Mates, Dates and Chocolate Cheats

by Cathy Hopkins

  Cool, I thought. I could do this. And fruit was low in stars, vegetables were star free so I’d be able to eat plenty.

  ‘Make sure you keep a food diary in the first week,’ advised Shirley,’ so that I can see if you’ve got the hang of it. And don’t weigh yourself every day. Weight fluctuates up and down in a week and a daily weigh-in won’t give you an accurate reading.’

  Tell me about it, I thought.

  After running through the rules, Shirley got round to the task of weighing the members in. It was hilarious. If someone lost a pound or so, she rang a bell and everyone clapped. If someone hadn’t lost any weight or had put on some, she’d frown and wag her finger at them and tell them to try harder next week and they’d slink away, then have a giggle at the back of the class.

  It was going to be OK, I thought. They were a nice bunch of women and it wasn’t embarrassing at all.

  After the class, Nesta and I did a detour to the house where Gabriel lived. It was on North Road between East Finchley and Highgate and was a huge, old Victorian place set back from the road. Judging by the number of bells in the porch, it looked like about twelve people lived there.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Gabriel’s voice came through the intercom after I’d rung the bell with his name on.

  ‘Um . . . Izzie and Nesta,’ I said.

  He buzzed us in and we entered a brown and dingy hallway. It had paint peeling off the walls and smelled like old welly boots and boiled cabbage. We stepped over a pile of junk mail on the floor, squeezed our way past a pile of bikes, and then Gabriel appeared at the top of the stairs.

  ‘I’m up here,’ he said, beaming at us. ‘Come on in.’

  ‘We were just passing,’ I replied as we made our way up.

  ‘I’m so pleased you dropped by,’ said Gabriel as he ushered us along the corridor. So am I, I thought. Poor Gabriel having to live in a dump like this, he probably needs some company to cheer him up.

  He opened his door with a flourish. ‘Sorry about the mess. I haven’t finished yet.’

  Once inside his room, another world opened up. It was like stepping into something off one of the makeover shows on telly. The place was immaculate with soft gold lighting from a couple of elegant lampshades. In the centre of the room was a huge double bed with a dark red cover folded neatly back and behind it a Japanese black lacquered screen. One wall he’d painted red like the bedcover, the others he’d done a pale cream. The whole effect looked simple and stylish.

  ‘Wow,’ said Nesta as she looked at a gold Thai statue of a goddess in the fireplace. ‘I’ve seen these at Camden Lock. Looks great.’

  Gabriel looked pleased by her reaction. ‘Yeah. I got it from a stall there. So what do you think, Izzie?’

  ‘Fab and a half,’ I said as I gazed at some Japanese prints he had framed on one wall. ‘But it’s one room. Do you have a kitchen or bathroom tucked away somewhere?’

  Gabriel grimaced. ‘Ah. That’s the down side of student accommodation. I have to share the kitchen and bathroom with a bunch of yobs. Um . . . I think I’ll spare you that experience for now as some of them don’t know the meaning of cleaning up. No. This is my oasis.’

  ‘You’ve done a great job,’ I said. ‘I can’t think what you meant by saying the place was still a mess. It looks perfect to me.’

  ‘Still got a way to go,’ said Gabriel as he pointed to few unopened boxes next to a futon with cushions at the far end of the room. ‘Take a seat. I was about to make some coffee. Want some? Or juice.’

  ‘Coffee, please,’ we chorused.

  ‘Kenyan or Columbian?’

  ‘Oh . . . er . . . Nesta, what do we like?’ I asked.

  ‘Strong and sassy like our men,’ said Nesta as she flopped down on the futon.

  ‘You choose,’ I said.

  Gabriel laughed. ‘Won’t be a moment. Make yourself at home.’

  Before he left, he quickly lit a candle and the aroma of jasmine began to fill the air. ‘Just in case anyone’s cooking something disgusting,’ he said. ‘Don’t want it coming through.’

