The Serial Dieter

by Rachel Cavanagh

  I spot on the menu a ‘Hunter’s linguine wild rabbit and free-range pancetta, oyster mushrooms and garlic (may contain shot)’ on the menu and while I’ve only had rabbit once years ago, the idea of biting into a piece of lead doesn’t appeal. Fair enough they have to be cautious but thank you but no. That’s just a starter and it’s sounds quite a lot. Billy’s budget will easily accommodate whatever I want as it’s only me but I decide to stick to a main.

  I fancy fish and although I know it’s going to be far superior to any of the fish and chip shops in a gazillion-mile radius, I can’t help but go for the cod. I don’t usually opt for dishes I could get anywhere else, or at home, frozen or otherwise, but like my drink, I fancy something light.

  My waitress takes my order, my menu, then almost immediately returns with my vodka. Thankfully, it’s quite a large glass so plenty of lemonade to keep a clear head. I’m only little so it doesn’t take much to make me a bit woozy. Woozy. I love that word. I jot it down in my notebook so I don’t forget to use it sometime. With my menu gone, there’s not a lot to read. I like to keep occupied before and while I’m eating but without people watching – because there aren’t many people to watch and it would be rude, I know I’m going to get bored. I flick through my notebook but that doesn’t help. I don’t want to make notes of the evening until I get home or I’ll look like a food critic which technically I am but don’t want to make it obvious.

  Thankfully, my food arrives really quickly and it looks and smells divine. Ten out of ten for presentation at least. When I was googling earlier, I did spot some rather derogatory reviews but the place passes with flying colours so far. I tuck in.

  The cod is the softest I’ve ever tasted. How they get it to melt without making it dry, I really don’t know but that’s why I’m a journalist, columnist, not a chef. There’s a peperonata sauce which looks lovely but without running the risk of going over my allowance – there are no calorie counts on the menu, I have a tiny taste of it. It’s delicious and while I could have it but not include it in my report, I feel that would be cheating so leave it be. I’ve also swapped the pommes frites for salad which is a shame because, looking over at two tables down, they’re just how I like them but no, they would have pushed me over the limit for sure.

  I’m grateful now that I don’t have to live on a five-hundred-a-day diet as some with metabolic issues have to. I had a colleague, in a former life, who lived in ‘tent’ dresses, usually plain black, and was on that limit a day and people were horrible to her. They didn’t know. How could they? But there was no excuse. Things have changed but I certainly feel sorry when I’m out and see how the larger in society can be treated. Some don’t help themselves, of course, but many… It all goes to keeping me in a job. How boring would life be if we were all the same? Sometimes I think it would be easier if there weren’t so many extremes but still. I like the way life is… mine anyway.

  I finish my food and almost Mr Benn like, the waitress appears. She’d come round as I was eating to ask if everything was okay, as restaurant staff usually do, but I had a mouthful so could only nod and give a tight-lipped smile.

  “Was everything to your satisfaction?” she asks with more than a hint of an eastern European accent.

  “It was lovely, thank you.”

  “Would you like to see the menu again for desserts?”

  Although I would, I decline. I had taken a look earlier but was spoilt for choice so am glad I don’t have to choose. I don’t need to include it in my report and I know Billy’s allowance would stretch but I settle for a cup of something warm at my mum’s and maybe whatever she’s got in her freezer to go with it.

  “Just the bill, thank you,” I end with and it’s presented to me. It’s spot on; not difficult with only two items on it, three including a ‘discretionary’ 12.5% tip. I have no cause to complain because although I was no trouble, 100% goes to the staff so I’m all for that. I don’t know about here specifically but most restaurant staff are on minimum wage or thereabouts so every little helps, as the local big-boy supermarket says.

  Chapter 46 – Feels Like Christmas Morning

  I’m not surprised when I get back to my mum’s and she’s not there. I’d forgotten to leave a light on so the house is in darkness. She usually puts a lamp on in the hall, on top of what by rights should be a plant stand but I’d switched it off when I came home and forgot to switch it back on again when I went out. She’s not the type to tell me off but just as well I’m back first.

