The Serial Dieter

by Rachel Cavanagh

  He laughs. “One of the bigger houses along Kettering Road has one in its garden.”

  “As you do.”

  “Yes, Donna, my queen,” he raises my hand, kisses it and looks at me with a devilish smile, “as you do.”

  “And…?”

  He shrugs. “It’s fine. Tranquiliser dart, shipped it back to its owner who penned it again, left it to wake up.”

  “Oh…” I say and we walk on.

  “I think I should have been something to do with wood,” Duncan says as we approach the timber yard at the top end of the road that splits the mass of trees.

  “Pinocchio?” I ask and burst out laughing. I look at him and realise he’s serious. “Really?” I look up at him.

  “I’ve always fancied being a… oh, what do they call them. Arbor…”

  “Arborist. Tree surgeon?”

  He nods.

  It’s something he’s never mentioned before and we’ve talked a lot. I recall a conversation where he said he loved swimming and used to dive off a one-metre board but anything above that scared him. He’s okay in a plane, much more so than me, but because he’s inside and someone else is doing the flying. “But you don’t like heights,” I remind him.

  “That’s true,” he says casually and walks on, pulling me slightly as he still has hold of my hand. And the topic’s forgotten as quickly as it was raised.

  He’ll never cease to amaze me and the thought again pops into my head of us spending the rest of our lives together.

  As I look at the trees either side as we walk back towards the main road, I think how lovely a place this would be, albeit away from the concrete straight, for me to propose, to get down on one knee so I’m even tinier than him, and I want to blurt it out but of course I don’t. And he doesn’t. Of course.

  Our evening meal is simply a mix of crackers, cheese and fruit: grapes and strawberries. Neither of us wants to eat too much as we’re still full from lunch and given that this is our last night together until Saturday, we both know some ‘fooling around’ is on the cards.

  After our longer-than-usual lunchtime walk, Buddy’s asleep in his bed, one leg twitching as he probably recalls chasing the squirrel.

  “He’s such a baby,” Duncan says innocently as he turns the page on his Sunday Times once we’ve finished our meal, cleared up and set the dishwasher going. I have the Times’ supplement, ingeniously called ‘The Sunday Times Magazine’, and am looking at all the tall skinny girls in their weird outfits. Karen, my fashion colleague, and I have had countless conversations about ‘haute couture’ and while she’s not quite… oh, what was the Vogue lady called? Something de Winter. No that was Daphne du Maurier character Rebecca. Anna Wintour. That’s her. Scary. I shiver again, for no apparent reason, although scary women do intimidate me.

  “You cold?” Duncan asks and I shake my head.

  He blows me a kiss and I blush. “Are you concentrating on that?” he asks and points at my magazine. I shake my head. He raises an eyebrow and looks at the ceiling then back at me.

  I look at the ceiling but keep my gaze there. “You’ve got cobwebs.”

  “I do?” he asks, looking where I’m looking.

  I playfully throw the magazine at him but it’s only when it leaves my hands do I realise how heavy it is and it whacks Duncan on the side of his face. He was still looking up so wasn’t expecting it and understandably shrieks. And not a Donna shriek but a Duncan shriek which is far louder.

  I leap out of my seat and rush towards him. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” I burst into tears as I see that one of the pages has also sliced a thin cut in his cheek and I see that actually paper cuts can do some damage so I owe Gavin an apology for even thinking I’d do that too him.

  Buddy, by this time, has joined in the fray and is barking and leaping at me, clearly thinking I’m doing some harm to his master, which is totally true.

  I slump to the floor and sob, almost wailing like the proverbial banshee. This month has become too much already and although the magazine was an innocent throw, it’s sparked something much deeper.

  As I tremble on the floor, Duncan’s enveloping me and now Buddy’s leaping all over him as if to join in with a group hug.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Duncan soothes while trying to push Buddy away, gently but masterfully. And boy, is Duncan masterful.

