The Chocolate Lovers' Diet

by Carole Matthews

  Only when I’m safely ensconced next to the cake does Jacob hand me the knife. The photographer has been dispensed with, so there’s no posing for ridiculous photographs. ‘Clive.’ I beckon my friend towards me. ‘Come and do this with me.’

  My friend folds his fingers over mine and, teasingly, looks into my eyes as if he loves me. I only get a momentary pang of what might have been, if Marcus had been here cutting the cake with me. We push the knife into the glorious icing and soft sponge and earn an uncertain cheer from our guests. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a sight that makes my blood run cold.

  ‘Oh no,’ I say. Clive looks up and follows my gaze. He gasps out loud. As do all the guests still standing in a circle after the cake cutting.

  Coming into the room, wearing a pink satin basque, flowing skirt and killer heels is Raunchy Roberta – six statuesque feet of drag queen, here at my wedding. I recognise him/her as the compère from Mistress Jay’s nightclub even though his wig is a different colour.

  Raunchy Roberta goes up to Tristan and flings his arms around him. Tristan looks more than a little surprised as Roberta gives him a long, slobbering kiss.

  ‘Euuw!’ I turn to Clive, whose face has gone very dark. He’s clutching the knife menacingly. I take it from him gingerly.

  ‘Excuse me, Lucy,’ Clive says tightly and he marches over to where Tristan and Roberta are taking a breather from their embrace.

  ‘What’s she, he doing here?’ Clive hisses at Tristan. Hisses loud enough for everyone to hear.

  ‘I didn’t want you to find out like this,’ Tristan says dramatically.

  ‘Don’t you think that I’d guessed?’ Clive wants to know. ‘All those clandestine disappearances – do you think I’m a fool?’

  ‘Yes,’ Raunchy Roberta says in a remarkably gruff voice. ‘Now clear off.’

  ‘Make me,’ Clive, rather unwisely, says.

  Raunchy Roberta, it has to be said, has a mean right hook. He punches Clive on the jaw and my friend staggers backwards, looking rather shocked and heading towards the cake. The table on which it’s standing wobbles alarmingly. Jacob and I exchange a worried look. One of the legs holding up the tiers shakes too much and then collapses. The tier slides graciously out of line and then knocks against the tier below until they’re all unstable. Jacob and I make a valiant dive to save the cake and fail. The tiers cascade to the floor in a shower of crystallised kumquats, chocolate leaves and chunks of featherlight sponge.

  I pick a lump of chocolate icing from the tablecloth. ‘Mmm. This is very good,’ I tell Jacob as I lick my fingers.

  Tristan leaps forward and dashes to Clive’s aid. ‘Are you hurt? Are you hurt?’

  ‘Of course I’m fucking hurt!’ Clive shouts. ‘I’ve never been so hurt. That’s it. You can get out. Get out of my chocolate shop. Get out of my life. Get out and take that big butch bastard with you.’ With that, he bends down, picks up the top tier of my lovely chocolatey wedding cake which has fallen next to his feet and then he smashes it into Tristan’s face, rubbing the crumbs in firmly for extra effect. My assembled guests gasp again with horror.

  As Raunchy Roberta lurches forward and lunges again for Clive, he slips on the mess of chocolate cake on the floor, twists his ankle in his deadly stiletto heels, one of them snaps and Roberta goes arse over tit. With a hefty thump, the drag queen extraordinaire ends up sprawled on his back with his pink basque askew, his falsies popped out and his wig lopsided. It’s not a pretty sight. I can’t, at this moment, appreciate what Tristan sees in him. Then Clive bursts into tears.

  Jacob and I look at each other again. ‘Perhaps cutting the wedding cake wasn’t such a great idea,’ I say.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  After the eventful cutting of the cake, Chantal and Ted found a quiet corner away from the fray in which to talk. Despite being pregnant, Chantal was longing for a glass of champagne or any form of alcohol. There are some conversations that shouldn’t be faced on mineral water alone.

  They now sat on a Chesterfield in a small private lounge which was relatively peaceful. Finally, they were alone and the music from the disco had faded to an irritating background thrum, competing with some twinkly piano music from the hotel sound system. Ted swigged at his champagne and avoided her eyes. ‘So how long have you known you were pregnant?’