  Mothers, even if they don’t mean it, have the habit of treating their offspring like four-year-olds and in this case, I feel better for switching the lamp back on, even though I then switch on all the kitchen then dining end lights. With a chessboard effect of lights, courtesy of the dinky GU10s (I only know because I’ve changed them a few times, and been sent to Tesco to replenish her stocks; my mother is even less technology minded than I am), she’ll probably tell me off for being wasteful but while I’m making a drink, getting a snack, and reading her Bunte magazine (a German ‘Hello’ equivalent that her friend Ursel sends over), needs must.

  Neither of us speaks German, by the way, so all we ever do is look at the pictures, my mum at least refers to her rather battered leather-look dictionary – I suspect left over from school – to pick out the important words. Germans love our royal family and America’s equivalent; whichever president’s in at the time. I’d love to know what they think of Donald Trump and Melania (born ‘Melanija’) but as I said, I don’t speak German. Izzy did it at school so maybe I should ask her but my mum’s dictionary can attest that school was a long time ago. I did French and Spanish and as we know from my encounter with Laurence yesterday – was it really only yesterday? – most of that eludes me.

  I look at the kettle, a plastic jar of mint Options hot chocolate sitting next to it and the freezer door and decide that actually, I’m neither hungry nor thirsty. It’s Friday tomorrow and the sooner I go to bed, the sooner it’ll be Friday, a step nearer going home to Duncan. I smile at the thought, leave a note for my mum, and trudge upstairs.

  I’d already put the light out when I hear Mum come home. I debate getting up and going down to see her but having got all cosy and really quite sleepy, I decide to stay put. With my door closed and the note saying I’ll see her in the morning, she won’t disturb me. At least she’s not done that since I was a lot older than four. Not that I’d know if I were asleep.

  I’m so excited when I wake up. It feels like Christmas morning and I’m going to get my present tonight… which I know I will. I can’t help smiling as I brush my teeth which makes a blob of toothpaste drop onto my pyjama top. It doesn’t matter; it’s going in the wash tonight anyway. I scoop up the blob with my toothbrush and splat it into a small open-top bin between the sink and toilet. It’ll make the bin liner sticky so I apologise in advance to my mum, in my head anyway, and squeeze another blob onto the toothbrush. I do my twenty-four times up and down; the lower number quoted as Harold Crick brushing his in one of my favourite movies, Stranger than Fiction.

  Izzy thinks she’s a nerd but we’re a pretty close match, probably why we get on so well. Thinking about the film reminds me to check whether Duncan’s ever seen it. He likes reading, though not as much as Izzy and me, which isn’t difficult, given the time, and it’s all about reading, sort of, so I’m sure he’ll like it. I’m surprised we’ve not watched it together before. I would have thought that Izzy buying it would have reminded me, or reminded me enough to ask Duncan. Never mind. I’m overthinking again, as I do.

  Ooh… it’s Friday. I’ve said that already, haven’t I.

  Teeth brushed, mouth gargled, face rinsed, I get dressed and head downstairs. It’s only just gone eight but Mum’s already dressed and at the dining table.

  “Hello, love,” she says, flicking over the last page of the Bunte. She’s been there a while if she’s gone through the whole magazine.

  “Hi, Mum.” I’m tempted to say ‘Been here long?’ but t
hat feels like a question to ask a date rather than my own mother. I can see by steam rising from a mug in front of her that maybe she hasn’t.

  “The kettle’s not long boiled if you’d like something.” She returns the magazine to its front page and flicks it over. The dictionary’s nowhere in sight so she’s still at the pictures stage. She usually goes through it a couple of times before ‘reading’ any of it. I’m guessing this is the start of phase two.

  I’m not sure what I fancy so just sit. “How was guitar last night?”

  Mum snorts. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her snort before and it’s a strange noise. Maybe she’s picked it up from Greta. I wait for Mum to say something.