  The next thing I know, Duncan’s picked me up and is carrying, yes, carrying me upstairs and into his, our, bedroom. We can hear Buddy following us so Duncan kicks the door behind us and it’s only when we hear the dog scratching at the door a couple of hours later that we resurface; Duncan to take him for a walk and me to brush my teeth before Duncan returns, does the same, and we pick up where we left off.

  Chapter 54 – Nicer To Have A Routine

  Tuesday 8th May

  With a mother who’s rarely at home, and a boyfriend I’d rather spend the night with – sorry, Mother – I’d already decided to head down to Hemel Hempstead after rush hour on the Tuesday morning. I don’t feel overly cheerful when I arrive at the office. Thankfully, Phil appears to be and gives me a very warm welcome.

  “Sorry I didn’t get to say ‘goodbye’ on Friday. Was remiss of me, Donna.” He says ‘remiss of me’ in a very British way and I think about asking him how long he’s lived here except he continues. “But I wanted to make sure I said ‘hi’ this morning.” The American twang’s back. “I’ve been looking out for ya. Billy did say you may not be in every day but here you are.”

  “I am indeed. It’s very kind of him to say I could be flexible but I think it’s nicer to have a routine.”

  Phil doesn’t reply, just nods.

  “I’d better get on,” I say and point upstairs.

  “Sure thing. You have a good week and we’ll chat at some stage, for sure.”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “Let me know if I can help with anything. There’s not a lot that passes me by.”

  Apart from me on Friday afternoon. I smile at the irony and mouth a ‘thank you’.

  I do indeed settle back in and the day flies. James is still away, despite Leah saying he’d be back after the bank holiday but then ‘after’ doesn’t have to mean the next day. I don’t like to ask but I will if he’s not returned by the time she accompanies me to lunch tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it as we’ve said very little after our lunch last week but then she’s always so busy, and I’m surprisingly so despite having this new(ish) project and my old job, oh, and dealing with anything that comes in for Veronica, not that I’m qualified to do that… literally. Knowing Veronica she probably does have qualifications.

  I look around and above her desk. There’s nothing to indicate any but despite her photo with Beyoncé, I’ve got the impression that Veronica’s actually quite private. Other than the celeb pic and the one of her and her children, there’s nothing else personal. I go on the company’s website and while there is a biography of her, it’s very short and simple, surprisingly close to mine, but then we do the same job…

  It makes me think of James again and I admit that it does make my life easier without him around. Part of me feels guilty, as if I gave him the wrong impression, but that’s so easily done, especially in texts, not that we’ve done anything other than speak to one another. We’ve not even swapped phone numbers, why would we? We’re only colleagues. I have all of Izzy’s numbers, of course, including her family’s, but that’s to be expected. I have William’s mobile but only as an extension of her. I’d have no other reason to call him. He’s my boss. I’d speak to him at work or pass on a message via Janine.

  Speaking of which, I go to speak to Hemel’s equivalent, Nathan, but he’s on the phone so I veer away and go to the kitchen to get a drink. I have tea, for a change, and by the time I get back, Nathan’s finished the call.

  “Hi, sweets!” he says and jumps up from his chair, pushing it back with his foot and rushes round his desk.

  I look behind me to check he means me and there�
�s no one else in spitting, or throwing, distance. My first thought is to put my tea down but there’s little clear space on his desk and what there is isn’t big enough even for a mug, plus it’s a really sexy glass and chrome desk, like from Ikea but probably way more expensive, and I wouldn’t want to leave a ring mark. So I clasp the mug and hope that his eagerness doesn’t mean a full-on hug. Normally, of course, I’d be only too delighted but we have only known each other just over a week and I’d rather not get scolded. No, scalded. Either. Both.

  Thankfully, he spots the mug – surprising it took so long as it has a bright red KitKat emblem on both sides – and retreats but only enough to give me air kisses instead. I reciprocate and we laugh. I feel silly for being so serious and immediately apologise. “And I’m sorry we didn’t get to have dinner last night.”

  He waves his hand and says “Pish” then I remember he would have been otherwise engaged anyway.

  “Ooh… you had a date last night.”

  He blushes brighter than my mug and that’s saying something. Pointing towards the kitchen, he says, “Shall we?”