  ‘That smells divine,’ said Nesta.

  ‘Yeah. I like nice smells, as Izzie already knows. Tuberose, Jo Malone, right?’

  ‘Right,’ I said. He’d remembered. That must mean something.

  While Gabriel was out making coffee, Nesta knelt on the floor and looked at his bookshelf. ‘You can tell a lot about a person by what’s on his shelves,’ she said.

  I went to kneel next to her. There was a complete mixture. Books on interior design. Books on film and media studies. Loads of DVDs of old black and white movies. A copy of The Wizard of Oz. Couple of novels by people I didn’t know. Photo albums. I was really tempted to have a peek but didn’t dare in case he came back in.

  ‘This guy has taste,’ said Nesta as she sat back on the futon and looked around with approval.

  Gabriel came back in with fresh coffee (he grinds his own beans!) and filled us in on some of the other people that lived in the house. Marcus, menopausal at twenty-three; David, love god (Nesta took note of his name for future reference); Oliver the computer geek who never went out and only ate Pot Noodles; Jon the shy boy down from the Midlands who was over-awed by college life and a bit lonely; Jamie the hypochondriac; Eric the prankster . . .

  ‘It sounds like half the student body of London live here,’ said Nesta.

  ‘Any girls?’ I asked, trying to sound casual.

  ‘Mary and Nicola on the top floor. They share. They’re OK. At least they’re clean.’

  ‘You should write it all down,’ I said when we’d stopped laughing over a story he told us about a time when Eric put chilli powder in Jamie’s haemorrhoid cream. ‘All these characters, it would make a great book.’

  He pointed to a computer on a desk. ‘Already started,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’m about halfway through.’

  He was great company, full of enthusiasm for the media course he was on and what he wanted to do when he’d finished. And he was so interested in Nesta and me and what we wanted to do when we left school. Nesta told him all about wanting to be an actress and I told him about being in the band King Noz and wanting to be a singer-songwriter. He tried to get me to sing something but I told him I couldn’t without my guitar. I liked him more and more. He didn’t only look good but he was interesting and interested in others. Some boys I’ve known only ever talk about themselves and didn’t even bother to find out what made me tick, whereas he seemed genuinely fascinated.

  ‘So what do you think?’ I asked when Nesta and I left. ‘Do you think he likes me?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘He clearly likes you a lot.’

  ‘So worth pursuing?’

  Nesta hesitated. ‘Yes. But . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘It’s like he’s . . . I don’t know. There’s something going on with him that I can’t put my finger on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not sure . . .’

  This was frustrating. Nesta was the expert on reading boys. She can usually spot a dud or a problem a mile off.

  ‘Oh come on, Nesta . . .’

  ‘It’s nothing bad. The opposite, in fact; it’s like he’s too good to be true. He’s like the perfect guy.’

  ‘I thought the perfect guy was one who snogged you, then turned into a pizza,’ I said, quoting the old joke.

  ‘Pizza? Not for you any more, my dear,’ said Nesta. ‘Too many stars. Your perfect guy now would be one who snogged you then turned into a bowl of organic salad. Deux stars.’

  I laughed. ‘I know what you mean about Gabriel, though. He is close to perfect but I don’t see why that should worry you. I knew there had to be a perfect boy out there somewhere and here he is alive and well and living around the corner.’ I really hoped he asked me out when we saw him again on Saturday.

  * * *

  The next day, I began my food diary.

  Tuesday: excellent. Eighteen stars. Cereal for brekkie, low fat sandwich at lunch, lots of fru
it and vegetables, medium baked potato in the evening. Feel great. Almost normal and not so obsessed with food.

  Wednesday: twenty stars, two on a bit of choc at Lucy’s.

