like it! I wasn’t sure if I’d added too much garlic or not. Anyway, go and sit down, it’ll be ready in a minute.’
I wait for her to ask how last night’s Carb Counters meeting went, but she doesn’t. I don’t know why I’m surprised; Mum isn’t exactly the biggest fan of slimming groups and diets, and I can’t say I blame her.
But that’s another story.
*
After Dad makes his way back from the pub, we sit down to dinner. I stare at the plate in front of me, my brain in a whirl as it tries to add up all the calories. Best not to stick this one down in the food diary, I reckon.
‘Eat up love, it’ll get cold.’ Mum looks up from her own half-empty plate and gestures to my full one. ‘Go on, it’ll be a change from that healthy muck you always eat. Looks like it’s been swept out of a rabbit hutch.’
I feel a little bubble of anger rise within me and grit my teeth. I know Mum means well and just wants to serve me a nice meal to eat, but a little bit of understanding wouldn’t go amiss. I twirl some pasta round my fork and put it into my mouth, loving and hating the taste at the same time. This is laden with calories and not something I should be eating on Carb Counters, yet I can’t deny how amazing it tastes.
Mum looks at me expectantly, waiting to hear my verdict. I manage a weak smile and nod my head.
‘S’good,’ I say through a mouthful of pasta. ‘Really good.’
‘As long as you’re enjoying it,’ she says. ‘I don’t know how you stomach that quinoa stuff you’re always banging on about. Life’s too short to eat rubbish like that and worry about the numbers on a scale.’
One, two, three, four…
Counting to ten doesn’t help this time; the words are out of my mouth before I know it.
‘My Carb Counters meeting went fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.’
A deadly silence falls over the table, replacing the convivial chatter we’d been having before the subject of food had been brought up.
‘That bloody con artist Marjorie Newton still got you hooked, has she?’ Mum purses her lips and folds her arms, looking at me with a sneering expression.
‘She’s hardly a con artist if I’ve lost three stone, Mum!’
‘A bloody slimming group is the last thing you should be going to after all the trouble you’ve had—’
‘Enough!’ Dad’s voice booms out across the room and stops our argument in its tracks. ‘Now let’s change the subject, shall we?’
Mum isn’t in the mood to back down, though. ‘I’m just saying a slimming group isn’t the best place for someone like Cleo, that’s all. Or don’t you remember what happened when she was at school? She was throwing up nearly everything she ate and taking those awful diet pills!’
My blood begins to boil and I dig my nails into my palms. I hate being reminded of the worst time in my life, not least because of how hard I’ve worked to overcome my issues. Yet Mum brings it up at every available opportunity, using it as a weapon to undermine my progress with Carb Counters.
‘I am here, you know? Look, I know I haven’t always had the best relationship with food, but Carb Counters helps me, Mum. I know you’re worried I’ll fall back into my old habits, but I won’t. I’m eating healthily and losing weight safely this time.’
I can tell she’s not convinced, but she chooses not to pursue the matter any further. Instead, she flashes me a look and turns her attention back to her pasta.
In an attempt to clear the air, Dad pipes up, ‘Cleo, did you know Amanda Best’s back in the village?’
Nice subject change, Dad.
‘Yeah, she came into The Pastry Corner earlier today. Apparently she’s hosting a school reunion.’ My brain throws up the memory of me looking her right in the eye and telling her I’d be there. The corners of my lips pull up into a smile.
Mum scoffs. ‘You’re not going, are you?’
‘Actually, I said yes,’ I snap. ‘Surprised?’
I decide not to say that Adam Hartwell is also going to be there. What Mum doesn’t know can’t hurt her.
Her eyes widen and she looks at me. ‘After what she put you through at that school? I was never away from the place because she was calling you names or making your life a misery.’
I think about apologising for being such an inconvenience, but change my mind. Things are tense enough without me making it worse.
‘That was years ago, Mum; things are different now,’ I say without the conviction I was hoping for. Hardly surprising given Amanda’s poisonous P.S. in her invitation email.
She shakes her head, mutters something under her breath and turns her attention back to her carbonara. Dad flashes me a weak smile, but doesn’t say anything. Whenever Mum’s against something, he usually follows suit.
I decide to make a final stab at a civilised conversation. ‘Hey,
you’ll never guess what I found! This old bucket list I made when I was fourteen; it’s quite funny to look at it now, actually. I wanted to move to New York, be a dancer and swim with dolphins!’