  I never need asking twice if I want to hear some gossip. Plus someone had brought in some cookies so the kitchen smells gorgeous. I had to restrain myself the first time. Okay, I didn’t exactly restrain myself; I had one but ate it while I made a drink then redistributed the others around the plate so it didn’t look as if there was one missing.

  As I already have a drink, I take a seat at the table furthest from the cookies but that doesn’t stop Nathan bringing two over on a simple white plate while holding his mug of something that looks like dishwater, probably weak tea – Izzy would approve, in his other hand. I don’t really hope he’s going to eat both cookies, I should resist, and he does indeed offer one to me. I don’t like to offend so I take one, that’s my excuse.

  “So, spill,” I say, meaning his date last night and not his mug of whateveritis. He catches the side of the table as he puts down his mug but thankfully the entire swamp-looking contents stays inside the porcelain. Or is it ceramic? While it’s not something I’ve ever thought of covering in my column, I do wonder the difference and make a mental note to google it.

  “Well…” Nathan starts and wiggles into his chair which isn’t design for comfort but hey. “His name’s Brad.”

  The image of Mr Pitt springs to mind but I doubt it’s one and the same, although Nathan does say his name with a hint of an American accent.

  “He’s from Chicago.”

  Definitely not our Mr Pitt then as I know he was from Oklahoma. I’m not sure why I know that but it’s something that stuck. Something to do with the annual Big Foot festival, voicemail, cow chips (another story), mistletoe, and the shopping cart, trolley, being invented there, I think. Sylvia something, owner of the Piggly Wiggly supermarket chain, conceived of a ‘folding basket carrier’ in nineteen thirty…

  “Sorry, Nathan. Yes, I’m still with you. What’s Brad doing over here?” It reminded me of asking Phil the same thing so thought I’d get that out of the way.

  Nathan grins. “He’s working for Kodak up on the hill.” He waves the same hand in the general direction.

  I know where he means. It’s somewhere between us and the M1 motorway.

  “’Cept he was given the old address so came to town…”

  As a cowboy would. I’m not sure how ‘west’ Oklahoma is but fairly sure it’s a cowboy movie, musical, both. Richard Rogers and Oscar Hammerstein. Yes, Curly McLain and Will Parker. My mum’s a Howard Keel fan. Oh no, that was Annie Get Your–

  “…and knew it couldn’t be the apartments next door so came here. I was coming back from lunch and we met at the front downstairs. It was quite Wuthering Heights as we approached each other except we weren’t running, jogging, whatever they were doing.”

  “Running, I think.” It’s one of my favourite books; it sooo romantic. I think of Duncan as my Heathcliff and me as his very short and very unbrunette Cathy. “How romantic. Where did you go?”

  A smile lights his face, not that it isn’t positively floodlit already. Like me in the early days with… no, that’s not fair. I still am. We still are.

  Nathan’s about to answer when Billy walks past the kitchen and out into the open-plan office. “Ooh, gotta go. Tell us later,” Nathan chirps, pops the final bit of cookie in his mouth and leaves.

  My cookie’s uneaten, and certainly untouched by me, and I debate whether to drop it back onto the original pile but know that Nathan will have to have picked it up so I leave it where it is. If someone wants to help themselves to a not-quite-second-hand cookie then they can, er, help themselves.

  When I get back to my desk, I do indeed google (other search engines are available) ‘what are mugs made of’ and the second YouTube video offered catches my eye. ‘What’s the difference between porcelain and ceramic mugs?’ is a one minute and twenty-six second documentary by a very helpful company ‘Quality Logo Products’ and their cheerful narrator. The artistry is a little rudimentary but I like it and play it again, at a low volume so as not to disturb my colleagues.

  I could live on YouTube as I love finding out everything about everything but I have work to do. Frank’s already said I can choose the venue for tonight, ‘not that you couldn’t anyway’ he’d said but we both know he’s the native and will have better insight. I don’t fancy anything too… foreign but not sure what counts as English. A Nando’s perhaps? More chicken. Never a bad thing. Before I’d ever been in one, I imagined it to be a posh KFC and don’t suppose Phil or Brad would mind either, although I don’t know what nationality Nando’s is.