  Thursday: almost got blown round at Ben’s at band practice as he ordered pizza again. Pizzas are mega stars and if I’d had a piece, it would have taken me over my star ration, but it seems to be the only food that Ben knows of. Had a tiny bit so felt like I didn’t miss out and counted it into my allowance. At home later, Mum had got a cake as it was Angus’s birthday. I felt it would be churlish not to have any so I counted up how many stars I had left. One. So had an itsy-bitsy, tiny piece. Could have been a celestial disaster with too many stars but no, I kept it together. Feel so much better on this plan as I can eat normally. Just maybe less than I did before, like instead of having two bits of chocolate cake, I’ll just have a small slice.

  Friday: I am definitely feeling thinner and had a sneak weigh in to discover that I had lost two and a half pounds! Excellent. And amazing as I feel like I am eating normally, only difference is that instead of piling my plate with roast spuds, I pile it with other veg.

  After doing my homework on Friday, I sat down to watch telly while I totted up my daily stars. There was a programme on about a country in Africa that had been suffering from a drought. As I sat there, I began to feel more and more guilty about how I’d been behaving over the last few weeks. I’d thought about food non-stop, what I could and couldn’t eat, how I looked. Me, me, me. I’d even binned food that Mum had cooked for me, and there on the same planet as me were thousands of people with nothing to eat at all. They didn’t have the luxury of wondering how they looked in clothes as they hardly had anything to wear except rags and other people’s cast-offs. I felt awful. Really awful and I felt my eyes fill up with tears. I am the worst person in the world, bad and selfish, I thought as I watched a mother who looked like a skeleton try to feed a baby with a tummy swollen from lack of food.

  Mum came in and caught me wiping my eyes.

  ‘Izzie, what is it?’

  I pointed at the television. ‘All those people. They don’t have enough to eat and I . . . I . . .’

  ‘You what, love?’

  ‘I’m such a bad person. All I’ve done for the past few weeks is moan and groan and feel sorry for myself and all the time there are people starving. It all feels so wrong.’

  Mum smiled sadly. ‘Isn’t it supposed to be me who saying that to you? The classic parent speech, you must eat your supper, think about all the hungry people in the world . . .’

  ‘I think you did when I was younger. It never really registered before now though.’

  Mum sat on the edge of the sofa. ‘I know what you mean.’ She sighed. ‘There’s such an imbalance. It doesn’t seem right does it? Sometimes when I’m at the supermarket, I watch myself and everyone else pile everything into our trolleys, especially, say, at Christmas when we all go mad and buy more than we need. We’re so lucky that we have everything when others have no home or food.’

  ‘I hate myself,’ I said as more images of hungry families flashed across the screen. ‘I’ve been so selfish.’

  ‘Oh Izzie, you mustn’t beat yourself up just because you were trying to lose a bit of weight. I know there are so many things that aren’t right in the world but you’re a fifteen-year-old girl and living in our society, you have different pressures on you. It’s perfectly natural that you want to look your best.’

  Duh, I thought. This is a turn around from her earlier objections to me cutting down on food.

  ‘I wish I could do something though. What can I do?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ve made a start, Izzie,’ said Mum. ‘You’ve noticed. You care. Some people don’t even give others a second thought.’

  ‘I hate to think that people are suffering while we have it all and yet most of the time, I don’t think about it for a second.’

  ‘Yes, but suffering is relative you know. You have to remember that. It’s not only people in those countries that suffer. So do people who appear to have it all. I know that yes, some people suffer for physical reasons, like having no food or clothing. But so do families over here. Different pressures, different stresses. Loneliness, loss, poverty, bad health, it happens over here too.’

  I was beginning to feel really depressed. And helpless. ‘But what can I do?’

  ‘Oh lots, Iz, and I’m sure you will, knowing you. Start by being aware of when people are suffering for whatever the reason. Here and there. There’s no guarantee for happiness because we live in a more affluent society; and no certainty of an easy ride for anyone, however fortunate they are or which culture they live in. Rich people who seem to have it all still experience loss, disappointment, illness, death of loved ones. Life can be a roller coaster for all of us. You have to reach out and grab the good times.’