  ‘A month or more,’ Chantal said.

  ‘And you didn’t tell me?’

  ‘I tried,’ she said, ‘but I could never find the right moment. And you did spend a lot of time avoiding me.’

  Ted hung his head.

  ‘How long have you known that there was another baby on the way?’

  ‘Around the same amount of time.’ He finished his champagne and topped up the glass from a bottle he’d purloined. ‘I told you that I’d had a fling,’ he said. ‘Well, it was one or two.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  Her husband shook his head. ‘Mainly women from work. One more serious than the others.’

  ‘Stacey?’

  ‘Stacey,’ he confirmed. ‘She’s very nice.’

  ‘If she’s going to be the mother of your child, I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Ted said, ‘we’re no longer in a relationship. She’s a fine young woman, but too needy. She wanted me to be everything to her and I hadn’t realised how much I liked the fact that you were so independent.’

  ‘Maybe a little too independent.’

  ‘I wanted to sleep with other women,’ Ted confessed. ‘I wanted to see how it felt. Level the playing-field. It was a mistake. It didn’t make me feel better about myself. All the time that I was with them, no matter how hard I tried, I just realised that I wanted to be with you.’ He shrugged. ‘And now there’s a baby on the way.’

  ‘Actually, there are two.’

  ‘Two babies.’ Ted gave a snort. ‘What is it the Brits say? They’re like buses – first you can’t get one and then two come along at once.’

  ‘Do you know for sure that Stacey’s child is yours?’

  ‘Christ,’ Ted said. ‘I think so. How do you know these days? She could have three other guys on the go and I’d be none the wiser.’

  Chantal decided to keep quiet.

  ‘I have to ask this, Chantal.’ Ted turned towards her. ‘Is your baby mine?’

  ‘Truthfully?’

  ‘It’s usually the best way,’ her husband advised. Chantal had found that it wasn’t always so.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I believe it is. We can only find out for certain after the birth.’ If there was any way of willing this child into being the fruit of Ted’s loins then she damn well would. ‘I’ll get a DNA test as soon as possible. It carries more risks to the baby to have one before it’s born and I don’t want to do anything that might harm it.’ She folded her hands protectively over her stomach. ‘The baby’s a little girl. A daughter.’

  Tears filled her husband’s eyes. ‘This is all I ever wanted, Chantal.’

  ‘I wish you’d said earlier,’ she said with a tired laugh. ‘Maybe we could have saved ourselves a whole heap of trouble. Now it looks like you’re gonna get a double helping, Daddy.’

  ‘I have one other question,’ Ted said. ‘That guy, the wedding planner. Did you have an affair with him?’

  Chantal felt a flush come to her cheeks.

  ‘There’s a chemistry between you. A chemistry that only comes with being intimate with someone. I see that in his eyes.’

  Jeez, if only her husband was always so observant. He couldn’t spot that she was four months’ pregnant, yet he could tell that there was a spark between her and Jacob.

  ‘Could it be his child?’

  ‘It’s unlikely,’ Chantal said. ‘He knows nothing about this. We had a very brief liaison.’

  ‘And you’re just friends now?’

  ‘Just friends,’ she confirmed. There was no need to tell Ted that she’d thoroughly enjoyed her time with Jacob – even though the cost, in more ways than one,
had been astronomically high.

  ‘I’d like us to stay friends too,’ he said.

  ‘I’m still hoping that we can get back together,’ Chantal said.

  ‘Even after everything that’s happened?’

  She patted her stomach. ‘Especially after everything that’s happened.’

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I say with a hearty sigh. ‘I needed to get away from that lot.’ I’ve abandoned the frantic atmosphere of the disco and have come in search of sanctuary and five minutes’ peace. I don’t know quite how I managed to get through this day, but I’m at the point where I think I might like it to end. Marcus’s relatives – having decided to stick it out – are now showing no signs of wanting to go home.

  ‘Come and join us, Lucy.’ Chantal pats a chair next to her.

  Gratefully, I flop down in the chair next to Chantal, who I’ve found hiding away in a little lounge with her hubby.

  ‘I was just going. I’ll leave you ladies to it,’ Ted says, rising. He kisses me on the cheek. ‘Great wedding, Lucy.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Ted, as promised, leaves us to it. With a moan of pleasure, Chantal kicks off her shoes and lets her head fall back, then stretches out, so that her feet rest on the seat opposite her. ‘All this emotion is taking its toll,’ she tells me.