  Back to Google and I’m way off. There was I thinking they were both American but Nando’s, Wikipedia tells me is a ‘South African restaurant chain that specialises in Portuguese-African food, such as peri-peri style chicken dishes. Founded in Johannesburg in 1987, Nando's operates over 1000 outlets in 35 countries.’ Wow. Nando’s it is.

  Chapter 55 – Not Been There For Yonks

  Before I know it, it’s gone five thirty and Frank rings me. “Sorry, I’m being lazy,” he says. I can’t see his desk from where I sit but I assume he’s there.

  “No problem,” I reply. “Shall I collect you?”

  “Erm…”

  “Oh.” I anticipate the next few words to include a ‘sorry but’ and I’m not wrong.

  “I’m really sorry but I’m going to have to cancel tonight.”

  “No problem. I’ll pop round. Give me two seconds.”

  “Okay.”

  Considering we’re only a few feet away from each other, it’s easier to speak face to face and within a few seconds, more than the proffered two, understandably, we are.

  “I’m so sorry,” Frank says and indicates a spare chair. I sit.

  “Really, it’s fine.”

  “Had you chosen somewhere?”

  “I thought Nando’s at… actually I’m not sure where at.”

  Frank’s face crumples even more. “Oh that’s a shame. I’ve not been there for yonks.”

  I smile. Another word I love. Yonks. Yanks.

  “It’s up by the cinema.” Like Nathan, Frank points in the same general direction.

  “Jarman Park?”

  Frank nods. “Can’t remember the address but you can park anywhere.”

  I nod, though not as enthusiastically. It reminds me of James and our climbing wall. I hope he comes back tomorrow but then I don’t. Mass of contradictions.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask, knowing that Frank wouldn’t have cancelled unless it was important.

  He shrugs. “Our next-door neighbour’s broken her hip.”

  “Oh no.”

  “She’s fine but I promised I’d visit her at Watford General, seeing as Frankie’s at chess.”

  “Of course.” I know there’s a hospital at Hemel, in a lovely late nineteenth century building – which probably means everything needs fixing, but Watford’s bigger, so not surprised she’s been taken there. I feel like asking F
rank to pass on my love but then feel daft as I’ve never met her so I leave it at that and return to my desk to collect my bag.

  Frank and I have a quick chat on my way out – he’s going straight to hospital rather than home first and it’s a good excuse to get some work done while the office is quiet, he says, like it’s normally a madhouse.

  I get a parking spot next to one of the end disableds and feel bad. Not because I’m doing anything wrong but because someone might think the space I’ve used has a yellow or blue figure painted on it. Even though I know it’s okay, I check when I’m out of the car that it doesn’t, and someone walking by frowns at me. It could be because they think it is but equally I do look as if I’m checking as if someone’s strapped a bomb to my undercarriage. I smirk at the thought, not a real bomb, you understand.

  A lovely young man opens the door for me as I head inside Nando’s. I thank him and he smiles. Even though he’s wearing a suit, it turns out he doesn’t work there but it’s too late to swap my ‘it was your job’ thanks to ‘you’re a customer, how kind’ thanks. Someone behind me coughs and I realise I’m blocking the doorway. I apologise and go further inside. I’ve not booked but fortunately Tuesdays aren’t busy so I’m shown to a really nice table about halfway through the restaurant to one side.

  I’m given a couple of menus but don’t say I’m not waiting for someone which, on reflection, was silly as I’ll probably be ignored until it’s clear that the ‘someone’ isn’t turning up. I try to catch the eye of passing waitresses but they’re like homing pigeons; fixed on their destinations. Not that I actually mind. The place is amazing. The ceiling is strip upon strip of wood hanging by thin straps of presumably wire that looks straight out of a Tate Modern exhibition. The wooden planks continue down both side walls, with pictures of, presumably, South Africa in front of them one side and some kind of mesh weavings the other. My description doesn’t do the place justice and despite being hungry, I’m happy to simply sit and take in my surroundings.