The Serial Dieter

by Rachel Cavanagh

  He leans forward and taps the menu in exactly the right spot, it turns out. “May I recommend the Lamb sikampuri or Seekh kebab or Sarson wali machchi or Shahi king prawn for starter or…” He moves his finger. “The scallops. There is the option of the seasonal salad but…” He looks around him then back at me and blows a raspberry.

  I’m astounded yet again but Frank and I laugh… again. It’s only day two of my short life at Hemel Hempstead and it has already exceeded my expectations, not that I really had any.

  “And for main course…” Bhu moves his finger again. “The Shashlik is very nice. Chicken or Lamb, you said you love chicken. Perhaps the Sikampuri for start then Chicken Shashlik. Grilled is your best option. Marinated soaks up all the flavour but also the…” He pats what looks like a flat stomach. “Calories. Fish is the best option for watching one’s weight but, madam… no. I thank you.”

  I get the impression he was just about to compliment me on not having to watch my weight, which I don’t do particularly but he was perhaps too self-conscious to continue. “No, I thank you,” I sort of repeat. He bows, removes our menus, with Frank’s choice of Aloo then a lamb dansak and Bhu’s ultimate suggestions for me noted, in his head rather than on an order pad or handset, and leaves us to chat.

  The food arrives when we’ve only got into our stride, talking about our respective ‘squeezes’: Frankie and my mum. Not that I squeeze my mum but I like Frank’s terminology. It’s very 1940s. He looks about the same age as my mum, mid-sixties, and I’m guessing Frankie’s around the same. He doesn’t say and I don’t like to ask.

  “So, dance classes. Ballroom?” I nudge.

  He blushes a little, which is really endearing. “Salsa. Very erm… intimate.”

  I laugh but tone it down to a smile as he blushes even more. “That’s lovely. I’ve never really been a dance fan. Thankfully nor is Duncan. We disco, if that’s still the term used.”

  Frank shrugs. “It was all tea dances in my day.” He winks and I know he’s fibbing but I don’t suppose he is a modern dance fan. Motown perhaps.

  The subject changes to work, fortunately skirting James, more about how Frank got into accountancy; taking after his father. Frank actually wanted to be a doctor but doesn’t like blood so was happy to change. “I can’t say I do either,” I confess. “I gave blood for the first time last autumn – late, I know – and fainted.”

  Frank gasps.

  “I was okay after a while,” I continue, “but felt so sick. They said they were very grateful but didn’t want me back. It was such a shame because apparently I have lovely veins.” I’m not sure why but I look down at my arms. I have thin skin on the backs of my hands and my veins are visible at the best of times but protrude even more when holding cutlery. I put them down.

  “Oh I can do that,” Frank says, “give blood. I go quite regularly, whenever we get the email. I don’t look when they’re doing it. Frankie and I go together. Considering how carsick she gets, she provides pints of the red stuff. She’s much braver than me in that respect. I’m the bare minimum, I’m afraid.”

  Poor thing. I admire his tenacity though. “It’s a shame I can’t. I’d like to do my bit and they had one of my favourite brands of crisps. I can’t remember what it is now but I recognise the packet, more white than coloured. Anyway. The last thing I knew I was opening the top of a pack of chicken, which I very rarely have. Usually cheese and onion or plain. Next thing I’m on a stretcher. I was only concerned about where my handbag was. They’d retrieved it thankfully. The nurses were ever so nice. But it was half-term Friday and I was there for three hours. Not great. Duncan was away so even worse. I didn’t tell him until it was all over. I’d walked to the venue, a local school as it wasn’t open for classes, but the ambulance ended up taking me home so it was okay in the end.”

  “Poor thing,” he says as I smile at how our brains work.

  Our starter plates are replaced by full mains and I’m astounded for the third time in one evening. The restaurant is named after the second highest mountain and I can see why. The starter wasn’t particularly filling – I’d only had the salad box for lunch – and I’m glad. My plate, both of our plates are heaving. Rice is in a separate stainless steel bowl but there’s little room on my plate for much. I guess I’m supposed to pile it on even higher. I think doing that will certainly make it Everest but it looks so lovely that I’m sure I’m going to conquer it.