  ‘Tell me about it.’ I, too, kick off my shoes and, rearranging my wedding dress, curl my legs under me. ‘Let’s text the others. See if we can all steal a few minutes alone. I’m missing my girls.’ I punch CHOCOLATE EMERGENCY into my phone and the name of the lounge that we’re in.

  Minutes later, Nadia and Autumn have tracked us down. ‘Look what I’ve found,’ Nadia announces as she comes in. She’s bearing a tray loaded with the remnants of my wedding cake.

  ‘You didn’t pick it up off the floor?’ I want to know.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘But we’d still eat it anyway, right?’

  We all nod our agreement. A little bit of carpet fluff wouldn’t detract from the superb taste of chocolate, would it? Autumn is bearing a bottle of champagne and some glasses. She hands out the flûtes, pops the cork and pours. Even Chantal takes one. ‘This kid can cope with a few sips,’ she says. ‘After the discussion I’ve just had with Ted, I need it.’

  ‘I didn’t interrupt anything important, did I?’ Come to think of it, they did look very cosy when I found them and, of course, I just blundered on in.

  She shakes her head. ‘He’d just finished telling me that he’s going to be a daddy.’

  We all look at her, puzzled. ‘We know that.’

  ‘By a woman other than my good self.’

  ‘We didn’t know that!’ we all say.

  ‘Well,’ Chantal says, ‘it was news to me too.’

  ‘How do you feel about it, Chantal?’ Autumn asks.

  ‘Surprisingly calm,’ she admits. ‘I took his announcement well. He took mine well.’ She shrugs her shoulders. ‘Though quite where we go from here is anyone’s guess.’

  ‘This is definitely, definitely a chocolate cake moment,’ I say. And, duly, we all tuck in.

  ‘How’s Clive?’ Chantal asks.

  ‘Crying in the toilets,’ I tell her. ‘The ladies’ toilets. Marcus’s mum is currently wiping his tears.’

  ‘Poor Clive,’ Nadia says.

  ‘Poor Tristan, more like,’ I chip in. ‘Looks to me like that Raunchy Roberta will make mincemeat of him.’

  We all laugh. Chantal shakes her head. ‘Last I saw of them, Roberta was manhandling Tris out of the front door.’

  ‘This has been a very interesting wedding,’ I say, noting that Marcus hasn’t really been missed that much. ‘I can’t wait for the next one.’

  Then Autumn, who with her red curls and her freckles would never have the right complexion for a poker player, goes bright red.

  We all wait expectantly. Our friend squirms in her seat and blushes a bit more. ‘I think Addison might have asked me to marry him.’

  ‘You think he did?’

  She nods. ‘And I think I said yes.’

  ‘Yeeeeeees!’ We all let out a cheer.

  ‘I have to check with him,’ she said. ‘When we’re both sober. It was a very casual proposal.’

  ‘Casual or not, we’re damn well toasting it!’ I tell her.

  Nadia sploshes some more champagne in all of our glasses and we raise them to Autumn.

  ‘To Autumn and Addison,’ Chantal proposes. ‘May your wedding be less “interesting” than Lucy’s!’

  ‘To Autumn and Addison,’ we all echo. More wedding cake is consumed.

  ‘If you do it quickly,’ Nadia suggests, ‘we could all wear the same bridesmaid’s dresses.’

  ‘I’m not going to fit into mine for much longer,’ Chantal reminds us.

  Me neither. My diet starts tomorrow. In earnest. No more chocolate . . .Ye gods! What am I saying! How could I manage without chocolate – particularly in my current emotional state? Chocolate is all that I have. Maybe I’ll just give up all other foodstuffs instead. There must be a chocolate lovers’ diet out there? Surely you could lose weight on just three, or perhaps four, Mars Bars a day?

  While I’m still trying to work out my calorific requirements to survive, Nadia takes my hand. ‘You’ve done so well today, Lucy,’ she tells me. ‘We’re all very proud of you.’

  ‘Life goes on,’ I say. ‘I might not have Marcus, but I have my friends and I have chocolate.’

  ‘To friends and to chocolate,’ Chantal says, and we all raise our glasses again.