  I looked at Mum in amazement. I’d never heard her talk like that before. She was usually too busy rushing around with her job or telling me what to do. I’d never thought of her as someone who was aware of people in need.

  ‘I guess,’ I said. ‘I often look at people and wonder, are you happy? What’s your life like? What’s your story?’

  ‘That’s a good start. Be aware. Small steps in the beginning because you are only fifteen with your whole life in front of you to do what you can. And I know it makes you sad to see this on TV but I’m glad it affects you. It means you have a heart and I’m sure in time, you’ll do something about it.’

  I nodded. And I would think about what I could do, then act on it. I’d become more aware as sometimes I don’t like to watch programs like the one that was on because it makes me feel so rotten but I guess that sticking my head in the sand and pretending it wasn’t happening wasn’t going to help much. Sometimes I hated watching the news as there seems to be so much that is wrong in the world. So many innocent people dying in wars that aren’t of their making or being hungry when all that we need is here on the planet if we could redress the imbalance. It was all upside down. Why oh why can’t we all live together and share our resources, I wondered and does it really matter if my bum is slightly too big when there are people on the planet who are starving?

  ‘It’s a mad, mad world,’ I said.

  Mum nodded. ‘Isn’t it? But it’s also a fab, fab world. Some people make donations, others do charity events to raise money, others give their time, others their talent, others who are in a position to do so can give their name to a project and suddenly everyone wants to be a part of it just because a celebrity has become involved. Just don’t be one of the people who turn their head and say not my problem.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘I won’t turn my head.’

  Every Drop Counts written by Izzie

  Last night a hand reached out to me

  Its arm withered by want and apathy

  Another drought in a nameless place

  Another hungry child with flies on its face

  I close my eyes and avoid the news

  I’ve seen it all before, the children always lose

  Tiny fingers, tiny hands

  Broken hearts in a stranger’s land

  Whatever I do, whatever I say,

  It won’t make the world spin a different way

  Whatever I think, whatever I dream

  Won’t make this image appear less obscene

  Won’t do no good to sing, cry and shout

  My floods of tears won’t end the drought

  Tiny fingers, tiny hands

  Broken hearts in a stranger’s land

  Think again, think again

  I’m too wrapped up in my pain

  Gotta wake up and walk into reality

  Any self doubt is just a triviality

  And though my voice sounds pretty small

  If we shout together, we can break down walls

  Tiny fingers, tiny hands

  Broken hearts in a stranger’s land

  Whatever we do, whatever we say

  We can sti
ll make a difference, starting today

  With a drop at a time, if we work as a team

  We can all take a bucket down to the stream

  Soon a river of compassion, a flood of joy

  Will create an ocean of hope all can enjoy

  Chapter 14

  Pilot Show

  ‘I wonder what’s going on,’ said Nesta, after we’d signed in and made our way into the studio on Saturday morning. John was running around the aisles looking as though he was going to have a heart attack. Geena was heatedly talking into a mobile phone and there was an air of panic in the place.

  I on the other hand was feeling calm and more confident that I had in ages. I was wearing the pinstriped Cyberdog top with my jeans and both Lucy and TJ had told me how good I looked. Ready to be noticed this time, I thought as I spotted Gabriel at the back of the hall, and then went over to him.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, the usual disasters on a live show. Sue from the panel hasn’t shown up. And our guest singer is stuck on a train somewhere north of Birmingham. Doubt if he’s even going to make it.’

  ‘Izzie can sing,’ Lucy piped up behind me.

  ‘No way. Shut up,’ I said. ‘And anyway, they don’t want just anyone on. They want a celebrity guest.’

  Gabriel studied my face. ‘You up for it, Iz? I remember you telling me about your songs.’

  ‘She’s brilliant,’ said Nesta. ‘She could easily do it.’

  ‘They won’t want me,’ I insisted. Although I’d felt ready to be noticed by Gabriel, being noticed by thousands of viewers was another matter altogether and the thought of it made me quake inside.