‘It’s a bit late to do the whole dancer-in-New-York thing now,’ Mum remarks. ‘This is real life, love, not Flashdance.’
I want to point out that Flashdance is set in Pennsylvania, not New York, but decide not to. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about my mum, it’s that you have to pick your battles.
‘Actually, finding the list inspired me to make a whole new one,’ I reply, digging the list out of my bag. ‘Here, take a look.’
I pass it to Dad, who hands it to Mum after a cursory glance. She doesn’t mimic Emma’s wide, beaming grin. Instead, her face contorts into a grimace as she gives it back to me.
‘Cleo, don’t you think some of those things are a bit… well, ambitious? I mean, finding a way to dance again will be really difficult, especially since you’ve been away from it for so long. I just don’t want to see you get disappointed, that’s all. There are people in life who are meant to do big things and people who are meant to do small things. You are meant to do small things and there’s nothing wrong with that. Leave the big things to everyone else,’ Mum advises, passing me some more garlic bread.
I feel as though someone’s punched me in the guts. I’ve always dreamed of doing big things, but even my own mum doesn’t believe in me. While my parents aren’t looking, I take a little glance at my list. A fire lights up inside me as I see my biggest dreams written in front of me.
Prove everyone wrong, the voice in my head whispers, and whatever you do, don’t give up.
*
The first thing I do when I get home is open up the email containing Amanda’s invitation. Although I told her I’d be going when she came into the bakery today, I want to make it more official so I won’t back out. My latest confrontation with Mum has spurred me on to do my bucket list and prove her wrong. I want to show her that I am capable of doing big things, and it starts with this school reunion.
As electricity shoots through my veins, I flex my fingers and begin to type.
Hi, Amanda!
Thanks so much for my invitation. I’d absolutely love to come to the reunion. It’ll be great to catch up on what everyone’s been up to since we left school. It was great seeing you today, by the way.
I sign off by saying I’ll see her at the reunion, then hit Send and sit back to admire my handiwork. It’s official; I’m going now and I couldn’t back out even if I wanted to.
Cleo Jones’s Ultimate Bucket List part two has begun!
Chapter Seven
The next morning, I’m in the gym bright and early. It’s my day off at the bakery and I want to make the most of it, especially now I’ve got the reunion coming up in a couple of months. It’ll also help me accomplish the first item on my bucket list: Conquer my body issues, once and for all.
I don’t have any idea what I’m doing, of course. After my disaster with the rowing machine, I’ve decided to stick to the treadmill. It’s just walking (or jogging if I’m feeling brave), so nothing can go wrong, right?
Unsurprisingly for this time of day, the gym’s virtually empty. The only people here are the really hardcore gym-goers. And me, of course. I prefer it like this; if I make a massive mistake, there’s no one around to laugh at me and there’s no silent competition with the person on the next treadmill. It’s just me and my music; today’s choice is ‘Spice Up Your Life’ by the Spice Girls. My love for nineties pop groups knows no bounds.
I’m just getting into a nice little rhythm when a loud bang from somewhere in the gym bursts through my headphones. It sounds like someone dropping a kettlebell or something. I nearly jump out of my skin and my hand accidentally hits the speed lever, cranking it up a good few notches.
‘Shit!’ I yell as my eyes dart around me to find the emergency stop button. ‘How do you stop this thing?!’
I probably look like Bugs Bunny running away from Elmer Fudd at this point, but I’m too terrified to care. Just as I think I might actually take flight with the speed I’m building up, a hand reaches over and flips the emergency stop switch. I look to my right and see Scott standing on the treadmill next to me, stifling a laugh.
‘Not that I’m counting,’ he says with a grin, ‘but that’s the second time I’ve had to rescue you from our gym equipment in three days. I reckon you should take up yoga instead; it’s much safer, you know.’
I take a second to get my breath back and shoot him a glare. ‘I’ll have you know I was going at that speed for a reason.’
Scott raises his eyebrows and slowly nods. ‘And that reason would be…?’
I stick my chin in the air, desperate to maintain some dignity. Why does he always have to see me at my worst?
‘Because… I’m in training for something. A marathon, if you must know.’
Oh well, I say to myself, at least that’s half true. If you can call running away from the web of lies I’ve created “training”: I’ve never run a marathon in my life, and I’m not likely to.
