Just My Luck

by Andrea Bramhall

  It takes three seconds for the scale to pronounce my weight. Three. Count ’em. It’s a long time. One elephant, two elephants, three elephants. Feels like years.

  Eleven stone and two pounds. I blink. That can’t be right. I was twelve last time I weighed myself just before Ruth and I split up. That means I’m already down twelve pounds.

  Go me!

  “Well, Genna. Eleven stone two pounds isn’t too bad. For your height, we should be aiming for around nine and a half, so we only have to get you down twenty-five pounds or so.”

  I look over at the weight chart and actually pay attention for a change. Mine is the lowest weight. Can you tell I’m smiling now? I don’t really listen to anything else. I get on the treadmill when instructed. I nod when I’m told to bring my swimsuit and goggles for tomorrow’s workout. I get on the stationary bike when I’m told, and I pedal until someone mentions showering before going to our first organic, nutritionally balanced, calorie-controlled, fine-dining experience.

  I’m expecting salad and lots of it. Probably some chicken or fish. You know, lean protein. When we’re all seated at the same table, the four waiters come out with two plates each and put them both down in front of us.

  I stare.

  I look at Claire.

  I stare at my plate again.

  It’s a large rectangle of dark grey slate.

  There are two purple rectangles, side by side, about half an inch between them. White, yellow, and green spots decorate the slate. Half-inch-wide strips of purple, yellow, and green are half-rolled and twisted over the rectangles like ribbons. There’s a grated section in each corner, one orange, one white, one purple and white, and the last red.

  “Ladies, your starter this evening is the chef’s classic taster plate of beetroot. Everything on this plate is beetroot. We have here, for your delight, two beetroot wafers with a selection of beetroot cuts, including a pickled beetroot and a selection of beetroot purees. Please enjoy.”

  I stare again. It’s becoming a habit. I use my knife and fork to lift one of the “wafers” to make sure there is nothing more hiding underneath. I’m disappointed. Not surprised. Disappointed.

  Don’t get me wrong. It tastes really nice. I’m pretty much hungry enough to think a scabby donkey would taste nice at this point, but these little—and I do mean little—bits of beetroot are definitely nice to taste. Fiona enthuses over the wonderfully exciting creations the chef has come up with and has to ask if he isn’t just “marvellous.” I’ll reserve judgment until my belly is full.

  Our mains are perfectly in keeping with my new expectations of the evening. White, square plates with a stuffed cabbage leaf centre stage. Along one side, we have shredded white cabbage with carrot and celery mixed in it. A swirl of orange paste trails down the left-hand side of the plate with tiny diced carrots and celery spotted in it. I count at least four different types of cabbage, finely chopped and sprinkled over the top of the paste. Red cabbage, savoy cabbage, spring cabbage, white cabbage… I’m sure there were more. Textures of cabbage. That’s what the waiter calls it. I call it starvation. And for dessert, we have apple appreciation. One slice of a Gala apple, one of a Granny Smith, one of an Alington Pippin, a Black Oxford with purple-coloured flesh, a Laxton’s Superb, a Red Baron, which tastes a bit like a pear, a Weirouge apple, which looks like a flower inside, and finally, we have a slice of the nectarapple, which is supposed to taste a bit like a nectarine. Very loosely, maybe.

  Very tasty. Very pretty. Very clever. Me? Very bloody hungry!

  We’re allowed free time in the evening if we aren’t scheduled counselling sessions with Tory to address our issues with food and exercise. Claire’s session is scheduled for eight o’clock. It’s only six-thirty. A craving is growing inside me. A need as big as the ache in my empty belly.

  “Claire.”

  “What?”

  “I’m starving,” I say with a groan.

  “Me too.”

  “You got the car keys on you?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Wasn’t there a McDonalds just where we came off the motorway?”

  “Yeah.”

  “About ten minutes away?”

  “Yeah.” She’s nodding her head and wiping drool from the corner of her mouth.

  “You got your purse on you?”

  “Hell, yeah!”