  Frank and I look at each other, cutlery at the ready.

  “I’m going in. I may be some time,” Frank says and I want to howl with laughter. Other than the rock climbing at lunchtime, I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed myself so much. Yes, I can. With Nathan yesterday. Okay, not a good example but it’s a day for climbing, it seems.

  Chapter 34 – Reflections On The Evening

  After our delicious meals, Frank and I take a break before heading our separate ways. The outside is even posher than the inside. There’s a gorgeous balcony area to the rear of the building with a garden and loads of shrubs. My aunt and uncle would be in heaven.

  Bhu was a joy so we gave him a reasonable tip – that’s Frank and I from our own pockets, not courtesy of Billy this time. Bhu’s eyes almost sparkled as I handed him a five-pound note. I’m sure people have given him much more before but he’d gone to the trouble of getting a photocopied menu and written down all the calories beside each item. A fiver is nothing for such a level of above and beyond.

  I will definitely be back, with or without Frank… possibly with my aunt and uncle, even just for the garden – and I think that’s what places bank on, especially with the likes of Facebook and TripAdvisor where a review can make or break.

  I think unless K2 does something seriously wrong, I’ll be passing their doors, and coming through them, for many years to come.

  Frank and I chat about our lives, over two delicious but seriously strong coffees, and it’s not long before we’re both yawning. We apologise then laugh in unison. It’s so lovely to be on the same wavelength as someone, especially of a different generation. I wonder if he’d adopt me but I feel disloyal to my dad. I shiver as I think of my mum finding me a new dad, Charles, even if it’s not like that. I shiver at the thought which prompts Frank to speak.

  “Come on, let’s get home.”

  “It’s been a fabulous evening, Frank. Thank you.”

  “It has and made all the more lovely, fabulous…” He dips his head and I do likewise. “Fabulous by the company.”

  On anyone else, especially a decade or two younger, it might feel creepy but not on Frank. He is a positive gent.

  We return to our cars, wave through our windows, and do indeed, go our separate ways.

  I’ve already decided before I get back to my mum’s that I’ll take tomorrow morning off. I’ll make sure the article is written so I have a grace period. Walking Elliott, I’ve decided, will give me some space and air to breathe. Not that I feel bad but I know that next time I see James…

  He never says no, does our Elliott, and being Wednesday morning, my mum, aunt and uncle will be at Costa so the hound will be home alone, which he’s not a great fan of. I love the quiet so never complain.

  It’s a bit late tonight to ring and ask, although I’m sure they won’t mind. I can call in the morning, or I pop up there before they come down to collect my mum. My mum can drive, does when doing her own thing, but when they’re together, my uncle is the chauffeur. It’s how it’s always been done.

  I reach her house and her car’s not there. She has a garage but it’s full of hobby and gardening stuff that’s overfilled the box room and shed respectively so she always parks outside. Even if she, or we while I’m here, blitzed the garage and whittled it down to the two original storage places, I’m sure she’d still have her car on the drive; it’s too convenient. I park up next to where she always goes; nearest the front door, and sit staring at the royal blue metal electric garage door. I’m not sure why but I don’t feel ready to leave the cocoon tha
t is my Swift.

  Hemel to Tring is a mere seven miles but my car’s heating system is fabulous, even for one that’s over a decade old. I keep thinking about replacing my car and I’ve spent a fair amount on it in the past few months but it, she, runs beautifully so I’ll wait until she’s sick.

  I smile and picture the green-faced emoji on my phone. Izzy was poorly earlier this year, nothing major, a bug, which I picked up after it had left her. She’s a caring sharing person like that – so we were swapping that and the other sickly emojis: the one with the thermometer sticking out of its head and the head bandaged, even though we didn’t need even a plaster between us.

  After much deliberation, actually me thinking and going off at more tangents than the magic roundabout, I do finally get out of my car. Not that it’s cold outside but it’s late, gone ten, late for a school night, so not t-shirt weather. It’s only the first of May after all.