  “Don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of it. It’s all fingers and thumbs.”

  Yes, that’s exactly what playing the guitar is. “It’s only practice. What are we now… week three?”

  She nods.

  “You’ve got seven more to go then.”

  She snorts again.

  “Is Greta putting you off?”

  Mum tilts her head.

  “Because she’s so good.”

  Mum’s shoulders slump. “I wish I had her natural ability.”

  “She’s probably played before whereas you haven’t, have you?”

  Mum smiles a little. “True.”

  “There we go then. My English teacher told me once that no one would put me in front of a canvas and expect me to play a concerto.” I think about what I’ve said when my mum frowns. “No, I mean my English teacher told me that no one would put me in front of a canvas and expect me to paint a Dali. No one would put me in front of a piano and expect me to play a concerto. That’s better.”

  “True,” she repeats and smiles a little more.

  “Why did your English teacher tell you that? She wasn’t teaching painting or music, was she?”

  “No. She was comparing it to creative writing. That no one would give me a pen and a blank piece of paper and expect me to write a masterpiece.”

  “Couldn’t she have just said that?”

  “I don’t know, Mum.” I do but I’m not going through it all again.

  I decide to skip a hot drink and have a bowl of Tesco’s four-nut and maple cereal. I’ve never wondered what the four nuts are until now so study the pack. Almonds, hazelnuts, brazils and pecans. For some reason I’d always just thought it was maple and pecan, pecan and maple. As I said, I think too much. Or too little about that until now. Something else that isn’t going to change the world.

  “So how come you’re up so early?” I ask between mouthfuls as my earlier curiosity returns.

  “We’re off to Dunsley Farm this morning.”

  “At ten thirty. And you mean with Aunt Jan and Uncle Pat.”

  Mum nods then grins.

  “Mum…”

  Looking like a caught-out schoolgirl behind the bike sheds – snogging or smoking, either or both, I can almost hear her brain whirring. I know she’s trying to think of an excuse, one I’ll believe. This can only mean one thing. I look around the room and it’s spotless, other than the magazine and my breakfast things.

  “Is Charles coming over?”

  She licks her lips. I’m hoping that was sub-conscious but from one’s mother, it’s too much information.

  “For breakfast or before you head out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh okay. Do you want me to go or be here when he gets here?”

  More brain whirring.

  I make it simple. “Would you like me to meet him?”

  She purses her lips. I wait. “That would be nice.”

  I assume she’s answering the latter two parts of the three choices but I need the clarification. “Stay here?”

  She nods.

  “Okay. I can do that. What time’s he due?”

  She looks over at the microwave clock. 8:17. “In about thirteen minutes.”

  I ought to be going to work but wouldn’t miss this for the world. Thirteen minutes gives me time to finish my cereal, put the dish and spoon in the dishwasher, and get ready for work. That way, I can be polite enough for a couple of minutes’ overlap but make a retreat so I’m not a gooseberry.

  As if she’s read my mind she says, “You won’t be in the way, you know.”

  Thanks. “Thanks.”

  “I mean you have Duncan.”

  I do but he’s not here.

  “I’m not sure why I said that.”

  Nor am I but I do and smile. She’s flustered. She’s in love.

  “What?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing.”

  She squints. “You’re looking at me in that funny way.”

  Now I do the behind the bike shed caught thing. “No.”

  “What?”

  I feel like we’re going round in circles so finish my cereal, deposit the aforementioned items in the dishwasher and do indeed get ready for work. I’m coming back down the stairs when the front door opens. Not on its own of course but not by my mum either. He has a key. I look at my mum through the open kitchen door and she knows what I’m thinking. She’s pursing her lips again. I turn round and go back up the stairs before he spots me so hope I’ve been quick enough. I wait round the corner on the landing and hear him shut the front door and go through to the kitchen. I come back downstairs again and feign surprise at his arrival.