  “Keep your voice down, and walk out slowly, looking depressed and half starved.”

  “No problem.”

  We do actually manage to keep our faces straight until we are out of the car park and hitting the main road. Claire finally takes the chance and turns on the headlights as we near the motorway services. The Golden Arches loom large with their promise of grease, sugar, white bread carbs, and dead-cow protein. Bliss.

  “Gen?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks for coming with me.”

  “No worries. Told ya, I’m starving.”

  “I meant to fat farm.”

  “Oh.” I shrug. “You owe me one.”

  “I think I owe you loads more than that, mate.”

  “True.”

  “How you doing with everything now?”

  “What do you mean? The money? I still haven’t figured out—”

  “No. I meant Ruth.”

  I stare out the window. “She’s gone. It’s done with.”

  “Yeah, but how do you feel about that?”

  “How should I feel? I feel angry at her for cheating on me, but I’m kind of glad it’s over with. You know?”

  “I thought you were in it for the long haul with her?”

  “Probably was.”

  “But?”

  “I probably shouldn’t have been with her at all.”

  “Why?”

  Do I really have to talk about this now? Seriously? Why can she never just let me stew in my own self-loathing and pity? Why can she never just leave me alone to fester about what an awful person I am?

  “Come on, spit it out.”

  Stubborn Genna is now kicking in, thank you very much.

  “I won’t take you for a burger,” she threatens.

  “That is just plain evil.”

  “I know. Now, spill.”

  I’m almost sure she would never do that to me. But why take a chance? “I shouldn’t have been with her because I have feelings for someone else. Simple. I’m a cow.”

  “Don’t be daft. You might have had feelings for someone else, but you weren’t the one feeling up someone else. Or were you?”

  “Now who’s being ridiculous?”

  She chuckles and carries on driving. I stare out the window and wish she’d drop the subject now, but I know damn well and good that will never happen.

  “So, who is it?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “Don’t play dense with me. Who is she?”

  Now, here’s the thing. Claire’s had me cry on her shoulder more times than I can count about my unrequited feelings for Abi over the years. Her advice on the subject has ranged from, “Forget her. She’s straight, and you’re only asking for trouble” to “For fuck’s sake, just kiss her and see how hard she slaps you.” So I am a little reticent to bring this up with her again. I fear this time, the advice may include the aforementioned slap…from Claire.

  But it’s there. In my head. Lurking like this little shadow that I can never get rid of. Every book I read or film I watch tells me that love is this wonderful thing and that when you feel it, it’s like fireworks going off. You get tunnel vision, so you can’t see anything else but the person you love. It’s not like that for me. I mean, it is, but it isn’t. When I see Abi, she is all I can see. She’s like this perfect woman to me. She’s got these amazing brown eyes, and when she looks at me and smiles, I feel as if she’s looking right into my soul. And all this blond hair too. Only to her shoulders, but it’s so thick and soft and like gold. She doesn’t realise that when I hug her, I try to smell it. I try to figure out what shampoo she’s using. Auss
ie seems to be her favourite at the moment. Kangaroo paw flower extract. Nice. It just fits her, you know? I just had to copy it. I must have looked like a moron in the shop sniffing all the shampoo bottles till I found the right one.

  And when she talks to me, she really talks to me. And listens too. She always has. Even when she probably thought I was just a kid, getting in her way all the time. She’d sit with me and talk about everything, not just the ordinary stuff like school and then college or work. She talked to me about everything. Astrology. Religion. Different countries. Books. History. Science. Cooking. Politics. She even showed me how to plumb in the washing machine when I moved into the house with Ruth. She’s so fucking smart. She should have been a professor or something. Can you tell how I feel about her yet? Hell, I’ve been in love with her since I was sixteen. By now I should have moved on, right? Wrong. I’m beginning to think I’ll never get over Abi.

  “Oh no.”

  “What?”

  Claire sighs. “You’ve got that look on your face again.”

  “What look?”