  ‘And you have Crush,’ Autumn says.

  Crush. My heart lets out a sigh. The day has been so manic that I’ve barely had time to allow my thoughts to go there. Letting my mind drift, I wonder where Mr Aiden Holby is right now. I should call him and tell him about the wedding that never was. He probably won’t want to hear from me, but I owe him that much.

  ‘You should call him,’ Nadia says, echoing my thoughts.

  ‘Later,’ I tell her. I need time to work out what I’m going to say to him and my brain’s far too whirry now – not to mention a little drunker than is appropriate for rational thought. ‘Now I should be getting back to my guests.’

  Nadia makes to stand up. ‘I should be going too. I’ve left Lewis with Jacob. He’s a really nice guy.’

  None of us can argue with that. ‘You’re coping really well too, Nadia,’ I say.

  ‘I am,’ she says proudly. ‘I’m going to be okay.’

  ‘We’ll make sure that you are,’ Chantal adds.

  ‘What a truly resilient bunch we are,’ I note.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ Nadia says, and we all clink our glasses together again.

  For good measure I steal another piece of chocolate cake and cram it in on top of the rest. Sod the diet. Curves will eventually come back into fashion.

  ‘Come on then,’ I say, jumping from my chair. ‘We’ve got a sugar high to dance off. Let’s hit that party.’

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  We’re all in the corridor, holding hands, giggling and heading back to the action. There’s a man in a smart dark suit striding purposefully towards us, head down. We ease to one side as he gets near to us and he looks up to say thanks.

  Then he does a double-take. ‘You!’ he shouts out as he recognises us. He stands back to get a better view and, waving his finger at us all, he shouts again: ‘You!’

  Ohmigod. This is what I’d feared most for my wedding day – the thought that Marcus might abandon me had never crossed my mind, but I always dreaded bumping into this man.

  Last time I was at Trington Manor with the members of The Chocolate Lovers’ Club we were committing a cunning heist – retrieving Chantal’s jewellery from a charming conman who’d shagged her and then stolen all her stuff. That same man – he of the awful alias, Mr John Smith, Gentleman Thief, is standing in front of us.

  We all gasp out loud. I knew it was a really, really bad idea to hold the reception here.
/>
  The man takes in our wedding garb. His face has gone an unattractive shade of thundercloud. ‘You robbed me, you bitches,’ he yells. ‘You drugged me. You destroyed my car.’

  I’d forgotten about that bit. We found all of Chantal’s belongings in the boot of his Merc and then, well, we pushed it into the lake. It seemed like a really, really good idea at the time.

  ‘I think that I’d call it quits,’ Chantal informs him coldly. ‘You had it coming to you.’ She’s sounding like a gangsta – mean and moody, particularly for a pregnant person.

  He’s advancing on us, menacingly.

  ‘Quick,’ Nadia says, and she grabs him. I throw my little silk bag to the floor and join in. Chantal and Autumn do the same. Seconds later, after a bit of impromptu wrestling, the four of us have his arms pinned behind his back and he’s struggling ferociously.

  ‘What now?’ Autumn says.

  ‘In here.’ Next to us is some sort of cupboard and I nod towards it. Chantal flings open the door. It’s a small space stacked with towels and cleaning equipment with just enough extra room to store a conman. He’s screaming and shouting abuse at us as we bundle him inside and close the door behind us all.

  Chantal searches on the shelves and finds something that looks like a clothes-line. ‘This will do nicely,’ she says triumphantly. She must have been a Girl Scout in her formative years as she makes an excellent job of tying Mr Smith’s hands and feet together.

  Autumn finds a small towel with Trington Manor embroidered in the corner. She stuffs the bulk of it into Mr Smith’s mouth and then ties the loose ends at the back of his head.

  ‘Mtherfthin cnth,’ he mutters darkly.

  I think, transcribed, that would come out as a really rude statement.

  Chantal puts a hand against the shelves and leans over our captive in a very threatening manner. ‘Remember this,’ she says tightly. ‘I have all your details, Mr Felix Lavare.’

  I’d forgotten that was his real name and that we actually knew it.

  ‘When you get out of here, my advice is to leave this hotel straight away. Hightail it right outta here and don’t look back. Give us any trouble and I’ll go straight to the police. Understand?’