  My mum’s on her feet with her arms outstretched as if to give him a hug. Timing’s never been my strong point. He’s not seen me yet so I usher my mum to continue. She does but it looks lack lustre and Charles obviously thinks the same.

  “Are you okay?”

  My mum pulls back and looks in my direction.

  Charles turns round. “Ooh, hello. You must be Donna.” He holds out his right hand and I shake it. He’s wearing the same Barbour-style jacket as the one at the garden centre but the sweater underneath is salmon rather than blue. I’m not the most observant person who walks the planet but sometimes there are things you just have to remember. He looks like Jack Reacher, not Tom Cruise but the person I pictured Jack to resemble when I read the books, or rather when Duncan read them to me. We’re both fans.

  He, Charles not Duncan, nor Jack, sadly on both counts, towers over me and I almost feel cold in his shadow. Not that he’s not a warm-looking person but I get a chill from somewhere, then I realise that the fridge door’s open and the milk is sitting on the work surface above it so his arrival must have interrupted Mum retrieving the bottle and she panicked and sat at the table as she heard me coming down the stairs. Something like that. My mum’s normally pretty cool, more so than me, but Charles definitely has her on edge. Or I do. Or the combination of us both.

  “Lovely to meet you,” I say and shake his hand again, not that either of us let go. “I’d love to stay and chat but I’m afraid I have to get to work. I’m only here temporarily and can’t go skiving.”

  “Oh yes, your mother told me about that. It sounds really interesting.”

  I’m not sure anyone else would think so but smile and appreciate the gesture. We part hands and company and I wish them both a lovely day. I’m sure I’ll get the run down from either my mum or aunt and uncle so I don’t regret going to work but would love to be a fly on the wall after I’ve left.

  Chapter 47 – Catching Up

  Friday 4th May

  Being that much nearer nine, my drive to work takes a little longer than normal but is uneventful. Thankfully Charles had parked the hulk that is his car in front of my mum’s so I didn’t have to ask him to move. I’m not sure I could have faced whatever sight greeted me had I to go back in the house.

  Phil’s on the phone in his box when I arrive and he nods at the screen. I don’t know whether it’s because I appeared on his monitor or he’s agreeing with something the person he’s talking to said. It doesn’t really matter as he’s not looking in my direction so I head up the stairs towards reception.

  Owen too is on the phone, to be expected, but smiles as he hears the door
go. I smile back, of course. I want to mouth something like ‘I’ll see you later’ but think better of it as he’s frowning at whoever he’s talking to. I wonder if it’s Phil.

  Not having had a lunch break with Leah this week, I pop to the kitchen for a squash then next door to her office. I wonder, I think for the first time, why she has an office whereas the journalists, Frank the accounts chap, and even Nathan have desks within the main open-plan area but personnel, human resources, offices contain such sensitive information that it all has to be locked away. Simple really.

  I knock on her closed door.

  She looks up, holds her left palm flat to me, clears aside some paperwork. “Sorry about that,” she says when I enter.

  “No problem at all.” I sit as she invites me to do so with the same hand. “I was wondering if you were free to go to lunch today.”

  She ponders the question then smiles. “Love to. I do remember Hazel arranging this and I’m sorry I’ve not really been around much this week, or rather not available.” She taps the turned-over pile of papers. “With Veronica on maternity leave, interviewing for a new agony aunt, things like that.”

  I smile. “No problem.” I’m curious about the agony aunt but figure Leah will tell me when we’re out and about, if she’s going to tell me at all, which she shouldn’t really, being the human resources assistant. “Do you have lunch at a set time or…?”

  “Not really. Shall we say one so I get ahead with this little lot?”

  “One sounds great. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem at all.”

  “And I’m happy to pay.” Not sure why I felt the need to add that but I would be.

  Leah smiles. “Billy’s told me what’s what. It’s fine. I have a company card. It’ll go on there.”

  “Thank you.” This is so kind of everyone. I’m rather stoked. ‘Overwhelmed’ as my mum would say, and often does, and it doesn’t take much to overwhelm either of us.