  “The one that says, ‘I’m still in love with Abi, but I can’t tell Claire ’cos she’ll kill me’. That look.”

  Shit.

  “Genna, when are you going to give up on this?”

  “Don’t you think I’ve tried?”

  “Not really?”

  “No? You don’t think spending three years in a relationship with someone else was a decent attempt at getting over her?”

  “Quite frankly, no. You’ve told me that you basically think Ruth cheated because she could somehow tell you were in love with someone else. That isn’t giving it a decent attempt.”

  “Bitch.”

  “I know.” She pulls into the drive-through and places our order. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear it, but maybe you need to get some distance from her. Make a clean break of it.”

  “I can’t do that. I can’t just abandon Rosie.”

  “I swear, sometimes you act like that kid is yours. You aren’t her other parent, you know.”

  “I’m well aware of that. Thank you very much.” But I want to be. Is that a bad thing? I want to be there to look after them both. I want to be there when Rosie has a bad day at school. I want to be the person she comes to when she has a problem just as much as when she gets a gold star for her artwork or spelling test or something. Is it a bad thing that I care? That I love them both? Is it?

  “Look, I know you love Rosie to death. I’m sorry, that was a shitty thing to say. You’ve been a million times better as a substitute parent to her than Kev ever will be.”

  Compared to my Uncle Kev. There’s the ego boost I need. Not. “Can we just drop it, please? I know how you feel about this. I know how I feel about this. And worst of all, I know how Abi feels. Can you just leave me alone to my self-pity?”

  “Yeah, why not.”

  Two cheeseburgers, one Big Mac meal, and two apple pies later, we’re back at the car park of the hotel at seven fifty-five. Spare time so Claire isn’t late for her counselling session regarding her food issues. I pull open the door and run straight into Tory.

  “Claire, I was looking for you.”

  “We went for a little walk. Work off some of that delicious meal we had—”

  “What’s that I can smell?”

  I sniff the air.

  Wood smoke.

  Cow pats.

  Maybe…

  “Sorry, I forgot my deodorant after I showered.”

  “No, I can smell grease. And cheese.”

  No way! I’m now at least five feet away from her.

  “Have you been to McDonalds?”

  I shake my head. Claire opens her mouth to speak.

  “I realise, Genna, that you don’t have a significant weight issue, but I do need you to encourage the others so that they can reach your level.”

  Since when do I not have a significant weight issue? Oh yeah, already lost twelve pounds. Go me! “Sorry, Miss.” What am I, twelve?

  “Claire, I think we have more to discuss than I anticipated. Who has the car keys?” Claire fishes them out of her pocket. “I’ll return them when you have demonstrated more control over your urges. Claire, would you follow me?”

  She takes Claire’s car keys.

  And Claire.

  Right. Well, then. Bed?

  CHAPTER 11

  GENNA

  If I expected anything different from day two, I am sorely disappointed. Breakfast consists of a bowl of muesli with skimmed milk. Skimmed? More like water with clouds in it. There’s a hardboiled egg and a single slice of wholemeal bread. Oh, and our choice of a piece of fruit. I pick an orange. I’ve had enough of apples for a few days, thanks.

  The morning workout is actually quite a bit of fun. Tory has most of the girls on treadmills. Claire is on a stationary bike, and I’m cast down into the swimming pool. She’s written up a program on yet another whiteboard, and she is watching me from the mezzanine. The clock on the wall ticks off the thirty or sixty seconds of rest she’s built into the program. It’s relaxing and nice to have the pool to myself.

  I swam a lot when I was a kid. I swam for a team called Stockport Metro mostly. They produced a few swimmers that made the national team, Mark Foster and James Hickman being two of them. I wasn’t that good, but I did okay. I might actually forgive Claire for dragging me here if this carries on.

  Lunch is a bit of a surprise, actually. We have salad. Like, recognisable lettuce leaves, tomatoes, cucumber, celery, carrot, beetroot, and peppers. We are allowed to put balsamic vinegar on it too. Spoilt.