‘Ah, so it wasn’t because you cranked the speed up too high and couldn’t find the emergency stop button?’ Scott’s Cheshire cat grin widens.
Damn, I’ve been found out. Not that it’d take Sherlock Holmes to work out I was lying.
‘That may have had something to do with it,’ I admit with a smile. ‘Go on, what gave me away?’
Scott rests his chin on his palm and looks at me from beneath long brown eyelashes. ‘Oh, I don’t know; I reckon it was you yelling “how do you stop this thing?!” or the terrified look on your face. No offence, but I don’t really see you as a marathon runner.’
It’s a throwaway remark I know has no harm behind it, but it hits me right where it hurts. I try for a smile and fail miserably.
‘I know,’ I say, gesturing at the round belly poking against my lavender workout vest. ‘More like a sumo wrestler, eh?’
Scott frowns. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Well, I’m hardly a Victoria’s Secret model, am I?’ My second attempt at a smile is more successful. ‘The only thing you’d see me running for is a special offer on cake at the café in Silverdale!’
To my surprise, Scott doesn’t join in with my laughing. He tilts his head to one side and looks at me as though he can’t quite work me out. I’m not used to this. Whenever I make a joke out of my weight – usually because I think someone else will first – they end up laughing along and the situation’s defused.
‘I get it,’ Scott says, folding his arms and nodding. ‘This is one of those things where you think I’m going to make fun of your weight, so you do it first. Like a defence mechanism.’
I can’t stop my mouth from dropping open. Although it doesn’t seem like he’s judging me, I suddenly feel uncomfortable and exposed. It’s as though Scott can see right through me, and I don’t like it.
‘Aren’t you overstepping your mark as a gym trainer?’ I go over to a set of kettlebells and pick one up, like I have a clue what to do with it. ‘Or do you have a sideline as a psychologist?’
I feel bad for being prickly towards him, but the last thing I need to do is talk about my insecurities with a guy I barely know. I haphazardly swing the kettlebell, which is heavier than I thought, and nearly topple myself over with the force I put into it. Scott jumps up and puts his hands on my waist to steady me before I fall backwards. I turn round to face him and feel my cheeks heat up. He drops his hands from my waist and sighs, his face breaking out into a lopsided grin.
‘You really need a personal trainer, you know.’ He chuckles and shakes his head. ‘Anyway, to answer your question, no, I don’t have a sideline as a psychologist. I just noticed how quick you were to jump in with a joke about looking like a sumo wrestler. Which, by the way, you definitely don’t. You thought I was going to make fun of you, didn’t you?’
I feel my nostrils flare Amanda-style and try to stop mys
elf. No way do I want to be anything like her. At first, I think about telling Scott he’s wrong, but from the way he’s looking at me, I know he won’t buy it.
‘Yeah, I guess I did,’ I admit. I stop just short of admitting that people have made fun of my weight for years. That’s crossing the line into too much information.
‘Well, I wasn’t. I was actually going to say that, from the look of sheer panic on your face when you picked up a bit of speed, I guessed you weren’t a natural runner.’
My cheeks burn even more and I drop my gaze to the floor tiles. ‘Well, I might not be a natural runner, but I’m an expert at jumping to conclusions! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to jump the gun.’
Scott smiles and waves a hand dismissively. ‘Forget about it, it’s over and done with. I don’t think this will overstep my mark as a gym trainer…’ He pauses and grins as he parrots what I’ve just said to him. ‘But since you seem to attract trouble in every area of the gym, why don’t we do a workout together? Nothing complicated, just some cardio and weights and maybe some core if we have time at the end. I’m not sure you should be let loose in the gym on your own just yet.’
I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. Although Scott hasn’t asked me out on a date – helping people in the gym is his job – I don’t feel confident enough to accept his offer. I’m already doing something that scares me by going to the reunion and, although this would help me conquer my body issues, the thought of working out one-on-one with Scott terrifies me. What if I make a complete fool of myself again? What if he sees things about me I’d rather keep hidden? What if, as I’m pushing my body to its limits, I end up exposing everything I don’t like about myself for him to see?
That’s too many what ifs for my liking.
‘I… I can’t today, sorry. M-maybe another time, though.’ The words stumble out of my mouth and I hate how stupid I sound.