  I head indoors, make myself a cup of tea and dig out my notebook. The evening is fresh in my mind, and with Bhu’s list of calories, I asterisk – using a red pen my mum uses for when she’s sure she’d got a crossword clue correct; it’s always a pencil up to that point – the ones that come in under 500 calories. Not at all bad. I can’t really keep going back to K2, much as I’d like, but will try once or twice more, even if it’s not under the guise of the thirty-one dishes.

  Once I’ve done that, I start writing up my reflections on the evening. As promised to myself, if not to my readers, I made it much more than just about food. Health and wellbeing is about relationships, interactions and how kind we can be to ourselves as well as each other. I’m not spiritual or religious, they often go hand in hand with health and wellbeing, but peace of mind, or the lack thereof, can have such an impact on the rest of our lives.

  I’m feeling very deep and meaningful when Mum gets home. I can’t help frowning despite being pleased to see her but what she’s wearing lifts my spirits. It’s a black and white ensemble, not dissimilar to a checkers board.

  “Do you always…? Is that your…?” I’m pointing at her top which actually more closely resembles a jockey’s jersey except it’s actually a jersey, knitted, rather than shiny. Her trousers, to be fair, are a simple black but her shoes are black and white checks.

  “I thought it would be funny,” she says all innocently.

  “It is.”

  She smiles, not sensing any of my sarcasm.

  “Not had the ensemble long then.”

  She shakes her head. “The shoes are relatively old but I got the top last Friday then remembered I had the shoes. Frankie took quite a shine.”

  “I bet.”

  “Said I was brave. I don’t know why. They’re only black and white.”

  That is true but anywhere else than a chess club… although better than a draughts club I suppose.

  “Cuppa?” she asks, heading for the other end of the kitchen.

  “Please.” I go to take over my mug but she returns and collects it.

  “Have to wait for the kettle anyway.”

  Makes sense. “Did you win?”

  Mum, back by the kettle, shrugs. “Didn’t play a whole game, it’s only a two-hour session, but I’m in the lead.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realise it was like that. What happens in between sessions?”

  “Everything gets recorded. They’re very serious about it, George especially.”

  “George?”

  “He didn’t found it, it’s been going for decades I think, but he’s one of the most senior there. Sprints around the hall like a bat out of the proverbial.”

  “Sprints? How old is he?” My mind’s imagining a centenarian on roller skates.

  “Not sprints, whizzes. He’s in a wheelchair. Electric thing so it can go pretty quickly. He has a horn on it, gets you out of the way if you’re not paying attention.”

  “Wow.”

  “Nearly gave poor Terry – that’s George’s number two – a heart attack when he was logging everyone’s scores at half time. That’s so no one cheats when we go to have our cups of tea. Not that anyone would but the kitchen hatch and serving area are at the other end of the hall. Terry was taking too long apparently, and of course George had to chivvy him up.”

  “Sounds like a barrel of laughs.”

  “It’s good fun. We, Frankie and I, take it as fun but of course George and Mildred don’t.”

  “Mildred?”

  “We call Terry ‘Mildred’, you know, after the 1970s comedy show with Terry Scott and whatshername.”

  It rings a bell. “June something?”

  “Whitfield. That’s it. Terry and June, not George and…”

  I nod, not overly the wiser. Mum watched it when I did my homework, with the sound low, she’s considerate like that, so I’d look up every now and then, or hear her laughing but I wasn’t really paying attention.

  Mum makes the tea and I tell her about my evening. She’s not at all surprised as she knows Frank well through Frankie. Finally tiredness overcomes me so I say goodnight and head to bed.

  I’m only halfway up the stairs when I hear the radio blare but she swears, making me laugh, and turns it down.

  After dumping my bag in my room, I head to the bathroom. It’s a fire door, on a swing arm, which shuts whether we want it to or not. It cuts off the radio. I know my bedroom, equipped with the same type of door but a wedge to keep it open until I’m ready to sleep, will be just as quiet. My mum’s not a late-to-bed because she’s always up early, cracking on with the day before heading out, so I’ll probably hear the creaking floorboards before I nod off.