  “Okay, ladies, we’re going on a little field trip this afternoon. If you can all grab some outdoor gear and meet in reception in ten minutes, that would be great.”

  We’re all whispering and nudging each other as we traipse up the stairs, wondering what this field trip’s going to be. I throw on my hiking boots, coat, and hat and stuff my gloves in my pocket, along with my purse and mobile phone. Outdoor survival essentials, in my book.

  There’s a minibus waiting for us just outside the front door, and Tory waves us all on board.

  “Okay, who can read a map?”

  I’m praying that Claire keeps her mouth shut. She was absolutely useless with a map. Honestly, a blind man could probably do better with a map than she can.

  “I can,” Claire says.

  We’re doomed.

  “Yeah, me too,” Rachel tells us.

  Thank God.

  “Excellent. As you’re a small team, I’d like you to stay together for this exercise. What’s going to happen is this. We’ll drop you all off at the starting point. On the sheets are eight markers that you need to find. There are questions which you can only answer by going to the places indicated on the map. Then you find your way back to the hotel for teatime.”

  “How far away are we from the hotel?”

  “About three miles, and all the markers are on the way. You should have plenty of time to do this before dark. It’s not that far at all.”

  Then she and the bus are gone. I clench my hand tightly around my phone, aka lifeline.

  Fiona’s holding on to the sheet with the questions about the markers on it. “Does anyone have a pen?” A chorus of “nos” go around, followed by a mumbled “fuck” from an unidentified source. “How are we supposed to write down the answers, then?”

  “Maybe there will be pens at the markers?” Rachel says. She takes the map from Claire’s hands, turns it the right way up, and then gives it back to her.

  “Maybe. Or maybe we’ll have to remember one each or something.” Claire leans closer to the map, and it muffles her voice a little.

  “But I’ve got a memory like a sieve.” Cherry tugs her hat over her ears and turns up the collar of her coat. This also has her name on the back. Now I guess we know why all her clothes are labelled. Time to get this show rolling.

  “So, which way do we need to go, navigators?” I ask.

  Claire and Rachel point in
opposite directions. I stare at Claire, then set off in the direction Rachel indicates, grinning when Claire flips me off. Some things never change. Rachel keeps pace next to me, chatting as she goes.

  “The first clue is in a little village just up ahead. Probably less than half a mile,” she says.

  “Sounds good.”

  “Hey, you’ve stopped stuttering.”

  “Yeah, I’m much more comfortable with you all now.” I hope she doesn’t see me rolling my eyes.

  We walk up a hill to the village, then wait for the rest of the group to catch up.

  “So, what do you do?” she asks while we wait.

  “Me?” How do I answer that one? I don’t want to tell a complete stranger that I packed in my job because I won the lottery. Nor do I want to say with no explanation that I don’t work, ’cos that makes me sound like the rest of my family. Chavs. Lady of independent means? No, that makes me sound like a cross between a spoilt heiress and a hooker. “I’m between jobs at the moment. Trying to figure some things out.” There, that should do.

  She’s looking at me with a raised eyebrow. You know, the look that says, “Go on, elaborate,” and you really feel like you have to.

  “I’m newly single.” Nice way of saying it, don’t you think? “I just ended up moving back to my mother’s, and I guess I’m not sure what I want to do with myself at the moment.”

  “Do you stutter on the phone?”

  “No.”

  “Well if you need something, I could probably put in a word for you at BT. They’re always looking for call centre staff.”

  “Thanks, Rachel, that’s really sweet, but I’ll be okay till I figure it out.”

  “If you change your mind, let me know.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  Fiona waves the question sheet, and Claire’s dragging Cherry by the arm up the hill. The others lag farther behind. “So, the first question is, what year was the village hall built? So we just have to find the village hall.”

  “Well, the centre of the village is over there.” I point down the street. “It’s probably there.”

  We head down the street, and I spot a fish-and-chip shop next to the village hall. Closed. Bugger.

  “Okay, so the village hall was built in 1881.”