  Teeth brushed, mouthwash gargled – in that order tonight but I do vary. The back of the mouthwash bottle says in that order but in the process of researching this topic some months ago, I read that it should be the other way round. Red wine’s good for you. No, it’s bad for you. Who do you believe? I tend to be informative but vague in my column. I’d like to think this makes me a guide rather than an expert. People like Greta only voice their opinion on the films they see, books they read, they don’t make the films, so likewise I can be an assistance rather than persuasion.

  I finish jotting my article onto my notepad while sitting in bed. I could have dictated it all into my phone, then copied and pasted, but it misspells words: ‘I’ for ‘are’ and so on. Not sure why. I’ll still have my morning off but I’m going to go in early… not pre-six am early to see who covers when Phil’s not there, but just to type and submit my articles. They’re not dated so I’m leaving it to Billy to accept what when. He’s the editor so I don’t expect he’ll print them one a day. It’ll be thrilling though seeing my name (and picture?) in another paper.

  I feel sorry for anyone writing a novel. I’ve thought about it but writing about real life is so much easier, especially when it’s in hundreds of words not thousands. You’d have to have a pretty good idea to be able to create whatever a novel length is, eighty thousand is it?, to know who your characters are, what they’re doing and saying and so on before putting pen to paper, fingers on the keyboard. No, I’m sure that’s not me. Izzy said she’s wanted to but I don’t think she’s had the time. It’s so full-on with William.

  I hear my mum come up the stairs as I switch off my light. I go to say goodnight but she diverts to the other side of the landing, to the bathroom rather than her en suite. I rest my head on my pillow, waiting, but am not conscious long enough to hear her come back.

  Chapter 35 – Day Two Official

  Wednesday 2nd May

  Day two and I’m at the office at seven. Coming in early, it turns out, isn’t the smartest of moves as Phil is late – a pre-arrangement to take someone somewhere, I’m yet to find out who and where – and the nightshift guy, Gavin, doesn’t know anything about me.

  My pass worked for the car park and the front door but it’s only temporary. It doesn’t have my picture on it so I’m down in the security room, on a visitor chair, waiting for a proper member of staff to come in and confirm m
y identity. At my suggestion, Gavin phoned the Northampton office but it went through to answerphone. I offered him William’s number as the number one but he, Gavin, refused because it was, he said, probably my boyfriend’s. For a split second, I was going to say, “No, my best friend’s boyfriend,” but I didn’t think that would have gone down too well.

  He is only doing his job, I remind myself, as he looks at me with an ‘I’m only doing my job’ expression on his face but unlike Phil, and pretty much everyone else at the Hemel offices, Gavin is not a talker. Thankfully, he’s not a Mike either so there’s no food around, which actually is a shame because I left home before Mum got up so no porridge and I’m expecting to be at my desk and back home again in an hour or so.

  Gavin’s spending the whole time staring at his monitors. There’s a bank of six black and white screens showing different aspects of the site: two of the car park – one at each end – two of the rear of the building from inside and out, two at the front from the same points of view. They are very much to check non-staff activity but it’s still a little creepy… probably because they’re in black and white and people walking by appear ghostlike even though it’s clear they’re real.

  “How long have you worked here?” I ask Gavin but there’s no reply. I want to try again but notice he’s got earphones in each ear. White. Apple-type. Bluetooth. Cordless. I can’t hear any noise so they’re probably noise cancelling and yes, my noise is most definitely being cancelled. So I dig out my notebook and record events. I don’t suppose I’ll use it for anything other than recounting it to Izzy but it gives me something to do.

  It then occurs to me that if Gavin can’t hear me, he can’t hear anything else. I could sneak out. I already swiped in when I arrived so I can get anywhere in the building. Other than computers, which aren’t the latest high tech, there’s not a lot else to nick. But I decide to stay put. Gavin may only be the eyes but I could be the ears, listen out for anyone, although he’d spot them on the monitors unless they were wandering around upstairs. Even if they came downstairs, he’d spot them from the camera that covers the entrance hall. And he’d spot me.